Lewie by Cousin Cicely

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Many such conversations as these passed between the young prisoner and
his sister, during those two months preceding the trial--every day of
which, except during church hours on Sunday, Agnes passed with him from
morning till night, almost as much a prisoner as he, except that hers
was not compulsory. This time was faithfully improved by Agnes, in
endeavoring to lead her brother to right views upon the subject of his
own condition in the sight of a Holy God. He was very gentle and
teachable now, and before the day of trial came, Agnes hoped that her
brother was a true penitent, though his own hopes of pardon were faint
and flickering.

Mr. Malcolm too, often visited young Elwyn, in whom he was most deeply
interested; and his gentle teachings and fervent prayers were eagerly
listened to by the youthful prisoner. Mr. W----, his counsel, came
often, also, but in his endeavors to keep up the spirits of Lewie and
his sister, his manner was so trifling and flippant that it grated on
their feelings painfully. He was working as laboriously it seemed, as
the enormous fee promised him would warrant, leaving no stone unturned
which would throw some favorable light on young Elwyn's case. Thus days
and weeks passed on, and in the midst of increasing agitation and
excitement, the day of trial came.

When the brother and sister parted the evening before the trial, Agnes
once more renewed the entreaties she had so often made that Lewie would
allow her to remain by his side during the painful events of the coming
day. But his refusal was firm and unyielding.

"No, no, dear sister, pray do not urge it," said he. "I know I shall be
too much agitated as it is; I do not believe I can go through it with
even an appearance of calmness alone; and how much more difficult it
would be for me with you by my side. I know I could not bear it. No!
Agnes, remain in the village if you prefer it, but do not let me see
your dear face again till my fate is decided. Let us pray once more
together, sweet sister--let us pray for mercy from God and man." And
when they arose from their knees they took their sad farewell, and Agnes
accompanied her uncle to the house of her kind friend, Dr. Rodney, where
she was to remain till the trial was over.

XVIII.

The Trial.

"The morn lowered darkly; but the sun hath now,
With fierce and angry splendor, through the clouds
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold
This our high triumph. Lead the prisoner in."

--VESPERS OF PALERMO.

To say that, long before the hour fixed for the trial, the court room
was crowded to its utmost capacity with eager and expectant faces, would
be to repeat what has been written and said of every trial, the events
of which have been chronicled; but it would be no less true for that.
And when the young prisoner was brought into the room, his handsome face
pale from agitation and recent confinement, and with an expression of
intense anxiety in his eye, all not before deeply interested for the
friends of the unfortunate Cranston were moved to pity, and strongly
prepossessed in his favor.

Mr. W----, the counsel for the prisoner, was an able and eloquent
lawyer. He was a small, slight man, with a high, bald forehead; and a
pair of very bright, black, restless eyes. His manner was naturally
quick and lively; but he well knew how to touch the tender strings, and
make them give forth a tone in unison with his own, or with that which
he had adopted for his own to suit the occasion. He had an appearance,
too, of being assured of the justice of his cause, and perfectly
confident of success, which was encouraging to the prisoner and his
friends.

After the necessary preliminaries and statements had been gone through
with, the witnesses against the prisoner and in his favor were called,
who testified to the fact of the murder, and to the prisoner's natural
quickness of temper, inducing fits of sudden passion, which, even in
childhood, seemed at times hardly to leave him the mastery of himself.
Friends, school-mates, college-mates, in turn gave their testimony to
the prisoner's kindness of heart, which would not suffer him to harbor
resentment; and yet many instances were mentioned of fierce and terrible
passion, utterly heedless of results for the moment, and yet passing
away quick as the lightning's flash.

It was shown that he had no ill-will to young Cranston; on the contrary,
they were generally friendly and affectionate; that they had been so
throughout the evening on which the fatal deed was done. It was at a
supper table, when all were excited by wine; and Cranston, who was fond
of a joke, and rather given to teazing, and being less guarded than
usual, introduced some subject exceedingly unpleasant to young Elwyn.
The quick temper of the latter was aroused at once, and he gave a hasty
and angry reply. The raillery was pushed still farther; and before those
about him had time to interfere, the fatal blow was struck in frantic
passion.

"And is this no palliating circumstance," said Mr. W----, "that God has
given to this young man a naturally fierce and hasty temper, which
could not brook that which might be borne more patiently by those whose
blood flows more coldly and sluggishly? Is there no difference to be
made in our judgment of men, because of the different tempers and
dispositions with which they were born? Of course there is!--_of course_
there is! It has been clearly shown that there was no malice
aforethought in this case; the injury was not brooded over in silence,
and the plan matured in cold blood to murder a class-mate and friend.
No! on the moment of provocation the blow was struck, with but the
single idea of giving vent to the passion which was bursting his breast.
And those who witnessed his deep remorse and agony of mind, when he
discovered the fatal effects of his passion, as, all regardless of his
own safety, he endeavored to restore his expiring friend to life, have
assured me, that though they were witnesses of the whole scene, they
felt for _him_ only the deepest commiseration."

And here Mr. W---- paused and wiped his eyes repeatedly, and the sobs
of the young prisoner were heard all over the court room.

"There was one," Mr. W---- continued, "of whom he wished to speak, and
whom, on some accounts, he would have been glad to bring before the jury
to-day. But he would not outrage the feelings of his young friend by
urging him to consent to the entreaties of his lovely sister, that she
might be permitted to sit by his side in that prisoner's seat to-day.
She is his only sister; he her only brother; and they are orphans."
(Here there was a faltering of the voice, a pause, which was very
effective; and after apparently a great effort, Mr. W---- went on.)

"She has sat beside him hour after hour, and day after day, in yonder
dreary jail, endeavoring to make the weary hours of solitude and
captivity less irksome, and lead the prisoner's heart away from earthly
trouble to heavenly comfort. Her hope in the jury of to-day is strong.
She believes they will not doom her young and only brother to an
ignominious death, and a dishonored grave; she even hopes that they
will not consign him to long years of weary imprisonment; she feels that
he is changed; that he no longer trusts to his own strength to overcome
his naturally strong and violent passions; but that his trust is in the
arm of the Lord his God, who 'turneth the hearts of men as the rivers of
water are turned.'"

"May He dispose the hearts of these twelve men, on whom the fate of this
youth now hangs, so that they shall show, that like Himself they are
_lovers of mercy_."

And Mr. W---- sat down and covered his face with his handkerchief. The
hope and expectation of acquittal now were very strong.

And now slowly rose the counsel for the prosecution. Mr. G---- was a
tall thin man, of a grave and stern expression of countenance; his hair
was of an iron-gray, and his piercing gray eye shone from under his
shaggy eye-brows like a spark of fire. It was the only thing that looked
like _life_ about him; and when he first rose he began to speak in a
slow, distinct, unimpassioned manner, and without the least attempt at
eloquence.

"He _had_ intended," he said, "to call a few more witnesses, but he
found it was utterly unnecessary; those already called had said all he
cared to hear; indeed, he had been much surprised to hear testimony on
the side of the prisoner which he should have thought by right his own.
No one attempts to deny the fact of the killing, and that the deed was
done by the hand of the prisoner. The question for us to decide is, was
it murder? was it man-slaughter? or was it _nothing at all_? for to that
point my learned adversary evidently wishes to conduct us."

"The young man it appears, by the testimony of friends and school-mates,
has always been of a peculiarly quick and fiery temper; so much so it
seems, that a playful allusion, or what is commonly called a _teazing_
expression, could not be indulged in at his expense but his companion
was instantly felled to the ground. And was _he_ the one to arm himself
with bowie-knife or revolver? Should one who was perfectly conscious
that he had not the slightest control over his temper, keep about him a
murderous weapon ready to do its deed of death upon any friend who might
unwittingly, in an hour of revelry, touch upon some sore spot?"

"As soon would I approach a keg of gun-powder with a lighted candle in
my hand, as have aught to do with one so fiery and so armed for
destruction. It has been said that it is the custom for young men in
some of our colleges to go thus armed; the more need of signal vengeance
upon the work of death they do. Gentlemen of the jury, if this practice
is not loudly rebuked we shall have work of this kind accumulating
rapidly on our hands."

"'It was done in the heat of frenzied passion, and so the prisoner must
go unpunished.' My learned friend argued not so, when he appeared in
this place against the murder Wiley; poor, ignorant, and half-witted;
who with his eyes starting from his head with starvation, entered a
farmer's house, and in the extremity of his suffering demanded bread.
And on being told by the woman of the house to take himself off to the
nearest tavern and get bread, caught up a carving knife and stabbed her
to the heart, seized a piece of bread, and fled from the house. He had a
fiendish temper too; it was rendered fiercer by starvation; and when
asked why he did the dreadful deed, he said he never could have dragged
himself on three miles to the nearest tavern, and he had no money to buy
bread when he got there. He must die anyway, and it might as well be on
the gallows as by the road-side."

"He, poor fellow, had no friends; he had been brought up in vice and
misery; he had no gentle sister to lead him in the paths of virtue, a
kind word was never spoken to him; a crust of bread was denied him when
he was starving; and above all, he had no wealthy friend to pay an
enormous counsel fee, and my learned opponent standing where he did just
now, called loudly on the jury and said, 'away with such a fellow from
the earth!'"

"Do not think me blood-thirsty or unfeeling. The innocent sufferer in
this case, the sister of this unfortunate young man, has my deepest
sympathy and commiseration, as she has that of this audience and the
jury. But could those here present have gone with me"--(here the speaker
paused, too agitated to proceed)--"to yonder desolated home; had they
seen a mother, lately widowed, and four young sisters, around the bier
where lay the remains of the murdered son and brother--their only hope
next to God--he for whom they were all toiling early and late, that,
when his education was completed, he in turn might work for them,--had
they heard that mother's cry for strength, now that her last earthly
prop was thus rudely snatched away, they would have found food for pity
there. I tell you, my friends, I pray that I may never be called upon to
witness such a scene again!"

Wiping his cheeks repeatedly, Mr. G----resumed:

"These tears surprise me; for I am not used to the 'melting mood,' and I
cannot afford to weep as readily as my learned opponent, who will count
his pile of bank notes for every tear he sheds, and think those tears
well expended. I speak for an outraged community; my sympathies are with
the poor--with the widow and the fatherless--with those whose only son
and brother has been cut off in his hope and promise, and consigned to
an early grave."

"Shall these things take place unnoticed and unpunished?--and for a
light and hasty word, shall our young men of promise be cut down in the
midst of their days, and the act go unrebuked of justice? I look not so
much at this individual case as to the general good. Were I to look only
on the prisoner, I too might yield to feeling, and forget justice. But
feeling must not rule here: in the court room, justice alone should have
sway; and I call upon the jury to decide as impartially in this case as
if the poorest and most neglected wretch, brought up in vice and
wretchedness, sat there, instead of the handsome and interesting
prisoner; and I call upon the jury to show that, though in private life
they may be 'lovers of mercy,' yet, where the general good is so deeply
involved, they are determined to 'deal justly' with the prisoner."

The judge then gave his charge to the jury, which was thought to lean
rather to the side of the prisoner, though he agreed with Mr. G----,
that some sharp rebuke should be given to the practice, so common among
the young men in some of our colleges, of carrying about with them
offensive weapons.

The prisoner was led back to the jail; the jury retired; and it being
now evening, the court room was deserted.

XIX.

The Sealed Paper.

"Sister, thy brother is won by thee."--MRS. HEMANS.

The verdict would not be made known till the next morning. Oh! what a
night of mental torture was that to the devoted sister of the prisoner!
The terrible suspense left it out of her power to remain quiet for a
moment, but she restlessly paced the room, watching for the dawn of day,
and yet dreading the signs of its approach. Her aunt, who remained with
her during that anxious night, endeavored as well as she could to soothe
and calm her excited feelings; but how little there was to be said; she
could only point her to the Christian's never-failing trust and
confidence; and it was only by constant supplications for strength from
on high, as she walked the room, that Agnes was enabled to retain the
slightest appearance of composure, or, as it seemed to her, to keep her
brain from bursting.

The longest night will have an end, and morning at length dawned on the
weary eyes of the watchers. The family rose and breakfasted early, for
an intense excitement reigned throughout the house. Agnes begged to be
allowed to remain in her own room; and though, in compliance with the
entreaties of her friends, she endeavored to eat, she could not swallow
a morsel. Mr. Wharton came early; and soon after breakfast, he and Dr.
Rodney went out. At nine o'clock the court were to assemble, to hear the
verdict; and from that moment, Agnes seated herself at the window, with
her hands pressed on her aching forehead, and her eyes straining to
catch the first glimpse of them as they returned.

She sat thus for an hour or more at the window, and at the end of that
time the crowds began to pass the house, and she soon caught sight of
Dr. Rodney and her uncle. They did not hasten as if they had joyful
news to tell, and as Agnes in her agitation rose as they approached the
gate, and watched their faces as they came up the gravel walk, she saw
there enough to tell her the whole story; and pressing both hands upon
her heart she sat down again, for she had no longer strength to stand.
In a few moments she heard her uncle's step coming slowly towards her
room. As the door opened very gently she did not raise her head; it had
fallen upon her breast, and she was asking for strength to bear what she
knew was coming. When at length she looked towards her uncle she saw him
standing with his hand still on the lock, and gazing at her intently.
His face was of an ashy paleness, and he seemed irresolute whether to
approach her or to leave the room.

"Uncle," gasped Agnes, "do not speak now; there is no need; I see it
all," and slowly she fell to the floor and forgot her bitter sorrow in
long insensibility. When she recovered it was nearly mid-day, and only
her aunt was sitting by her bedside.

"Aunty," said she, as if bewildered, "what time is it?" Her aunt told
her the time.

"And is it possible," said Agnes, "that I have slept so late?" and then
pressing her hands to her head, she said:

"Who said '_condemned_' and '_sentenced_?'"

"No one has said those words to you, dear Agnes," said Mrs. Wharton.

"But oh, aunty!" she exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Wharton's hand, "it is
_true_, is it not? Yes, I know it is. My poor young brother! And here I
have been wasting the time when he wants me so much. I must get up this
moment and go to him."

Her aunt endeavored to persuade her to remain quiet, telling her that
Mr. Malcolm was with Lewie, and that he was not left alone for a moment.
Agnes insisted, however, upon rising, but on making the attempt her head
became dizzy and she sank back again upon her pillow; and this was the
beginning of a brain fever, which kept her confined to her bed in
unconscious delirium for more than three weeks. In her delirium she
seemed to go back to the days of her childhood, and live them over
again with all the trouble they caused her young heart. Sometimes she
fancied herself a lonely prisoner again in the cold north room, and
sometimes pleading with her little brother, and begging him to "be a
good boy, and to try and not be so cross." At one time Dr. Rodney had
little hope of her life, and after that he feared permanent loss of
reason, but in both fears he was disappointed. Agnes recovered at
length, and with her mind as clear as ever.

During the days when she was convalescing, but still too weak to leave
her bed, her impatience to get to her brother was so great, that the
doctor feared it would retard her recovery. It could not be concealed
from her that Lewie was ill, and the consciousness that she was so
necessary to him, made it the more difficult for Agnes to exercise that
patience and calmness which were requisite to ensure a return of her
strength. Lewie had taken to his bed, immediately after his return to
the jail, on the morning of the sentence, and had not left it since. He
seemed fast sinking into a decline, and much of the good doctor's time
was taken up in ministering at the bed-side of the brother and sister.

At length Agnes was so much better that the doctor consented to her
paying her brother a visit. She found him in the condemned cell, but no
manacles were necessary to fetter his limbs, for a chain stronger than
iron bolts confined him to his bed, and that strong chain was perfect
weakness. Though his cell was darker and more dungeon-like, yet through
the kindness of friends the sick young prisoner was made as comfortable
as possible. By a very strong effort Agnes so far commanded herself as
to retain an appearance of outward composure, during that first meeting
after so long and so eventful a separation; and now began again the
daily ministrations of Agnes at the bed-side of her brother, for in
consideration of his feeble condition his sister was permitted to remain
with him constantly.

Lewie knew that he was failing; "I think," said he to Agnes, "that God
will call for my spirit before the time comes for man to set it free.
But oh! Agnes, if I could once more look upon the green earth, and the
blue sky, and breathe the pure fresh air; and die _free_."

It was after longings for freedom like these, that when Agnes returned
to Dr. Rodney's one evening, (for ever since the trial, at the earnest
request of the kind doctor and his wife, she had made their house her
home except when with her brother,) she found her cousin Grace, who
often came over to pass the night with her, waiting her arrival with
tidings in her face.

"Agnes," said she, "I have heard something to-day which may possibly
cast a ray of hope on Lewie's case yet."

"What can it be, dear Grace?" asked Agnes.

"Who do you think the new Governor's wife is, Agnes?"

"I am sure I cannot imagine."

"Do you remember that strange girl, Ruth Glenn?"

"Certainly."

"Well, it is she. Only think how strange! I have no idea how much
influence she has with the Governor; but unless she has changed
wonderfully in her feelings, she would do anything in the world to serve
you, Agnes, as she ought."

"Oh, blessings on you, Grace! I will go; there _may_ be hope in it; and
if poor Lewie could only die free; for die he must, the doctor assures
me--perhaps before the flowers bloom."

"Father will go with you, Agnes. I have been talking with him about it."

"Oh, how very, very kind you all are to us!" said Agnes. "Then, no time
must be lost, Grace; and if uncle will go with me, we will start as
early as possible in the morning."

Agnes rose early the next morning, with something like a faint tinge of
color in her cheek, lent to it by the excitement of hope; and after
visiting her brother, to give some explanation of the cause of her
absence, she took her seat in the carriage by her uncle, for they must
ride some miles in order to reach the cars.

They reached the Capitol that afternoon; and Agnes, who felt that she
had very little time to spare, left the hotel a few moments after their
arrival in the city, and, leaning on her uncle's arm, sought the
Governor's house. Agnes felt her heart die within her as she ascended
the broad flight of marble steps. Years had passed, and many changes had
taken place since she had met Ruth Glenn. Would she find her again in
the Governor's lady?

Mrs. F---- was at home, and Mr. Wharton left Agnes at the door, thinking
that, on all accounts, the interview had better be private. "He should
return for her in an hour or two," he said, "when he intended to call
upon the Governor, who had once been a class-mate and intimate friend."

Having merely sent word by the servant that an old friend wished to see
Mrs. F----, Agnes was shown into a large and elegantly-furnished parlor,
to await her coming. In a few moments, she heard a light step
descending the stairs, and the rustling of a silk dress, and the
Governor's lady entered the room.

Could it be possible that this blooming, elegant, graceful woman was the
pale, nervous Ruth Glenn, whom Agnes had befriended at Mrs. Arlington's
school? To account for this extraordinary change, we must go back a few
years, which we can fortunately do in a few moments, and give a glance
at Ruth Glenn's history.

She had left school almost immediately after Agnes and her cousins,
having been recommended by Mrs. Arlington to a lady who was looking for
a governess to her children. Here she became acquainted with a lawyer
who visited frequently at the house; a middle-aged man, and a widower,
who was just then looking out for some one to take care of himself and
his establishment. By one of those unaccountable whims which men
sometimes take, this man (who, from his position and wealth, might have
won the hand of almost any accomplished and dashing young lady of his
acquaintance,) was attracted towards the plain, silent governess, and
he very soon, to the astonishment of all, made proposals to her, which
were accepted.

Soon after their marriage, business made it necessary for Mr. F---- to
go to Europe, and Ruth accompanied him. A sea voyage and two years'
travel abroad entirely restored her health, and with it came, what her
husband had never looked for--_beauty_; while the many opportunities for
improvement and cultivation which she enjoyed, and the good society into
which she was thrown, worked a like marvellous change in her manners.
All her nervous diffidence banished, and in its place she had acquired a
dignified self-possession and grace of manner, which fitted her well for
the station of influence she was to occupy. Soon after her return, her
husband was elected Governor; and the city was already ringing with
praises of the loveliness and affability of the new Governor's wife.

No wonder, then, that as Agnes rose to meet her they stood looking at
each other in silence for a moment; Agnes vainly endeavoring to discover
a trace of Ruth Glenn in the easy and elegant woman before her, and Mrs.
F---- trying to divine who this guest who had called herself an old
friend might be.

For sickness and sorrow had changed Agnes too. Her bright bloom was all
gone; her charming animation of manner had given place to a settled
sadness; and though still most lovely, as she stood in her deep mourning
dress, she was but a wreck of the Agnes Elwyn of former years.

But when after a moment Agnes said, "Ruth, do you not know me?"

The scream of delight with which Ruth opened her arms, and clasped her
to her breast, crying out, "_Agnes Elwyn!_--my dear, dear Agnes!"
convinced her that in heart at least her old school-mate was unchanged.
Ruth immediately took Agnes to her own room, that they might be
undisturbed, for she guessed at once her purpose in coming; and then
Agnes opened to her her burdened heart; relating all her brother's
history; telling her of his naturally strong passions, and saying all
that was necessary to say, in justice to her brother, of the injudicious
training he had received; at the same time treating her mother's memory
with all possible delicacy and respect.

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