"I showed them to Thurston Willc.o.xen, who has been so energetic in the pursuit of the unknown murderer; but Thurston became so violently agitated that I thought he must have fallen. And he wished very much to retain those letters, but I would not permit them to be carried out of my sight. When he became calmer, however, he a.s.sured me that there could be no possible connection between the writer of these notes and the murderer of the unfortunate girl. I, however, think differently. I think there is a connection, and even an ident.i.ty; and I think this packet may be the means of bringing the criminal to justice; and I leave it--a sacred trust--in your charge, Miriam. Guard it well; guard it as your only treasure, until it has served its destined purpose. And now, Miriam, do you know the nature of a vow?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Do you understand its solemnity--its obligation, its inviolability?"
"I think I do, mamma."
"Do you know that in the performance of your vow, if necessary, no toil, no privation, no suffering of mind or body, no dearest interest of your life, no strongest affection of your soul, but must be sacrificed; do you comprehend all this?"
"Yes, mamma; I knew it before, and I have read of Jeptha and his daughter."
"Now, Miriam, kneel down, fold your hands, and give them to me between my own. Look into my eyes. I want you to make a vow to G.o.d and to your dying mother, to avenge the death of Marian. Will you bind your soul by such an obligation?"
The child was magnetized by the thrilling eyes that gazed deep into her own. She answered:
"Yes, mamma."
"You vow in the sight of G.o.d and all his holy angels, that, as you hope for salvation, you will devote your life with all your faculties of mind and body, to the discovery and punishment of Marian"s murderer; and also that you will live a maiden until you become and avenger."
"I vow."
"Swear that no afterthoughts shall tempt you to falter; that happen what may in the changing years, you will not hesitate; that though your interests and affections should intervene, you will not suffer them to r.e.t.a.r.d you in your purpose; that no effort, no sacrifice, no privation, no suffering of mind or body shall be spared, if needful, to the accomplishment of your vow."
"I swear."
"You will do it! You are certain to discover the murderer, and clear up the mystery."
The mental excitement that had carried Edith through this scene subsided, and left her very weak, so that when Thurston Willc.o.xen soon after called to see her, she was unable to receive him.
The next morning, however, Thurston repeated his visit, and was brought to the bedside of the invalid.
Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month seemed to have made him old--his countenance was worn, his voice hollow, and his manner abstracted and uncertain.
"Edith," he asked, as he took the chair near her head, "do you feel stronger this morning?"
"Yes--I always do in the forenoon"
"Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?"
"Oh, yes."
"What do you propose to do with her?"
"I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta--she will never let the child want."
"But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now. Jacquelina is insane, the commodore and Mrs. L"Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of themselves--and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl."
"I know it--oh! I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no otherwise?"
"To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith. It would have been cruel to mention it else."
She looked up at him with surprise and inquiry.
"Edith, you have known me from my boyhood. You know what I am. Will you leave your orphan daughter to me? You look at me in wonder; but listen, dear Edith, and then decide. Marian--dear martyred saint! loved that child as her own. And I loved Marian--loved her as I had never dreamed it possible for heart to love--I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of reason," he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a spasm agitated his worn face. In a few minutes he resumed.
"Look at me, Edith! the death of Marian has brought me to what you see!
My youth has melted away like a morning mist. I have not an object in life except to carry out purposes which were dear to her benevolent heart, and which her sudden death has left incomplete. I have not an affection in the world except that which comes through her. I should love this child dearly, and cherish her devotedly for Marian"s sake. I shall never change my bachelor life--but I should like to legally adopt little Miriam. I should give her the best educational advantages, and make her the co-heir with my young brother, Paul Dougla.s.s, of all I possess. Say, Edith, can you trust your child to me?" He spoke earnestly, fervently, taking her hand and pressing it, and gazing pleadingly into her eyes.
"So you loved Marian--I even judged so when I saw you labor hardest of all for the apprehension of the criminal. Oh, many loved her as much as you! Colonel Thornton, Dr. Weismann, Judge Gordon, Mr. Barnwell, all adored her! Ah! she was worthy of it."
"No more of that, dear Edith, it will overcome us both; but tell me if you will give me your little girl?"
"Dear Thurston, your proposal is as strange and unusual as it is generous. I thank you most sincerely, but you must give me time to look at it and think of it. You are sincere, you are in earnest, you mean all you say. I see that in your face; but I must reflect and take counsel upon such an important step. Go now, dear Thurston, and return to me at this hour to-morrow morning."
Thurston pressed her hand and departed.
The same day Edith had a visit from Mrs. Waugh, Miss Thornton and other friends. And after consulting with them upon the proposal that had been made her, she decided to leave Miriam in the joint guardianship of Mrs.
Waugh and Thurston Willc.o.xen.
And this decision was made known to Thurston when he called the next morning.
A few days after this Edith pa.s.sed to the world of spirits. And Thurston took the orphan child to his own heart and home.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN MERRY ENGLAND.
When Marian recovered consciousness she found herself on board ship and a lady attending to her wants. When she was at last able to ask how she came there the lady nurse told the following story:
"On the evening of Holy Thursday, about the time the storm arose, our vessel lay to opposite a place on St. Mary"s coast, called Pine Bluff, and the mate put off in a boat to land a pa.s.senger; as they neared the sh.o.r.e they met another boat rowed by two men, who seemed so anxious to escape observation, as to row away as fast as they could without answering our boat"s salute. Our mate thought very strange of it at the time; but the mysterious boat was swiftly hid in the darkness, and our boat reached the land. The mate and his man had to help to carry the pa.s.senger"s trunks up to the top of the bluff, and a short distance beyond, where a carriage was kept waiting for him, and after they had parted from him, they returned down the bluff by a shorter though steeper way; and just as they reached the beach, in the momentary lull of the storm, they heard groans. Immediately the men connected those sounds with the strange boat they had seen row away, and they raised the wick in the lantern, and threw its light around, and soon discovered you upon the sands, moaning, though nearly insensible. They naturally concluded that you had been the victim of the men in the boat, who were probably pirates. Their first impulse was to pursue the carriage, and get you placed within it, and taken to some farmhouse for a.s.sistance; but a moment"s reflection convinced them that such a plan was futile, as it was impossible to overtake the carriage. There was also no house near the coast. They thought it likely that you were a stranger to that part of the country. And in the hurry and agitation of the moment, they could devise nothing better than to put you in the boat, and bring you on board this vessel. That is the way you came here."
The grateful gaze of Marian thanked the lady, and she asked:
"Tell me the name of my angel nurse."
"Rachel Holmes," answered the lady, blushing gently. "My husband is a surgeon in the United States army. He is on leave of absence now for the purpose of taking me home to see my father and mother--they live in London. I am of English parentage."
Marian feebly pressed her hand, and then said:
"You are very good to ask me no questions, and I thank you with all my heart; for, dear lady, I can tell you nothing."
The next day the vessel which had put into New York Harbor on call, sailed for Liverpool.
Marian slowly improved. Her purposes were not very clear or strong yet--mental and physical suffering and exhaustion had temporarily weakened and obscured her mind. Her one strong impulse was to escape, to get away from the scenes of such painful a.s.sociations and memories, and to go home, to take refuge in her own native land. The thought of returning to Maryland, to meet the astonishment, the wonder, the conjectures, the inquiries, and perhaps the legal investigation that might lead to the exposure and punishment of Thurston, was insupportable to her heart. No, no! rather let the width of the ocean divide her from all those horrors. Undoubtedly her friends believed her dead--let it be so--let her remain as dead to them. She should leave no kindred behind her, to suffer by her loss--should wrong no human being. True, there were Miriam and Edith! But that her heart was exhausted by its one great, all-consuming grief, it must have bled for them! Yet they had already suffered all they could possibly suffer from the supposition of her death--it was now three weeks since they had reason to believe her dead, and doubtless kind Nature had already nursed them into resignation and calmness, that would in time become cheerfulness. If she should go back, there would be the shock, the amazement, the questions, the prosecutions, perhaps the conviction, and the sentence, and the horrors of a state prison for one the least hair of whose head she could not willingly hurt; and then her own early death, or should she survive, her blighted life. Could these consequences console or benefit Edith or Miriam? No, no, they would augment grief. It was better to leave things as they were--better to remain dead to them--a dead sorrow might be forgotten--living one never! For herself, it was better to take fate as she found it--to go home to England, and devote her newly restored life, and her newly acquired fortune, to those benevolent objects that had so lately occupied so large a share of her heart. Some means also should be found--when she should grow stronger, and her poor head should be clearer, so that she should be able to think--to make Edith and Miriam the recipients of all the benefit her wealth could possibly confer upon them. And so in recollecting, meditating, planning, and trying to reason correctly, and to understand her embarra.s.sed position, and her difficult duty, pa.s.sed the days of her convalescence. As her mind cleared, the thought of Angelica began to give her uneasiness--she could not bear to think of leaving that young lady exposed to the misfortune of becoming Thurston"s wife--and her mind toiled with the difficult problem of how to shield Angelica without exposing Thurston.