prevent it you shall not; but we must not let proprieties peril a fellow-creature’s life.”
I made no reply. I would not for worlds have deprived Deloraine of my father’s testimony in his favour. And how could he give it if I spoke? Forgery was then punished with death. Could I voluntarily condemn, by my own words, the man whom I loved, to the gallows? I was wretched; distracted by doubt, fear, and horror, when my heart was wrung by receiving a letter from William (forwarded by the gaol chaplain), in which he thanked me for my kind remembrance of him, and said, how it pleased him, amidst all his trouble, to think that it was my testimony that would acquit him, for I had seen him find the fatal pocket-book. Imagine, if you can, my distress. I dared not write and tell him that I knew he did not find it, lest my letter should be read before it was given to him. I could only be silent on the subject, and urge my father to keep me from the public court, and prevent my being subpoenaed as a witness. Alas! it was in vain!
She paused—moved by the old sad memory.
“What did you do?” we asked.
The trial came on, (she continued.) It was distinctly proved that the Deloraine family and their servant had passed false notes, and that William had purchased a diamond ornament of a jeweller in London, and paid for it with a forged note. This tradesman was the chief witness against him. For his defence Deloraine declared, as he had told my father, that he had found the notes; and had merely borrowed their present use. My father was called to testify to the fact, and to state what he thought of Deloraine’s character. The latter statement was of course favourable, but on cross-examination it was proved that my father had not actually seen William pick up the book, and to my horror and despair I was put into the witness-box. I can never forget it! At this minute I can see Deloraine’s eager look at me—his look of love and trust and hope. A word from me would give him life!—a word consign him to the gallows! It was an awful temptation . . . But I dared not fail in truth; I could not—no, thank God! I was not perjured. I tried to hold the truth back; at least, I answered reluctantly; but my cross examination was severe, and when the counsel for the prosecution asked me—“Did you actually see William Deloraine find the book?” I almost shrieked my fatal “No!”
“Did you see him take it from his own person?”
There was a pause. I gasped out—“I did!” And then I heard a wild, piercing cry from the prisoner. I remember no more, for I fainted, and was carried out of court. Deloraine was condemned to death. He confessed his crime, my father told me; and showed much earnestness in acquitting his mother and Kate of all share in it. They were consequently set at liberty, for they, also, had been under restraint.
But I was miserable. I felt like a murderess, and besought my father, as he ever hoped to see me happy again, to procure a commutation of the sentence. We had powerful friends; and Mr. Morton used such exertions, that, difficult as the task was at that time, he achieved it, and the sentence of Deloraine was changed into transportation for life. All this dreadful anxiety increased my previous indisposition, and it became impossible for me to return home, as my father wished, when the trial and his subsequent efforts were over. So we remained by the sea-side. One day I received, to my astonishment, a letter from Kate Deloraine: it was full of gratitude for my father’s goodness in saving her brother from the last rigour of the law; and of regrets over his blighted life and their own ruined prospects. She did not blame me for the part I had had in his conviction. She pitied me for it, and said poor William admired my unshaken truthfulness.
“And now, dear Jane,” she concluded, “I am going to urge one last request. We are about to leave England for ever, to hide our shame and sorrow in a strange land. We go to-morrow. Will you come to the old cottage (to which mamma and I have returned) and bid me a last farewell, and hear a message poor William left, which will explain and extenuate, in a degree, his sad fault?”
This letter touched me deeply. I greatly desired to see Kate once more, to assure her how cruelly I had felt the dreadful duty cast on me, and to hear something more of William Deloraine. My father was from home; he had gone to spend a few days with a friend some ten or twelve miles off, and was not to return till the next day, or perhaps the following one. If he had been at home, assuredly I should not have been permitted to go, but as it was, my girlish enthusiasm, my lingering pity and tenderness for the convict William, induced me to comply. It was all very silly and romantic, I know; but so it was.
The cottage was within a walk, and not liking to expose the unhappy Deloraines to the curious gaze of servants, I determined to go alone, and for the same reason did not tell any of them whither I was going.
It was a chilly, windy April afternoon, about four o’clock, when I started on my walk.
I hurried along, and, in about an hour’s time, found myself in the lane leading to the cottage. It was certainly a very lonely place, and now association added to its natural gloom.
The grove had been much trodden and the trees broken in the search made by the Bow Street officers for graving-tools, &c. (which, however, they had failed to find), and altogether it looked very wretched and depressing. Just opposite the eastern gable of the dwelling, was an old oak of great size, which I was obliged to pass in approaching the door. As I glanced at it, I perceived a hole or cavity recently dug or uncovered (for I had never noticed it before) close to the root.
Why, I never knew, but the sight of it made me shiver, and altogether a strong feeling (perhaps induced by the dreariness of the place), made me turn back. Just as I did so, Kate Deloraine emerged from behind the tree and stood before me.
She was sadly altered, very pale and thin, and she shed bitter tears as I embraced her. I walked into the house with her. The drawing-room was empty; the sofa moved; the folding-doors opened.
“You miss my mother,” she said; “she is in