Lewie by Cousin Cicely

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--CRABBE.

One summer night, Agnes, who had been up till very late, soothing and
quieting poor Tiney, and had at last succeeded in singing her to sleep,
left her in Susan's care, and returned to her own room. It was a lovely,
warm, moonlight evening, and Agnes stood by her raised window, watching
the shadows of the tall trees which were thrown with such vivid
distinctness across the gravel walks and the closely trimmed lawn, and
thinking of a pleasant walk she had taken that day, and of some one who
joined her, (as was by no means unusual,) on her return from the woods
with the younger children.

Suddenly her reverie was broken by the sound of a few chords struck very
lightly and softly upon a guitar. The sound came from the clump of
trees, the shadows of which Agnes had just been admiring; and she
supposed they were the prelude to a serenade. Her heart whispered to her
who the musician might be, for though she had never heard him, with whom
her thoughts had been busy, touch the guitar, yet with his ardent love
for music, she did not doubt that he might if he chose, accompany his
rich voice upon so simple an instrument.

But now the blood which had crimsoned her cheek flowed back tumultuously
to her heart, as she heard a voice she could not mistake, humming very
softly the notes of a sad and touching air, which she and Lewie had
often sung together. This plaintive singer could be no other than her
brother. But why here, at night, and in this clandestine manner,
evidently trying to win her attention, without arousing that of others?
The house seemed quiet: and Agnes, throwing a shawl about her, quickly
descended the stairs, and, quietly opening a side door, crossed the
lawn, and in another moment stood beside her brother, under the shade of
the tall old elms.

"Lewie! is it indeed you?"

He made no answer, he said not one word, but, drawing Agnes to a seat
under one of the trees, he seated himself beside her, and laying his
head upon her shoulder, he was quiet for a few moments; and then Agnes
felt his frame tremble with sudden emotion, and heard a deep sob.

"Lewie! my brother! do speak to me! What is it? Do not keep me in
suspense! What dreadful thing has happened?"

"Agnes," said he, with a sudden and forced calmness, the words coming
slowly from between his white, stiffened lips--"Agnes, it is--_murder_!"

Agnes did not scream--she did not faint--forgetfulness for a moment
would have been a relief. In a flash she had comprehended it all.

"Lewie," said she, "is there blood upon this hand?"

"Agnes, it is true; your brother is a murderer! No less a murderer,
because the blow was struck in the heat of sudden passion, and when the
brain was inflamed with wine; and no less a murderer, because it was
repented of the moment given, and before the fatal consequences were
suspected. My sister, I am a fugitive and a wanderer, hunted by the
officers of justice, and doomed to the prison or the gallows."

It seemed to Agnes like a fearful dream! It was too dreadful to be true!
The thought crossed her mind, perhaps it _is_ a dream; she had had
dreams as vivid, and had awakened with such a blessed feeling of relief.
But no! she clasped Lewie's cold hand in hers, and felt assured it was
all reality. For a few moments she could only bury her face in her
hands, and rock to and fro and groan. She was aroused from this state of
agonized feeling by Lewie, who said:

"And now, what shall I do, Agnes? I have come all this way on foot, and
at night, to see you once more, and to ask you what I should do? Oh that
I had been more willing to follow your gentle guidance before, sweet
sister!--but I have followed nothing but the dictates of my own
ungoverned passions. Shall I try to escape, or shall I give myself up
for trial? On my word, Agnes, I am not a murderer by intention. I was
excited; something was said which tried my quick temper; I answered with
a burst of sudden passion; more taunting words followed; and, quicker
than the lightning's flash, I had dealt the blow which laid my
class-mate dead at my feet I was sobered in one moment; and oh, Agnes!
what, _what_ would I not have given to restore my murdered friend to
life!--not for my own sake; for I never thought of myself till urged by
my terror-stricken companions to fly. Then I thought of my own safety;
and, my darling sister, I thought of you, and determined that you should
hear of your brother's disgrace and crime from no lips but his own. I
have been hanging about here all day, but could not see you; and
finding no other way to call your attention, I borrowed this guitar at
the tavern, and have been watching from these trees, till I saw a white
form at a window, which I knew was yours. Now, Agnes, what shall I do?"

"Oh, Lewie, what can I say but _fly_, and save yourself from an
ignominious fate! It may not be right counsel; but how can a sister
advise otherwise? My poor, poor brother!" And Agnes was relieved by a
passionate burst of tears. And now came the time for parting. He must
go, for they would be likely to seek him in the home of his only
sister,--he must go quickly and quietly;--and, with a few hurried words,
in which his sister commended him to God, and entreated him to go to
_Him_ for pardon and peace, and with one last fond embrace, they parted.
Agnes returned to the house with feeble, staggering steps, stricken to
the very heart.

No sleep visited the eyes of Agnes that night; and when she appeared in
the breakfast room the following morning, her pale and haggard
countenance showed marks of extreme suffering, which should have been
respected even by the Misses Fairland. But no! their quick ears had also
caught the tones of the guitar, and rushing to a window on that side of
the house, in the expectation of a serenade, they had seen Agnes as she
crossed the lawn, and returned again to the house. Here was food for
conjecture, and jealousy for the suspicious ladies, and they had long
been awaiting the arrival of Agnes in the breakfast room, hoping to have
the mystery cleared up.

"May we be informed, Miss Elwyn," began Miss Calista, "how long you have
been in the habit of receiving signals from lovers, and stealing out at
night to give them clandestine meetings in the grove?"

A bright blush suffused the cheek of Agnes, which died away immediately,
leaving it of an ashy paleness, as she said:

"I have met no lover in the grove, Calista, at least not what _you_ mean
by a lover," she added, thinking this might be an evasion, for did not
her brother love her dearly?

"Not what _I_ call a lover," said Miss Calista; "a very nice
distinction! then you do not deny that you met what _you_ call a lover
in the grove. Indeed you need trouble yourself to make no denial, for
Evelina and I both watched you."

Agnes rose from the table, and all who were gathered around it were
amazed at the unusual vehemence of her manner, as with an expression of
intense wretchedness upon her face, she exclaimed:

"Oh! _do, do_ let me alone! do leave me in quiet; for I am very, very
unhappy!"

And hastily, and with great agitation, Agnes left the room.

Mr. Fairland, who was so much interested in a paragraph in the paper,
which appeared to shock him exceedingly, that he had not heard the
ill-natured remarks of his daughters, looked up just as Agnes rose from
the table, and heard her agonized address.

With more sternness than usual, he asked his daughters what they had
been saying to Agnes, and on hearing their account of the conversation,
he exclaimed:

"Poor Agnes! you will see in this paper girls something that will shock
you, and will perhaps inspire you with a little sympathy for one whom it
seems to be your delight to torment. You may perhaps now guess who it
was that Agnes met in the grove last night."

The Misses Fairland were really shocked to read the account of the
murder, and to read the name of Lewis Elwyn as the murderer; and
something like remorse for a moment visited their minds, that they had
added to the sufferings of the already burdened heart of Agnes.

"Poor fellow! poor young man!" exclaimed Mr. Fairland; "such a handsome
fellow as he was, and such a sweet singer too! this seems to have been
done in a sudden passion; and not without provocation too. But it is an
awful thing! Poor Agnes! she must not attempt to teach the children
while she is so distressed; and I do desire girls, that you will have
the _decency_, if you have not the _feeling_, to leave her entirely
undisturbed."

Days passed on and nothing was heard of the fugitive. Oh, what days of
restless and painful suspense to Agnes! Had she not had constant and
unusual occupation for her time, it seemed to her that she could not
keep her reason. But poor Tiney had grown suddenly and alarmingly worse,
and the physician said a very days at most would terminate her
sufferings. With all the distressing thoughts which crowded upon her,
Agnes remained by the bed-side of the little sufferer, endeavoring to
soothe and cheer her descent to the dark valley.

Mrs. Fairland, who though indolent and indifferent in many things with
regard to her children, was not altogether without natural affection,
passed much of her time, during the last two or three days of Tiney's
life, in her room, sitting quietly near the head of the bed. Mr.
Fairland, who seemed more overcome even than Agnes expected, hardly ever
left the bed-side. The older sisters looked in occasionally for a few
moments, but their "nerves" (always ready as an excuse with people
destitute of feeling) would not allow their staying for more than five
minutes at a time, in the room of the sick child. The younger children
wandered restlessly about the house, their little hearts oppressed by
the first approach of death among their number; sometimes coming in
quietly to look at the dying sister, and then wandering off again.

"Cousin Agnes, _must_ I _die_?" asked Tiney, the day before her death,
as Agnes and her father and mother were sitting near her.

"You are not afraid to die, dear Tiney, are you?" asked Agnes in reply.

"No, I shall love to die, because you told me I would never be sick any
more; but I feel a _little_ afraid to go to Heaven."

"Afraid to go to Heaven, dear Tiney! And why should you be afraid to go
there?" asked Agnes, in astonishment; for she had, oftener than ever, of
late, talked to the failing child of the glories of heaven, and did not
doubt that, even with her poor weak mind, she had so trusted by faith
in the merits of an all-sufficient Redeemer, that through those merits
her spirit would be welcomed to that blissful abode.

"I was thinking," answered Tiney, "that I don't _know anybody_, there;
not a single soul; and I feel so shy with strangers. Will they love me
there, cousin Agnes, as you and papa do?"

Agnes could not repress the tears at this question, so natural, perhaps,
to a simple child, and yet one which she had never thought of as likely
to occur to one before. But she talked to Tiney so soothingly and
sweetly of Him who loved little children when on earth, and who was
watching for her now, and would send some lovely angel to bear her to
His breast, that poor Tiney lost her fears, and longed for the hour of
her release. And it came the next morning. Just as the glorious sun was
rising over the lake, the spirit of poor little suffering Tiney left its
earthly dwelling, and began its long and never-ending day of happiness.

Oh! what a brilliant light shone for once in those dark gray eyes, as
Tiney raised them, with a look of wonder and astonishment and joy, as if
she saw far, far beyond the limits which bounded her mortal sight!--and
as, with an enraptured expression, she murmured something about "that
lovely music," the light faded from the still wide open and glassy eye;
and Agnes, passing her hand gently over the lids, said, "Mr. Fairland,
she is gone!" and the first thought of her sad heart was, "Oh that I too
were at rest!" But she checked it in one moment, when she remembered
that there were duties and conflicts and trials before her yet; and she
determined she would go forward, in the Divine strength, into the
furnace which she must needs go through, in order to be refined and
purified.

Once, during Tiney's last sickness, a messenger called for Agnes, and
put a note and a little bouquet of green-house flowers into her hand. At
first, Agnes hoped that the note might contain tidings of her brother;
but though disappointed in this respect, the contents of the note were
soothing and grateful to her troubled heart. The words were simply
these:

"Is there _anything_ I can do for you? And if you need a friend, will
you call upon me?" The note was signed "C.H."

At first Agnes merely said, in a despairing tone, "Oh no! nothing can be
done;" and then, feeling that a different answer should be sent to a
message so kind, she tore off a bit of the paper, and wrote upon it:

"Nothing can be done for me now. Believe me, I will not hesitate to call
upon you, when you can do me any good."

The day after Tiney's death, officers came to search Mr. Fairland's
house for the fugitive, having traced him to Wilston. Every corner of
the house was searched, and even the chamber of death was not spared.
The search, of course, was unsuccessful; but, the day after poor Tiney's
funeral, came tidings to Agnes of the arrest of her brother. He was
taken at last, and safely lodged in the jail at Hillsdale, where he was
to await his trial.

And now Agnes, whose office ever seemed of necessity to be that of
consoler and comforter, must leave her little charge, and go to be near
her brother. It was a bitter parting; it seemed as if the children could
not let her go; and the scene recalled so vividly to Agnes the parting
with Miss Edwards at Brook Farm, that the recollection made her, if
possible, still more sad, as she thought the resemblance might be
carried out even to the end, and the close of this earthly scene to her
might be as melancholy as was that of her beloved teacher.

She promised Mr. Fairland that, as soon as she could attend to it, she
would ascertain if there were vacancies in Mrs. Arlington's school for
Rosa and Jessie, and also if Mr. Malcolm would consent to take charge of
Frank's education; and, accompanied by Mr. Fairland, she left Wilston,
as she supposed, forever.

XVII.

The Jail.

"I may not go, I may not go,
Where the sweet-breathing spring-winds blow;
Nor where the silver clouds go by,
Across the holy, deep blue sky;
Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright
Comes down, like a still shower of light;
I must stay here
In prison drear;
Oh! heavy life, wear on, wear on,
Would God that thou wert gone."

--FANNY KEMBLE.

They reached Brook Farm late in the evening, and here the greeting,
though not as noisy and joyous, was warmer, and if possible more
affectionate than ever. They all loved Lewie in spite of his many
faults, and their sympathy was most sincere and hearfelt for Agnes, who
was very dear to them all. As soon as Agnes could speak to Mr. Wharton
alone, she said:

"Uncle, have you seen him?"

"Every day, dear Agnes, and have been with him some hours each day."

"And how does he feel, dear Uncle?"

"Relieved, I think, on the whole; that the suspense is over thus far. He
says he would not live over again the last three weeks for worlds. Many
and many a time he had almost resolved to return and give himself up for
trial; but the thought of you, Agnes, prevented. He said that you must
be a sharer in all his trouble and disgrace, and if he could spare your
distress and suffering, by escaping from the country, he meant to try
and do it, and then he would soon be forgotten, except by the few who
cared for him."

"And how does he feel about the--the result, uncle?"

"Hopeful, I think; he seems to think it cannot be brought in murder,
when murder was so far from his intention."

"And what do _you_ think, uncle?"

"I am inclined to think with Lewie, dear; there is always a leaning
towards mercy, and your brother has counsel, the very best in the
State."

"Oh, uncle, how very kind! how can we ever repay you for your kindness?"

"No thanks to me in this matter, Agnes; Mr. W---- has been retained by
one who does not wish his name known; one who would be glad, I fancy, to
have a nearer right to stand by you through these coming scenes, but who
will not trouble you with these matters at present."

A bright blush came up in Agnes' cheek, and as suddenly died away as she
said:

"One question more, uncle; when will it take place--the trial, I mean?"

"It will probably come on in November," her uncle answered.

"Two long months of imprisonment for my poor brother!" said Agnes.

"But remember, Agnes, those two months will be diligently employed by
his counsel in preparing his defence."

"And by those on the other side, in making strong their cause against
him, uncle. My poor dear Lewie! how I long to see him; and yet how I
dread the first meeting, oh! if that were only over!"

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Wharton and Agnes
drove over to Hillsdale. Agnes shuddered, and turned pale, as they drew
near the gloomy jail with its iron-barred windows, and closing her eyes
she silently prayed for strength and calmness for the meeting with her
brother. Mr. Wharton conducted her to the door of the room in which her
brother was confined, and left her there, as he knew they would both
prefer that their first meeting should be without witnesses. In one
respect Agnes was agreeably disappointed; she had expected to find her
brother in a close, dark dungeon; and was much surprised to find herself
in a pleasant, light room, with table, books, writing materials, and
everything very comfortable about him; the only things there to remind
her that she was in a prison, being the locked door, and the grated
window.

Agnes had been preparing herself ever since she first received the
tidings of her brother's arrest, for this meeting; and she went through
it with a calmness and composure which astonished herself. But poor
Lewie was completely overcome. He knew his sister would come to him; but
he had not expected her so soon, and the first intimation he had of her
arrival, was the sight of her upon the threshold of his door.

"Poor Agnes! poor dear sister!" said he, as soon as he could speak;
"what have I ever been from my childhood up, but a source of trouble and
distress to you. You were punished for my ungoverned temper all through
your childhood; you are suffering for it now; you will have to suffer
for it more, till your bloom is all gone, and you are worn to a
skeleton. If I had dared, Agnes--if I had dared, I should have put an
end to this mortal existence; and thus I should have saved you all this
coming disgrace and misery. But I had not the courage to lay violent
hands upon myself, and go, a deliberate suicide, into the presence of
my Maker. I have tried all other means; I have gone through exposure and
fatigue, which at any other time I know would have killed me; I have
laid out all night in the rain; _I_, who used to be so susceptible to
cold, but nothing seemed to hurt me. I have been reserved for other and
more terrible things. And you, Agnes, who are always kind, and
forbearing, and self-sacrificing, it seems to be your fate ever to
suffer and endure for others. Oh, my sister, you deserve a happier lot!"

"Don't talk so, dear Lewie!" said Agnes; "you have given me very many
happy hours, and all the little troubles of 'long, long ago' are
forgotten. And now, what greater pleasure can I have than that of
sitting with you here, working and reading, and trying to wile away the
tedious hours of your captivity?"

"Agnes! this must not be! I cannot allow it. It will brighten the whole
day for me, if you will come and spend an hour or two with me every
morning; but I cannot consent that you shall be immured for the whole
day in the walls of this gloomy prison-house."

"But what can you do, Lewie? I am going to be obstinate for once, and
take my own course. Uncle will drive me over every morning, and come for
me at night; and I am going to enjoy a pleasure long denied me, of
spending every day with my darling brother."

"Oh, Agnes! this is too, too much!"

"Not too much at all, Lewie. Do you think I could be happy anywhere else
than with you? What should I do at uncle's but roam the house, restless
and impatient, every moment I am absent from you? And the nights will
seem so long, because they separate me from you!"

"Oh! how utterly undeserving!--how _utterly undeserving_ such love and
devotion!" said Lewie, pacing up and down the room. "Sweet
sister!--dearest Agnes!--now has my prison lost all its gloom; and were
it not for the future, I might be happier here than when out in the
world; for temptation here is far from me, and only good influences
surround me."

"And what of the future, dear?"

"Of my trial, Agnes? Well, I hardly know what to say. My friends and
lawyers try to keep up my spirits, and mention to me many hopeful
things; and, for the time, I too feel encouraged. But I can think of
many things that a skilful lawyer can bring up against me, and which
would weigh very heavily. I am trying to think of the _worst_ as a
_probability_; so that if it comes, I shall not be overwhelmed."

"Oh!" said Agnes, shuddering, and covering her eyes, as if to shut out
some horrid spectacle, "it cannot be! I cannot bring myself to
contemplate it for a moment!"

"And yet it _may be_, Agnes! or they may spare my life, and doom me to
wear out long years of imprisonment, and then send me out into the world
a blighted and ruined man! That is the best I can hope for; and but for
the disgrace which would come upon me, I should say the sudden end is
better."

"And what of the future _after that_, Lewie? for that, after all, is the
great concern."

"The _eternal future_ you mean, Agnes. Ah! my sister, the prospect there
is darker and more dreary still. I know enough of religion to feel
assured that my short life has not been spent in the way to prepare me
for a future of happiness; and I am not yet so hardened as to pretend
not to dread a future of misery."

"God grant such may not be your fate, dear brother. Whether life be long
or short, happy or sorrowful, our future depends upon heart-felt
repentance here, and faith in the 'sinner's Friend.' You have now time
for quiet and reflection. Oh! improve it dear Lewie, in so humbling
yourself before Him whom you have offended, and in so seeking for
pardon, that He will bless you and grant you peace."

"I see, Agnes," said her brother, with a sad smile, "you want me to
follow in the footsteps of all other offenders and criminals, who,
after doing all the mischief possible, and living for their own selfish
gratification while abroad in the world, spend the time of their
imprisonment in acts of penitence and devotion, and go out of the world,
as they all invariably do, in the full odor of sanctity, in peace with
God, and in charity with men."

"Is my advice to you in any way different, my dear brother, from what it
was when you were free and unrestrained? Indeed, so much did I dread the
effect of your undisciplined temper, and so assured did I feel that for
you the grace of God was peculiarly necessary, that I have feared I
sometimes made my presence unwelcome by my constant warnings and
admonitions."

"Never, Agnes--never, dearest sister! I always thanked you from my
inmost heart for your kind, loving, tender counsel; and though
apparently I turned it off lightly and carelessly, yet it often sank
deep in my heart; and when parted from you, I often thought what a
miserable wretch I was not to give better heed to it."

"Yet, Lewie dear, I will not deny that I think the need more urgent
than ever for repentance and pardon now. I do not wish to harrow up your
feelings, dear brother; but, oh! it is an awful thing to send a
fellow-creature into eternity!"

"And do you think that thought ever for a moment leaves me, Agnes?
Indeed, I think that while I have been skulking and hiding, hunted and
pursued from one place to another, and since I have been shut up in
these walls, every harrowing thought that could possibly be brought
before my mind, has been dwelt upon till it seemed sometimes as if I
should go mad. I have mourned for Cranston as if I had no hand in his
death; I have thought of him in all his hope and promise; I have thought
of his poor mother and sisters, till the tears have rained from my
cheeks; and I believe I have been sincere in my feeling, that if by
suffering an ignominious death, I could restore my murdered friend to
life, I should be _glad_ to be the sacrifice. And then when I thought of
_myself_ as the cause of all this suffering, it seemed as if it ought
not to be a matter of wonder or complaint if the verdict should be,
that such a wretch should cumber the earth no longer. And yet, Agnes, in
the eye of Him who looketh only on the heart, I believe I was as much a
murderer when I struck down my school-mate in the play-ground as now.
For in the height of my passion then, I think I should have been glad to
have killed him. But the thought of _murder_ did not enter my heart when
I struck poor Cranston; it was a sort of instinctive movement; the work
of a moment; and had not the murderous weapon been in my hand, the
effects of the blow would have been but slight."

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