Three millions! or, The way of the world
Mr. Hungerford, I cannot tell you what I felt then! I loved her! From
that moment I have not ceased to love her. That love purified my soul,
and sanctified the hope which had been base and unworthy before. I was
ashamed of the purpose for which I came to Poppleton; I cursed my own
soul for the wrong I had done Mr. Birch. I repented; but I had not
the courage to confess my errors, for that would banish me from the
presence of Julia--drive me in disgrace from the town. When the change
came over Julia, another change came over me. As she warmed back into
physical life, I grew into moral and spiritual life. Whatever my lot,
wherever I go, she will still be the saver of my soul. I have done, Mr.
Hungerford.”
The doctor wiped his brow again. He did love Julia Hungerford. This was
true, whatever else was false.
“I am sorry you love her, Dr. Lynch.”
“I am glad!” replied the doctor, exultingly.
“She may not be willing to see you after what has transpired.”
“I do not expect it. I am willing to suffer--I deserve to suffer. A
lifetime of penitence will not atone for the wrong I have done. I love
her, and loving her has saved me from my own vain and wicked ambition.”
“You loved her for her money--for what might be hers.”
“Did I not counsel you to marry Mary Kingman? Did I not remove the
objections of Julia and your mother? Was this selfish? Did I not
persuade you to do the very thing which would deprive both Julia and
myself of the contingent fortunes?”
“You did.”
“But it matters not now. This is the last time I shall enter your
house, unless I am called here as a physician: in that capacity I will
serve you to the utmost of my ability. Good night, Mr. Hungerford;” and
Dr. Lynch moved towards the door.
“I am not quite prepared to adopt your view of this unpleasant
business, doctor. Whatever you are, and whatever you have done, we are
still deeply indebted to you,” interposed Eugene.
“It is not for me to speak, Mr. Hungerford. I feel that I have outraged
and insulted you and every other member of your family. I have been a
base, designing knave. I do not ask your forbearance.”
“But you shall have it none the less.”
“I cannot even ask to be forgiven,” pleaded the doctor, humbly, as he
still stood, hat in hand, ready to leave.
“For myself I can, and do freely forgive you.”
“This is more than I deserve.”
Dr. Lynch threw himself into a chair, and covering his face with his
handkerchief, actually sobbed.
Eugene’s tender heart could hardly endure this. To see a strong man
weep--and that man the skilful physician, the demigod of Pine Hill--was
pitiable in the extreme.
“What does Mr. Birch say to all this?” asked Eugene, after the doctor’s
woe had partially subsided.
“Mr. Birch is noble and generous. He is kind to me beyond expression.
He forgave me the wrong I did him. I confessed everything; I put myself
wholly in his hands.”
“If Mr. Birch can forgive you, surely we can,” said Eugene. “Here is my
hand, doctor. We will be as though nothing had happened.”
“You overwhelm me, Mr. Hungerford,” exclaimed Dr. Lynch, in tones
broken with emotion. “I am unworthy to take your hand.”
“As a man who has done wrong, and truly repented, you are worthy of
respect and admiration. Not many men have the courage to confess their
fault.”
“It is only tardily that I have done so. Courage was all I lacked. The
truth has been too mighty for me. Mr. Birch, with the truth on his
side, has overwhelmed me. I have no merit. Mr. Hungerford, you have
saved me. I could not endure my disgrace. When I left Mr. Birch, it
was with the intention of ending my miserable life before to-morrow
morning.”
“That would be cowardly.”
“If I had not been a coward, I should have done justice to Mr. Birch
four months ago, when I was convicted in my own heart of this foul
wrong.”
“You will suffer some, doctor, but not much. You have disarmed
reproach.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Hungerford.”
“Come to Pine Hill as before, doctor. You will always find friends
here.”
“How can I hold up my head in the presence of your mother and Julia?”
Eugene thought he could not; he did not say so. He added what he could
to console the suffering penitent, and the doctor departed, apparently
reconciled to his lot. Julia and her mother went into the library when
he had gone. Eugene explained the position of the demigod. Julia was
indignant when she heard of his confession; she pitied him when she
heard of his penitence and grief.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE VERDICT.
The court came in on the second day of the trial. Dr. Lynch was
present, as he had promised to be. His appearance had greatly changed
since he went on the stand the day before. He looked like a man who
had endured a lifetime of misery in a single night. His pale face and
sunken eyes were the emblems of penitence. People were prepared by what
had occurred on the first day for some extraordinary event. The doctor
was suffering; he showed it in his looks and in his movements; the damp
of the night watch seemed to be clinging to him. Those who saw him
pitied him. It was sad to see a man so mighty as the popular physician
fall from his high estate.
Doubtless Dr. Lynch had suffered intensely; doubtless he had not closed
his eyes to sleep during the night; doubtless he had endured untold
agonies between the setting and the rising of the sun. He was sorry
for something; for what has not yet been told. He was certainly in
excellent condition to appear on the stand as a penitent; he was well
“made up” for this character.
The doctor was placed upon the stand as soon as the court was opened.
There was a breathless silence in the room. The audience strained their
eyes to obtain a glance at the face of the witness. People were almost
prepared to hear him say that he himself had slain Buckstone. That he
was in Poppleton under an assumed name was enough to excite the gravest
suspicions.
“Dr. Lynch, I am informed that you desire to correct your testimony as
given yesterday,” began the attorney for the government.
“I do.”
“What correction do you wish to make?”
“So far as my evidence related to Mr. Birch, it was false,” replied the
witness in quivering tones, hollow and sepulchral. “I acknowledge, with
the utmost shame and with a loathing of myself I cannot describe, that
I have attempted to injure Mr. Birch; that I have sworn to what I knew
to be untrue.”
The fall of a pin could have been heard in the court-room. This open,
square, and unequivocal confession excited the contempt of all honest
men, but pity was by far the stronger feeling. Some thought the doctor
was a fool to confess; others that he need not have said so much; and
fast men blamed him for not “putting it through” as he had begun:
but the general sentiment was grief that one standing so high in the
estimation of the community should have sacrificed himself. Christian
men thought that, great as was the wrong he had done, the humiliating
atonement he made ought to satisfy the sternest lover of justice.
“Were you with Mr. Buckstone on the night he was murdered?” continued
Mr. Lowe, very gently.
“I was.”
“Was Mr. Birch with him also?”
“He was not.”
“Did you go to the island with Buckstone?”
“I did.”
“Did you see the prisoner on that night?”
“I did; Buckstone left me on the beach, and went up the rocks to speak
with Ross Kingman. They went off together.”
“Did you see the murder committed?”
“I did not.”
“While you were on the beach were you conscious that a murder had been
committed?”
“I was not.”
While he was on the beach he certainly was not conscious of the fact;
it did not take place until after he had left the beach.
“Have you any knowledge whatever of the murder except what you obtained
from Ross Kingman?”
“I have not.”
“Did you see the blow struck? Did you hear any angry words?”
“I did not.”
“That is all; the witness is yours, Mr. Darling,” said the government
attorney.
Mr. Lowe deemed it his duty to prove that a murder had been committed,
and that it had been committed by the prisoner. This was the issue
which the jury were to try, and the government had nothing to do with
the question in dispute between Dr. Lynch and Mr. Birch. The latter had
been vindicated, and the truth, so far as it related to the murderer,
had been fully elicited.
Mr. Darling asked a few questions of the witness, and he was permitted
to retire. Of course, Dr. Lynch was in very bad odor, and everybody
suddenly knew that Dick Birch had always been a just and upright man.
The trial proceeded. The fact that Mary Kingman had been grievously
wronged, outraged, insulted, was made apparent. This was the terrible
provocation of the prisoner. Mr. Darling made the most eloquent plea
of his life. He pictured the condition of the deserted girl, who had
believed she was a wife; the strong affection that existed between the
prisoner and his sister. She had no friend, no protector, but this
brother. Her father had absolutely driven her from his roof in his
drunken frenzy. To whom could she look for justice but to this brother?
He depicted her sick room, with Ross watching night and day by her
side, loving and pitying her, and nursing his vengeance against her
betrayer. He had gone to New York, plucked her from the poverty and
disgrace to which she had been reduced by her unnatural protector. He
had brought her home. He held in his fraternal arms the wreck of the
beloved sister, wasted by disease, shattered by her mental suffering,
disgraced, defiled, cast off. It was not right that the prisoner should
slay the villain who had desolated the fond hopes of this loved one;
but if ever man was justified in wielding the bolt of vengeance, Ross
Kingman was.
He reviewed the evidence, drawing from it every item which tended
to show the sad condition of Mary, the strong provocation of
Ross. Mr. Lowe followed with legal definitions, distinctions, and
discriminations. He showed what murder was; what was English law, what
was French law, what was American law. Having done enough to satisfy
himself, and the bar, and the bench, that he was a sound lawyer, he
contented himself with arguing very lucidly that a murder had been
committed, and that the prisoner had committed it. As no one doubted
this, not much was gained by his plea.
In the matter of the provocation, Mr. Lowe was more useful to the jury.
A sufficient provocation sometimes reduced the killing from murder to
manslaughter; and this was the answer to the presumed malice which was
the essential element in murder (1 Russ. Cr. 440); but the killing,
except in self-defence, could not be absolutely justified by law,
common or statute. He argued that if the prisoner was not guilty of
murder, he was surely guilty of manslaughter. The jury could not avoid
this conclusion.
The presiding justice charged the jury. He defined murder,
manslaughter, homicide, and pointed out the legal distinctions, so
that the old farmers were as clear as noonday on the subject. He told
them what malice was, what provocations were legally recognized. He
convinced them that the court had a full and earnest conviction of the
enormity of Buckstone’s offence; but society must be protected from
the dagger of the assassin. He pointed out the exceeding great peril of
justifying a man in taking the law into his own hands to resent real or
fancied injuries.
At five o’clock in the afternoon the jury went out to consider their
verdict. Mary Kingman fainted before the door had closed behind them.
The words of the stern and impartial judge, who had spoken for the
bench, had filled her with awe and terror. Eugene lifted her up, and
bore her to an adjoining room: but she recovered, and the words of
assurance spoken by Dick Birch enabled her to return to the court-room