Читать книгу: «The Bay State Monthly, Volume 3, No. 4», страница 6

"Exceptions not consented to by ye magistrates.

"EDWARD RAWSON, Secretary."

Mrs. Morse continued in prison until May 1681. On the fourteenth of that month her husband petitioned for her to "the honorable gen. court now sitting in Boston," begging "to clere up ye truth." This petition recites a review of the testimony of seventeen persons who had testified against Goody Morse. On the eighteenth, he petitioned "ye hon. Governor, deputy Governor, deputies and magistrates." In answer, a new hearing was granted. The court record says:—

"Ye Deputyes judge meet to grant ye petitioner a hearing ye next sixth day and that warrants go forth to all persons concerned from this court, they to appear in order to her further trial, our honored magistrates hereto consenting.

"WM. TORREY, Clerk."

Again the magistrates were refractory, for we find:—

"May twenty-fourth, 1681:—Not consented to by ye magistrates.

"EDWARD RAWSON, Secretary."

No further trial followed. Mr. Morse did not rest in his efforts for the release of his wife. He called a council of the clergymen of the neighborhood to examine her. The council met and acted. The report of the Rev. John Hale of Beverly (probably chairman) is before me. It reads:—

"This touching Madam Elizabeth Morse:—

"She being reprieved, her husband desired us to discourse her, which we did. Her discourse was very christain, and she still pleaded her innocence of that which was laid to her dischage. We did not esteem it prudence for us to pass any definite sentence upon on under her circumstances, yet we inclined to ye more charitable side."

After this examination the court permitted her to return home, when she never gave further occasion for slander, dying the death of a hopeful Christian not many years after.

And the mischievous grandson, what of him? He went to Beverly, married, had children, died. His great-great-grandson lives to-day. He, descendant of William, over wires that Anthony's descendant made to do noble work, sends this message, written on paper made by a descendant of Robert, to Miss Russell, representing Samuel Morse and Oliver Cromwell:—

"After two centuries witch-work is in electricity, and that witch-work has made us a name."

IN EMBER DAYS

By Adelaide C. Waldron

 
Softly there sounds above the roar
Of the wide world's deafening din,
An echo of song from a far-off time,
Deeper and sweeter than poet's rhyme,
Whose tidings of joy and whose message sublime,
"Heaven's peace on earth, and good-will to mankind,"
Fill me with force; I yet will find
The way to enter in!
 

CHRISTOPHER GAULT.—A STORY

By Edward P. Guild

In the summer of 1879 I went to a quiet town in north-western Massachusetts, with the object of getting a few weeks of much needed rest and recreation. It had been four years since the first appearance of my name as "Attorney and Counsellor at Law," on the door of a small Washington-street office, just below the Herald Building in the city of Boston; and, as I had worked all that time with hardly a thought of rest, I decided to take a good, respectable vacation.

Hopkins, who had an office on the same floor, advised me to go to H–, in Franklin county, where I could find the purest of air, splendid scenery, good trout fishing, and entire freedom from fashionable boarders. As this was just the bill of fare that I wanted, and as Hopkins was born and brought up there, and ought to know, I thankfully accepted his advice.

A week after my arrival I met Christopher Gault, who was boarding not far from Deacon Thompson's, where I had my quarters. A friendship at once began to grow between us, and our time was largely spent in each other's company. I found my new acquaintance a very agreeable companion, and, moreover, an unusually interesting young man. He was then about twenty-six years old, of medium stature, dark brown hair, and closely-cut side whiskers and moustache. His talents were brilliant and varied. Mathematics were his delight, and he had well chosen the profession of a civil engineer, in which, as I afterwards learned, he was already gaining distinction in my own city of Boston. He was an ardent admirer of nature, and was always ready for a ramble with me over the hills or through the woods; always closely observing the formation of the rocks, and capturing any interesting specimen of mineral, plant, or bug that came under the notice of his sharp eyes.

In conversation, which we often enjoyed on the broad piazza, Gault was exceedingly entertaining, and usually took an absorbing interest in the subject under discussion; but at times he would sit silent as though engrossed in other thoughts, and often with a very apparent look of melancholy in his face. One day when I had been noticing this, I said:—

"Gault, you are growing too serious for your age; you ought to get a wife."

He smiled a little quickly, and resumed his former expression, without replying; but after a moment drew from his pocket book a photograph, and placed it in my hand.

It was of a most attractive looking young lady of, perhaps, twenty-two years.

"Ah! I see that my suggestion is not needed," I said, holding the picture at arm's length to get a better general impression. "Is she yours?"

He flushed a little at so direct a question, as he answered evasively:—

"She is a very true friend of mine."

"But she is more than that. Now, tell me, Gault, when is your honeymoon to begin?"

"That is more than I can tell," he replied, slowly returning the photograph to his pocket book.

"You must not wait to get rich," I observed. "It is when a man is working for success that he most needs the sympathy and help of a good wife."

"I know that," replied my friend; "but I am in a peculiar position. Some day I will tell you all."

I saw that he was growing nervous, and changed the subject of conversation.

Returning from the post office that afternoon to the old farm house, I stopped for a little chat with Deacon Thompson, my good natured host, who was mending his orchard fence; for the well loaded boughs of apples, just beginning to assume their various tinges of red, yellow, or russet, offered a strong temptation to the cattle in the adjoining pasture. Incidentally I inquired regarding an old excavation which I had noticed on the hill near an unfrequented road. This excavation had apparently once served for a cellar, although most of the stones had been removed, and the sheep easily ran down its now sloping and grassy sides. In close proximity was a deep well, over the top of which had been placed a huge, flat stone. Overshadowing both cellar and well were three ancient elms, storm-beaten and lightning-cleft, but still standing as if to guard the very solitude which was unbroken save by the tinkling bell, which told whither the farmer's flock was straying. From Mr. Thompson I learned the history connected with this scene.

Twenty years before he was born, his father's folks saw, one morning in March, a smoke curling above the tops of the elms which were just visible over the brow of the hill. Quickly going to the scene, they found the house burned to the ground. The occupants were an old man, named Peter Colburn, and his wife; and they, together with a traveller, who had obtained lodging there for the night, were all burned with the house. The stranger's horse and saddle were found in the barn, some little distance from the house, but there was no clew to his identity. There were only a few people then who had settled in this bleak region, and there was no funeral other than the assembling of a half dozen together, who dug a grave within fifty feet from the elms, and there laid the charred remains of the unfortunate victims. I had seen a small, rough, unlettered stone standing there, but did not before know its meaning.

The next day I related the bit of tragic history to Christopher Gault, and we strolled over the hill to its scene.

"What a magnificent view!" he exclaimed, as we came to the place.

Certainly it could not be finer. We stood upon an elevated plateau, from which the prospect in either direction was beautiful and grand. To the north could be seen the graceful curves of the Green Mountain range, gradually growing fainter and of paler blue as the eye followed them to at least seventy miles away.

Farther to the east rose the majestic form of Monadnock, if not the highest, one of the very noblest peaks in the Granite State. In an opposite direction, and nearly one hundred miles from Monadnock, stood old Greylock, the greatest elevation in Massachusetts; while much nearer by—in fact, seeming almost at our feet when compared with these immense ranges—lay the charming Deerfield valley, up from which rose the curling smoke of the locomotive as it moved steadily westward, until hidden from view by a sudden entrance into Hoosac Tunnel.

The view so absorbed our attention for a time that we hardly noticed our immediate surroundings. When we did so we began to make an examination. Gault, with characteristic curiosity, began a search in the bottom of the old cellar. Suddenly he emerged.

"A veritable relic!" he exclaimed. "See! an old knife; and here on its handle is a name. Can you read it?" and he handed it to me.

A minute's brisk scouring made it quite plain.

"I have it now," I said. "It is Samuel Wickham."

As I read the inscription I was startled to see the color almost instantly leave Gault's face.

"Samuel Wickham! You don't mean It. Let me see," and he grasped the knife from my hand.

"It is. You are right," he said. "You do not understand my interest in this matter," he added, evidently a little embarrassed at his own manner. "It was the name that struck me. Probably this knife belonged to the unfortunate stranger," and he put it carefully in his pocket.

"Do you know just when the house was burned,—did Mr. Thompson say?" he inquired, trying hard to control his excitement.

"Not exactly," I replied; "but he told me that he had a record somewhere. You could probably ascertain from him."

The next morning I went trouting alone, and did not return to the house until afternoon. When I did so I found a note awaiting me.

It proved to be from my friend, and said that for special reasons he had decided to return to the city that day. He was sorry not to see me again, but hoped to do so before long. I, in turn, was quite anxious to meet him again, and learn why he had returned so unexpectedly, and to know the cause of his singular manner upon finding the rusty knife. The two events were naturally connected in my mind, and also our previous conversation when he had shown me the picture of the young lady.

Three weeks later I was in Boston, and almost at once visited Mr. Gault's office at No.—Water street. To my disappointment, I learned that he had just taken passage for England.

I hoped to see him when he returned, but was not destined to do so until two years later.

Before relating my unexpected meeting with him in 1881, I must describe a certain somewhat remarkable case which I was so fortunate as to have put into my hands shortly after my return from the country.

II

It was one day in October that a distinguished-looking gentleman of about fifty-five entered my office, introduced himself as Mr. Crabshaw, and asked me to take the following case.

An old woman named Nancy Blake had recently died in Virginia, leaving a large amount of property. This Nancy Blake had lived for over half a century all alone, and almost entirely secluded. She had left neither will nor near relatives, and the question was, who is her nearest of kin? My visitor informed me that long ago he had known of the existence of an eccentric woman in Virginia,—a great-aunt of his now deceased wife. Nothing had been heard from her, however, for twenty-five years, and it was supposed that she was dead; but he had just received information that led him to believe in the identity of the old lady Blake with the aforementioned great-aunt. If the relationship could be established, then his daughter Cecilia would be the true heir. Her claim had been brought to the attention of the court, and she bad been informed that there was another claimant. Would I undertake the case? After a long talk with Mr. Crabshaw, I decided that I would do so. I agreed to call at his house the next day and have another talk with him, and also meet his daughter, preparatory to my trip to Virginia.

Mr. Crabshaw, who, as I subsequently learned, was descended from an English family which had been represented in this country for two generations only, lived in the famous and once aristocratic quarter of Boston known as West End. A short residence on our republican soil had done little to Americanize the Crabshaw family, who lived in true English style. The household consisted only of Mr. Crabshaw and his one daughter, Cecilia, and a small retinue of servants, although he was not possessed of any very large wealth. My first meeting with Miss Crabshaw was at once a pleasure and a surprise; the first because she was a most charming young lady, and the latter because she was the original of the picture shown me a few months before by Christopher Gault. I did not mention the coincidence, however, but proceeded directly to the business in hand. Miss Cecilia was an exceedingly sensible and intelligent young lady and I could get more needed information in ten minutes from her than in half an hour from the old gentleman.

The last time that I met Mr. Crabshaw before going to Virginia, I mentioned having met Mr. Gault the summer before.

"You got acquainted with him then, did you? I am very glad to know it. He is a fine young man—a very estimable fellow, sir. I have always known the family, and always liked Christopher. As you are very likely aware, he thinks a great deal of Cecilia, and she is a pretty firm friend of his. Now that is all very well, sir, as long as they don't get sentimental, or anything of that kind."

"We are constituted so as to grow a little sentimental when the occasion presents itself, Mr. Crabshaw," I remarked.

"Yes, yes, I understand, but my daughter knows quite well that there is no occasion for her yet. I might as well tell you," he continued, after a pause, "that, although it is nothing against Christopher himself, there is a streak of bad blood in the family. His great-grandfather turned traitor; yes, sir, committed treason against the crown of England, and then fled. To be sure," he added, "Christopher Gault is no more responsible for the crime of his ancestor than am I myself; but the question of blood is an important one, and these traits are very liable to crop out; if not in one generation, then in another."

"You believe, then, in the law of heredity as affecting moral character?"

"Certainly. Physical and mental traits are inherited; why not moral?"

A few days later I was in the city of Richmond, and from there I proceeded directly to D– county, where, at the November term of the county court, I intended to present Miss Crabshaw's claim to the property in question. Meantime I devoted myself to the preparation of testimony relating to the case. I visited the place where old Nancy Blake had lived, situated about twelve miles from D– court-house. The property left by her consisted of the old house, fallen badly into decay, a small amount of land, and a large sum of money deposited in the bank. Little was known about "Old Nancy," as the few people in the thinly settled locality called her. The most information that I could glean was from an old negro who had been her neighbor for the most of his life. He said that he could well remember her father, who had been dead for fifty years. He was a man of military look and an Englishman. His name was John Blake. He could remember nothing about his wife, but he had at least one son and a daughter besides Nancy. When he was about to die his son came to see him. He was much older than either daughter, Nancy being the youngest. Eleanor died not long after, and Nancy was left alone. She was very eccentric and seldom saw any one.

Such was the story, in brief, as I was able to obtain it from the old negro.

The details of the case, as it was brought out in court, do not need special mention, and it will be sufficient to merely state the basis of the claim.

Although Mr. Crabshaw was very proud of his descent, and traced his lineage back some hundreds of years, and was very particular to have the family coat-of-arms always made conspicuous, yet he had married a lady whose ancestry was not clearly known. Mrs. Crabshaw, who had died when her daughter was a mere child, was a beautiful and accomplished woman, whose grandfather, on her father's side, she had never seen, and of whom she knew no more than that his name was Thomas Blake, and that he died in the town of S–, Connecticut, in 1832, at the age of forty-nine years.

The one important thing that I wished to prove was, that Thomas Blake was the brother of Nancy Blake, and that Cecilia Crabshaw was thus great-grand niece of said Nancy. The court pronounced itself satisfied as to this, and Miss Crabshaw was declared the nearest of kin, and hence heir to the property.

The case had required the presence of my fair client, so she had made the journey to Washington a week previous, where she visited an uncle, and came out to D– county to be present at the hearing.

It was necessary for me to remain in Virginia some little time on account of other business, and it was arranged that I should see what could be done towards effecting a sale of the real estate. Accordingly, soon after the case had been decided, I went out to look over the premises.

The house was very old, and showed no signs of any improvement having been made for at least half a century. The furniture was of little value and there were but few other things. A rusty sword, a few old books, and some odd trinkets comprised about all. As Miss Crabshaw did not care for these they were given to a negro woman who had rendered some assistance to Old Nancy in the last years of her life.

The house itself contained none of those mysterious passages or hidden closets which the imagination so readily connects with such old habitations. There was a kind of small locker, however, opening from a large closet near the ceiling. This little recess contained nothing but a package of old papers and worthless letters, faded and mouldy. On looking them over, one in particular attracted my attention on account of an official seal which it bore. It proved to be a document commissioning Richard Anthony Treadwell as Major in the Seventh Regiment of Cavalry in the Royal Army of his Majesty King George III. The date was June 12, 1793. But who was Richard Anthony Treadwell, and how happened his commission to be here? A discovery made a few minutes later served to throw some light on the mystery. Among the few books found in the house was an antique volume of Shakspere's plays, which, judging from the thick net-work of cobwebs encircling it, had not been touched for years.

Curiosity led me to open the book. On its fly-leaf was the inscription: "A present to Thomas from his father, Richard A. Treadwell." A curious fact was that this name had been crossed and recrossed with a pen, and underneath had been written as a substitute in the same handwriting: "John Blake." The ink used at the first writing had retained its blackness in a remarkable degree; while that used at the time of the erasure and for the substitute name had so faded that the first name was much plainer than the second. The natural inference, then, was that the father of Nancy Blake and the great-great-grandfather of Cecilia Crabshaw had, at some time, changed his name from that of Richard Anthony Treadwell to that of John Blake. Why he should have done so was an unexplained problem, and whether it was my duty to inform Miss Crabshaw of the fact or not was not quite evident to me. What I really did, however, was to put the old document in my pocket and forget it.

The place was soon after sold for a few hundred dollars, and after attending to my affairs in the locality I returned to Boston, but not to remain.

A leading lawyer in Washington, an old and esteemed friend of my father, and a former adviser of mine in the matter of studying law, had offered to admit me to partnership in a lucrative practice which had become too large for his advancing years. I accepted, and bade good-by to dear old Boston.

III

It was not until May, 1881, that I returned to my former home, and then for a short time only.

The next day after my arrival I had a caller at my hotel, and to my surprise and pleasure it proved to be my old acquaintance and friend, Christopher Gault.

"I saw your name in the list of arrivals in the morning paper, and came up at once. I am delighted to find you here. I was in hopes to have met you on my return from England, but learned that you had left 'The Hub' entirely."

"Yes, I have been gone a year and a half. But tell me, Gault, where have you kept yourself all of this time? I had nearly lost all trace of you. You made your departure from this continent so suddenly, nearly two years ago, that I thought you must have been"—

"Fleeing from justice?" he interrupted, laughing. "Seeking it, rather. I see you don't quite understand," he added. "Well, you shall have an explanation; but it is quite a little story, and I will not detain you this morning."

"I shall see you again?"

"I hope so, by all means; and Mrs. Gault would be most happy to meet you."

"Mrs. Gault!" I exclaimed, extending my hand,—"Mrs. Gault! Let me congratulate you. And Mrs. Gault was formerly"—

"Miss Cecilia Crabshaw," he interposed, anticipating my guess.

"I could have guessed it," I remarked. "In fact, I think I was rather more sanguine than you two years ago."

He laughed a little, with evident satisfaction. "I have been better prospered than I anticipated then. We have now been married three months. By the way, when do you return to Washington?"

"Probably a week from now,—ten days at the latest."

"Then let me make you a proposition. Besides my acquisition of which you have just learned I have been favored in other ways, and I have just purchased a house in the beautiful town of H–, where you and I met for the first time. This house I have remodelled into a summer residence; and Mrs. Gault and myself, with two or three friends, intend going up tomorrow for a two-months' stay. Now, my proposition is this: when you get ready to return, take a train on the Fitchburg Railroad, and go by the way of Albany and the Hudson river. Stop off at the little station of C–, and come up to H–, and spend a day with your old friend. I will meet you at the station myself. Nothing would give me greater pleasure, and I know the lady who was once your client would unite with me in the invitation."

"The temptation is too great to resist," I responded, after a moment's reflection, "and I accept with pleasure."

A week later I alighted from Christopher Gault's carriage at the door of a beautiful summer cottage, not a mile from where my vacation had been spent in '79. His own groom led the horse to the stable, and Mrs. Gault met us on the veranda. She welcomed me in her charming manner, making a pleasant allusion as she did so to our first meeting as attorney and client. We chatted pleasantly for a half hour, when a bell announced that dinner was ready, and we repaired to the dining-room, where a meal was served, simply, but most tastefully. "Now," said Mr. Gault, as we rose from the table, "perhaps you have in mind the promised explanation of my rather precipitate departure from this attractive region some time ago; and, if Mrs. Gault will excuse us, we will take a little walk.

"You will remember," he began, as we walked leisurely down the well-shaded path in the narrow country road, "that two years ago I showed to you a picture of a lady whom we have just left. You also remember that, while I gave you to understand that we were strongly attached to each other, I was very far from being enthusiastic about it as a young lover might be. You did not know the reason then, but it was simply a question of blood.

"In the year 1795 flagrant act of treason was committed against the Government of Great Britain and His Majesty King George III. My great-grandfather was then a large property holder, not far from London, and he figured prominently in public affairs.

"Although he had always been of irreproachable character, trusted and respected, yet the circumstances were such that suspicion was turned towards him. A certain officer in the king's army appeared and declared himself ready to testify as a witness to treasonable acts and words on the part of my great-grandfather. A warrant was issued for his arrest, and the process was about to be served when it was discovered that he had fled. Then his house was searched, and in it was found strong corroborative evidence. This was nothing less than letters, which, if genuine, proved without the shadow of doubt that he was guilty. There was no one to appear in defence of the accused, and he was convicted. As he was not to be found within the king's domains, judgment of outlawry was pronounced against him as a fugitive from justice. Then followed those dreadful attendant penalties; confiscation of his estate and the terrible 'attainder and corruption of blood.' His only son was in America at the time, and, disgraced and with prospects blighted by the news of his father's downfall, he resolved never to return. Twelve years ago this son's youngest daughter, my beloved mother, died, leaving me with little else than barely means enough to finish my education, and a good amount of ambition.

"Although we lived in a republic where attainder is unknown in the laws of the land, still my mother felt the disgrace keenly. She never believed implicitly, however, that her grandfather was really guilty of the crime for which he was convicted. In fact, after his sentence had been pronounced, there were strong reasons for believing that he was not in England at all at the time of the treason, and his son never ceased in his unavailing efforts to find his whereabouts.

"The Crabshaw family had always been warm friends of ours, and, although they had brought from England many British ideas and counted much on loyalty, yet they were always ready to appreciate any true worth. After I was left alone I valued their friendship highly. I was always welcome at Mr. Crabshaw's house. Cecilia and I were companions in study, and almost before I knew it we were—in love. As I found this sentiment strengthening I grew alarmed; for, although no allusion to my family disgrace had ever been made in my presence, I was aware that Mr. Crabshaw knew the history well, and that the thought of an alliance with the house of Crabshaw would be folly. It was at that time that my mother's belief in her grandfather's innocence became more strongly impressed upon me, and I formed the purpose, almost hopeless though it seemed, of establishing the truth of this belief. The idea grew upon me. I found myself getting nervous, and for the sake of my health I came here two years ago to find relaxation in trout fishing and the study of nature."

We had walked during the relation of my friend's narrative along the road often travelled by me before, and which led to the three shattered elms and the old cellar. We sat down beneath the shade of the trees once more to rest, and as we did so Gault took from his pocket the old knife which two years before had been discovered in the grass-grown cellar.

"There," said he, holding it before my eyes, "there is the name on the handle that you read for the first time,—'Samuel Wickham,'—and you can imagine my feelings when I tell you that that was the name of my great-grandfather. When you told me that Deacon Thompson had a record of this long past tragedy you doubtless remember the intense eagerness with which I hastened to find him.

"In the diary was distinctly recorded the burning of the house, March 4, 1795. If Samuel Wickham was guilty of the crime it was utterly impossible that he should have been out of England at that time. From that moment my cherished belief became a settled conviction. My means were limited, but I resolved to visit England at once, and, if possible, substantiate the evidence found so unexpectedly under these elms; not that I expected to obtain reversal of a sentence pronounced in a court of law over eighty years ago, but Cecelia Crabshaw should know that my blood was not tainted by an ancestor's crime. I can assure you that I thought much more than I slept that night.

"The next day, as you know, I went back to Boston, and a month later was in England. I went directly to S–, and there found the old mansion, once the rightful property of my great-grandfather. I found proof that he sailed for New York, January 23, 1795. But that was not all. The old Wickham mansion had stood for years unoccupied. I learned that after its forfeiture to the crown the whole estate had been granted for life as a reward to the young officer who had brought to the government the evidence of its former owner's treason. By him it was occupied for some thirty years; then he suddenly disappeared. After that the estate was sold to an eccentric and wealthy bachelor, who built a superb residence thereon, letting the old mansion remain closed. Very recently he had died, leaving no will and no heirs, and the estate again escheated to the crown.

"I was very anxious to search the old mansion, and readily obtained permission to enter. It was built in the time of Elizabeth, and was a large building, similar in architecture to many others built in the sixteenth century in this part of England. As I entered the deserted building a strange feeling of desolation took possession of me. Hardly a human being had been within its walls for fifty years. The dust lay deep on the bare oaken floor, and almost muffled the sound of my footsteps. On one exquisitely carved panel appeared, in defiance of attempts to destroy it, the Wickham coat-of-arms.