The Missing Bride Part 36

"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, G.o.d!" 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, G.o.d, 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 fort.i.tude?"

"I have fort.i.tude 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, G.o.d!" 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 Willc.o.xen, pa.s.sed nearly unnoticed, and were soon forgotten. Among the most zealous in the pursuit of the unknown murderer was Thurston Willc.o.xen; 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 pa.s.sed 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 ash.o.r.e 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sa.s.sinated. I see reason to suppose the a.s.sa.s.sin to have been her lover, or her husband, and that his real or a.s.sumed 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."