IV.

They tried me for Wilful Murder. My counsel had much ado to make me promise to plead "not guilty," for, in very truth, I felt the guilt of murder on my soul. But, dead to the world, and reckless of life as I felt, I had still the one passionate desire that my fellow-men should not loathe me as something even worse than I was. I had not meant to murder the poor lunatic daughter, whom Thompson had left under lock and key and bar, in the deserted house. He, himself, admitted in the witness-box that it was most unlikely that I should have known aught of her; that the study of his life had been to conceal her existence from the world, and that he believed he had succeeded. His own manager and station hands swore that they did page 36 not know of her existence. Why the cold-blooded miser kept her there, instead of in proper medical hands, unless it was to save his pocket, I know not. Assuredly, it was not from any affectionate wish to have her near him always, and watch over and minister to her in her unhappiness. Perhaps there was some tragedy connected with her state, which her father wished to bury. I have heard of such things.

I need not dwell on the trial. I would fain not dwell on any episode of that awful time. My counsel's eloquence won, I believe, the admiration of the court. But, though he saved my life, I hardly know what he said. I did not fear death; much less did I think myself worthy to escape it. I only said, over and over again to my advocate, "Don't let them think I meant it." Whether it had anything to do with the popular dislike for Thompson, or whether my advocate's speech wrought upon them, or whether, indeed, a touch of commiseration for my abject and broken state moved them, certain it is that the jury found me guilty of manslaughter only. I heard myself sentenced to ten years' imprisonment, with the one only feeling of dread of the endless hours of loneliness and silence in which I should be given over a prey to unbearable anguish and remorse. When the judge said something about "leisure for repentance," I almost smiled at his grave commonplaces. How could he guess at the chaos of reproach, despair, and self-abhorrence which was rending my heart?

I have said that I did not fear death. Why should I?—I, who carried already the torments of eternal punishment about in my breast. Month after month passed, and found me alive; yet, if even I, who passed through them, cannot describe my suffering, how can you conceive them?—you who never have and never will taste of the cup that is worse than death. Night after night I lay down in my cell, only to thank fate for the brief interval of sleep that was coming, and to pray that I might never wake. Morning after morning I awoke to feel a vague, sickening sense of misery mingle with my dreams before my scattered senses could recall the dread reality. Day after day I counted the hours and minutes which should elapse before sleep came round again. Morning, noon, and evening, the ghost of remorse was with me. In the workings of the mind I might escape it for an instant, but oh, the inevitable shock with which every reverie, every train of thought would be broken! It is with me now, with terrors less acute, indeed, than of old, but with its haunting, accusing presence, ready to rebuke the slightest lapse into happiness or peace!

They call me a free man to-day; but you know the terrible old verse, "If I climb up into Heaven, thou art there; if I go down into hell, thou art there also." In most men's eyes, no doubt, my punishment has been light indeed; but you who have read this, and know the measure of my guilt, may perhaps guess better at the measure of my atonement.