CHAPTER XXXV. WALTER TO SIR EDWARD. BROTHER,-Read first what I write to you, before you look to see the place I am compelled to date from. If you become bewildered when you have finished my letter, you can hardly be so much as I am at this moment. There is some dreadful mistake, of course, which time, I trust, will clear up; though I remember that Justice used to be represented as blind-and we have both known such cases of innocent men being transported, or even executed, that I shudder to think the clearing up might possibly come too late for me, and for you too. For, after all, you would not be honoured by feeling that people studiously avoided talking of a rope-I am not joking, I assure you. "I have been arrested, and-not to delay what must be told-I write to you from Chelmsford gaol. But even this is not all. They who play with Fortune, as you and I have long done, may chance in the course of things to get on the wrong side of that capricious one's favour. The present case is much worse than any ordinary trick of the fickle jade; so much worse that I hesitate to give its real name to the charge now made against me. But the common proverb says, it will out, so out it comes. I am here, then, charged with-Murder! "The very gravity of the thing is, in one way, a consolation; for I hope it will be the more easily disproved. That I am innocent, brother, I need not tell you. Whom was I to murder, and why? I was only just returned from abroad. When I came to the Priory ruins the other night-of which, of course, you have heard-I had not been forty-eight hours in England. One rencontre, indeed, I had, within that time: I stopped a horseman for his purse, under such compulsion as makes the wayfaring peasant root up a turnip out of your fields. I was penniless and hungry. Even then, I got more than I bargained for, and came off with a stunner that has certainly lessened, for a time, our likeness to each other. In one thing we are still alike there is no blood on our hands, thank God! Whatever the seventh commandment* may have to record against us, we can at least look up clear regarding the fifth. 'Let the gall'd jade wince, our withers are unwrung.' Do you remember when we sat together at Covent Garden, and heard Kemble say that, under his breath, in 'Hamlet,' looking askance at the guilty king? But this is an impertinent digression. * Few non-Catholic readers, probably, will cast their eyes over these chapters; but if it should so chance, they are to be reminded that the Church, in dividing the text of Exod. xx. (a process as arbitrary as it is necessary, since the Hebrew text has no divisions) follows St. Augustine, in making what non-Catholics call the second commandment an expansion of the first. Thus, with the Catholic, the fifth forbids acts of murderous violence, and the seventh, sins against justice. "The facts, then, are briefly these: After leaving the old ruinsa moment I shall never think of, brother, without bitter shame and remorse-I returned towards London, not knowing what other course to take. In you, I had lost my only friend in the world; or, not to speak of any warm friendship, the only one to whom I could apply in my need. I know not to what desperate courses I might have been driven, but for the strange misadventure that has given me a homethat is, a cell-and my daily food in the prison allowance. "I had spent my last penny on a coarse supper 'in the worst inn's worst room' by the roadside, on the highway between Banbury and Woodstock. Worn out with hunger, and the wear and tear of mind and body alike, I leant my head on my arms on the table of the innkitchen, and lost myself for some time in a dead sleep. I was aroused by the entrance of several men, rudely, and with some noise. "The foremost of them came up to me, looked fixedly in my face, then turned to another. "Mr. Smethers,' he said, 'is this your man?' "I turned with anger, you may be sure, from the one to the other. The second approached, and seemed to read every line in my countenance. There was a wolfish look in his, that was horrible. "The very features,' he said, 'and no mistake; but how has he come by that black eye? And the clothes-why, they are worn and soiled.' "What does this mean, my men?' said I, getting up to show fight. "Ay, ay, we are accustomed to that sort of thing,' said the first man, pulling out his constable's staff, and getting between me and the poker. "Just say,' he continued to him whom he had called Smethers, 'whether you believe him to be your man or no?' "Why, look here,' answered the other, showing a paper, if this be not the very description, line for line.' "I should not have been a Bracton if I had submitted thus to have my portrait taken against my will. I bade them angrily leave me to myself. I was on the point of declaring my name, and my relationship to you, but prudence kept me silent on those points. I determined not to disgrace either you or myself, and to utter no syllable, not to be betrayed into so much as an indication, of who I am. This secret I have kept till now, and will keep to the end, whatever may happen. Happen! I shrink from the word-the whole thing is so strange, so inexplicable. "It is through a brave old Irishwoman, with whom I have found means to communicate-through a golden key to the turnkey, or the promise of one-that I send you this. She is bound to strict secresy, and would do anything for a Catholic in trouble: for so I have repre sented myself, and truly. You know, indeed, that, like others I could name, if I am no ornament to my religion, at least I own no other. Do you wonder at my having been able to secure this messenger? I must tell you, then, that I have promised the under-gaoler five guineas for pen, ink, and paper, for a quarter of an hour's conversation with the old goody, and for letting her pass unquestioned. I am sure I may draw upon you, and that you will also reward her liberally. Are we not brothers, after all? Edward, I implore you, forgive the unhallowed purpose with which I came back to the home of our ancestors, and let my future life, when once this hideous mystery has been solved, prove the sincerity of my remorse. "After comparing me with the description they had on their paper, of somebody else, they pronounced that I was undoubtedly that somebody, and bade me follow them at once, if I did not want to be handcuffed. It was of no use to resist; the constable had his pistols, and the others were not empty-handed. I went with them, endeavouring all I could to discover from their talk what was the definite charge against me. Of this I could learn little enough. A crime of violence had been committed somewhere east of London, and we were, therefore, bound for Chelmsford, the assize town. Whether it was robbery, or murder, or both, I was accused of, I was unable to elicit. In either case I could have afforded to laugh at the suspicion, but that I am here, so alone and friendless, and determined, moreover, not to involve you in my disgrace. On that point rest assured. I will trust rather that a merciful, a forgiving Providence will raise up some proof of my innocence, even at the last; and there I lay my appeal. Guilty of many sins, I can hold up my head regarding this. I will face my accusers (this Smethers, an ill-looking scoundrel, I fancy is somehow the chief of them) with a clear brow. I will sooner demand an ordeal -the law of England still allows it, perhaps-than fail in defending myself, or drag you into this mystery. "But my poor wife! I am almost unmanned when I think of her, and of my innocent child. Poor Lucy! she little reckoned on this when she linked her fortunes with mine. And Edie-well, well. There is a God above; He knows I am no murderer. To Him, again I say it, I make my appeal. And you, brother, will aid me to estabmy innocence. An inward feeling assures me of this, although I am unable to see by what means it will be brought about. lish "I have said enough. Farewell! Release me by every means in your power. This comes from one unworthy to bear any family name, but who, after all, shares "Chelmsford Gaol. What an address for a Brother!" (Carefully erased). VOL. VIII., No. 90. "YOURS. 49 SONNETS IN MEMORY OF SIR WILLIAM ROWAN HAMILTON. BY AUBREY DE VERE. I. January 10, 1880. FRIEND of past years, the holy and the blest, II. Feb. 20, 1880.—After reading again his letters. Ar times I see that ample forehead lit, At times in woodlands of that twilight park,* Abbotstown. The allusion is to one of Sir W. R. H's. letters. + Another allusion to the letters. The grave was Dora Wordsworth's. NEW BOOKS. I. The Life of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God. By Sister MARY FRANCIS CLARE. (London: Burns & Oates. Dublin: M. H Gill & Son. 1880.) THOSE who have any experience of printing and publishing know that it costs a good deal to bring out a very moderate edition of a small devotional work, too small to occupy a position even on the topmost shelf of a dignified library; and those who have this experience arə sure to join in our astonishment at the long series of volumes, many of them very portly and sumptuous-dealing with many different departments of literature, histories of places and persons, fiction, music, ascetic theology, &c.—with which the Catholic public has been provided by the amazing courage, perseverance, and industry of Sister Mary Francis Clare Cusack, better known as the Nun of Kenmare. The latest addition to the Bibliotheca Kenmariana is the work named at the head of this notice. It consists of two parts, the first treating of the types of Our Blessed Lady and the mysteries of her life; the second of her principal and most favoured shrines. It is a large and handsome tome, bound very effectively, and illustrated by several good engravings after the "Old Masters;" while the margins of each of the eight hundred ample pages are made up of many pictures. It is a book to be looked at rather than read, interesting and edifying as the reading of it is: for it is too huge and too lavishly decorated to be handled familiarly. It will no doubt be patronised even by persons with scanty enough means, but who, in their simple faith, think rightly that nothing can be too grand for the Blessed Virgin. II. The Girl's Spiritual Calendar. Translated from the French of the Author of "Golden Grains." By JOSEPHINE M. BLACK. (Dublin: M. H. Gill & Son. 1880.) WE should like to know the name of this French priest whose pious writings are received with such avidity by the religious public. Of the Dublin translation of "Golden Grains" three editions have been bought up in a short time; and there are at least two other English translations of the same work, which, of course, in its original French, has received an immensely wider circulation. The present pretty quarto will find favour with convents and their pupils. It is much more handsomely and less economically produced than in French, in which it forms only a small part of a closely printed volume. It is thoroughly well translated into pure, clear, and natural English, as the translator's name would lead one to expect, if one recognises it in its altered form. Our Magazine has from the first been a sworn foe |