Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch

by Oliver Goldfinch (lit)

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  CONCLUSION.

  We have stated previously, that it was not our design to give in detail the trial of Acton Goldfinch for the murder of Ellen Douglas—the only one he was destined to have—as Virginia, after hearing of the fate of the latter, had positively refused to appear against him—although, on behalf of the State, her evidence alone would perhaps have been sufficient to convict him. It will therefore only be necessary to our purpose to briefly sketch the proceedings against him and the result. The day, then, that Acton was put upon trial for his life, was one marked with an excitement almost as intense as when he was first brought forward for examination. The trial itself was long and tedious, and thousands were daily forced to go away with their curiosity, for a sight of the prisoner, unsatisfied—the court-room, from the earliest to the latest hour, being crowded almost to a state of suffocation. The evidence in the case was mainly circumstantial, and in no instance, for the prosecution, positive—the nearest approach to it being the testimony of Sarah Farling, who swore that, to the best of her belief, the person she admitted into the dwelling of Madame Costellan, just previous to the murder of Ellen, was the prisoner—but that it was he, she would not positively affirm. The evidence, therefore, on the part of the state, was wholly circumstantial— but so direct and strong, that no one doubted of the guilt of the prisoner, and very few of his final conviction. The cloak and dagger were both brought forward and identified as his property—the tailor who made the one being summoned as a witness, and the merchant who sold the other likewise. It was not only proved that these were the property of the prisoner, but that both were in his possession an hour previous to the awful deed, and the sheath of the dagger was found on his person at the time of his arrest. It was proved, too, he had often made bitter threats against the life of the deceased, and that he had been seen going in the direction of her abode only half an hour previous to the fatal deed. Here, on evidence as strong, apparently, as "holy writ," the prosecution rested. The defence opened by an attempt to prove the previous good conduct of the prisoner, and impeach some of the witnesses for the state—both of which attempts were little better than failures; and every one had settled it in his own mind that the prisoner must be convicted, when lo, and behold! a witness was brought forward, who astounded and confounded all by proving an alibi. This was a German grocer, who, under solemn oath, in the face of God and man, firmly and di rectly asseverated, that at the time the murder was committed, the prisoner was in his company, at least half a mile from the scene of the horrid transaction, and that he and the prisoner did not separate for an hour afterwards. What though the judges and lawyers, the jury and spectators, were all taken aba ck by this unlooked for testimony!--what though they believed it false—that the witness had perjured himself!--yet here the evidence was before them—direct, straightforward, positive, and unimpeached--and, as such, the jury were bound by oath to take it for literal truth. The judges and jury were here to decide a case involving the life of a fellow being—not according to their prejudices—not, strictly speaking, according to their belief—but wholly, and irrespectively of party or person, according to the evidence adduced on the trial. What though they believed the witness had perjured himself? Their belief amounted to nothing until it was proved against him; and not being proved against him, they were bound to take his testimony; and taking his testimony, were consequently bound by their oaths to render a verdict of acquittal to the prisoner. With the falsity or truth of the grocer's statement they had nothing to do, so long as it was unimpeached before the court. The prisoner, most certainly, could not be in two places at the same time; the prosecution had not proved positively he was the person who committed the deed; the defence had proved positively he was the person who did not; consequently there was but one way to decide. In giving his charge to the jury, the judge brought forward all these points in a clear, concise and forcible manner, and concluded by observing, that where there was the least doubt regarding the guilt of the accused, the common law of humanity bade them lean to the side of mercy. The jury then retired; but not until some time the following day were they able to agree, when they returned a verdict of "Not Guilty." This decision was received with great dissatisfaction by the public at large, before whose tribunal Acton already stood condemned; and so high ran the popular feeling against him, that it was deemed expedient to detain him in confinement till the excitement had somewhat subsided. Throughout Acton's trial, poor Arabella, who had regained her reason and sufficient strength for the task, was ever, like a guardian angel, by his side, watching his every look, and cheering him with what feeble words of hope she could summon to her aid. Her features, like his own, were very pale and haggard, and it was evident to all who beheld her, that grief, anxiety and keen despair, were, cancer-like, gnawing at her heart's core, and wasting away her once queenly form.-- Whatever of animosity might prevail against the brother, not a soul, with a particle of humanity in his composition, could view that noble, self-sacrificing, and almost superhuman devotion of the sister, with other than feelings of profound respect and sincere compassion; and many there were who wished him acquitted for her sake. That he was guilty of the crime laid to his charge, Arabella felt well convinced; but in extenuation of the foul act, she sincerely believed he had committed it in the heat of passion, and had deeply regreted it ever since—both of which suppositions were literally true. In any event, he was her brother, had always been kind to her, and was the only being on earth, save her father, she truly loved. Besides, he was now alone in the world, without a sympathising friend, and she could not bear the terrible thought of his coming to an ignominious death. At least she was his sister, she had a right to be with him, and she felt it her duty so to be; and regardless of the opinions of the world, she flew to his side, to stand his steadfast friend, let weal or wo betide.— More dead than alive, she was present to hear the verdict of the jury; and when the final words, "not guilty," were pronounced in an audible voice, she swooned for joy, and in an unconscious state was borne from the court room. But Arabella's devotion to her brother ended not here. She resolved to share his fortune, whatever it might be; and though the Rev. Mr. Parkhurst tried with all the arguments in his power to dissuade her from it, and offered her a home for life; and though Edgar, who had now come in possession of his father's property, so long and wrongfully withheld by his uncle and her father, proposed to settle upon her an independency; yet all propositions were alike made in vain. She firmly but respectfully declined to accept of elther; and when, soon after, Acton secretly left the city, Arabella was his companion, and went no one knew whither. And now, the design of the present volume being accomplished, here, for a time at least, ends the history of the family of Goldfinch. The final fate of father, son and daughter belongs to a subsequent period; and it remains for the public to decide, whether the writer of these pages shall ever again call them from obscurity to the stage of action, or allow them, with all their virtues and vices, to rest forevermore in oblivion. Immediately after the conviction of Oliver Goldfinch, Nathan Wesley left for parts unknown; while Davis returned to his friends in Baltimore, where Edgar generously settled upon him an income of a thousand dollars per annum. Some two or three weeks from the acquital of Acton Goldfinch, a brilliant array of wealth, beauty and talent were assembled at Malcolm Place, to solemnize the nuptials of Edgar and Edith, Clarence and Virginia; and though every thing was conducted on a scale of sufficient magnificence to excite the envy of the proudest of the beau monde , yet so true were Malcolm and Courtly to their noble principles, that the poor of the city long had cause to remember that day with gratitude, as in truth they still have their generous benefactors. On the second morning after his marriage, Edith handed Edgar one of the leading journals of the city, and pointing with her fair, delicate hand to a prominent paragraph, blushingly bade him read. Edgar did read; and his eyes dilated with surprise, and his heart swelled with pride, at the following brief notice: "Marriage in High Life.—At Malcolm Place
, on the 5th inst., by the Rev. Stephen Parkburst, Clarence Malcolm, Esq.— long and favorably known to the literary world as a leading writer of the — Magazine, and a frequent contributor to various other periodicals, and in private life as a philanthropist, gentleman and scholar—was united in the holy bonds of wedlock to Miss Virginia Courtly, a niece of Oliver Goldfinch, whose trial and conviction, for the forging of a will of her father, by which both herself and brother were long deprived of their rightful possessions, recently excited so much surprise and attention in this city. Also, by the same, at the same time and place, Edgar Courtly, Esq.—a nephew of the said Oliver Goldfinch, but better known to our readers as a gifted poet, under the nom de plume of "Orion"—was united to the lovely Miss Edith Morton, only child of Calvin Morton, Esq., a lawyer of great eminence.— The wedding was a brilliant one—all the talent and fashion of the city were present— every thing went off delightfully— and the joyous couples have our most ardent wishes for their future prosperity and happiness." "God bless you, my son!" cried Morton, stealing up behind Edgar while he was reading; "you were becoming famous without my knowledge." "Ay, and without my own," returned Edgar, blushing. "Ha! here, methlnks, comes the cause," he added, nodding toward Clarence, who at this moment entered the apartment, accompanied by Virginia. "Well," answered Malcolm, with a smile, as Edgar explained the subject of conversation, "you know I purchased your poems, and of course felt I had a right to use them as suited my humor. But you are still more famous, Edgar, than you have given yourself credit for. Read these at your leisure;" and he threw down upon the table some half-a-dozen different journals, each of which contained a high ly complimentary notice of himself and friend. Edgar was by no means vain— but he could not drink in so much praise of his humble efforts and remain totally unmoved. The main-spring of a laudable ambition was touched; and mainly to this circumstance, the world has since been indebted for many a beautiful effusion from his gifted pen; while Clarence, under an assumed title, already ranks among the leading writers of America. And now, kind reader, we feel that our task is accomplished. In the pages preceding, we have endeavored to show you how vice may for a time triumph over virtue; how hypocrisy may take the place of truth, and deceive the world with its false glare; how the innocent and pure at heart may be made the suffering victims of the guilty and vicious; how crime may lie concealed, until, in its very security, it breeds exposure; how retribution, sooner or later, follows guilt, and strikes with a heavy hand the guilty doer; how a deviation from the straight paths of virtue and honor generally leads to ruin and death; how the poor, without friends, may struggle in vain and die unpitied; how good actions may proceed from the seemingly bad, and bad actions from the seemingly good; how the innocent may be accused and arrested as guilty—how the guilty may escape the justice of the law as innocent; how a noble act generally finds a noble reward; how true virtue gives way to no temptation, but bears the ills of life with patience, hoping for a better day, and rejoices triumphant in the end. In short, we have endeavored to sketch a true picture of life as it exists in the crowded city; and though aware that the sketch is faintly lined and faulty, yet if it please, so far as it goes, we shall rest satisfied our humble efforts have not been wholly made in vain. With you, gentle reader, rests the moral of our story; and so, for the present, adicu. THE END