The mountain Democrat., 1864-05-14


worlds have deprived Deloraine Of III,
fathers testimony in his favor. And how
| could he give it if I spoke? Forgery wal
then punished with death. Could | vol
UNFAIRLY condemn, by my own words, thC
man whom loved to the gallows?
was wretched, distracted by doubt, fcal
and horror, when my heart was wrunG
by receiving letter from William (for
warded by the gaOl chaplain,) In which
be thanked me for my kind remembrance
Of him, and said it delighted him, amiC
all his troubles, to think that it was my
testimony that would acQuit him, for
had seen him find the fatal pocket book
Imagine, if you can, my distress. dared
not write and tell him that knew he die
not find it, lest my letter should be read
before it was given to him. could only
be silent on the subject, and urge my ia
ther to keep me from the court, and pre-.
vent my being subpenaed as a witness
Alas it was in vain!
She paused-moved by the old sad
memory.
What did you do P We asked.
The trial came on (she continued). II
was distinctly proved that the Deloraine
family and their servant had passed false
notes, and that William had purchased O
diamond ornament of jeweIer in Lon.
don, and paid for it with forged NOTE
This tradesman was the principal witness
against him. For his defense, Deloraine
declared, as he had told my father. that
he had found the notes; and had merely
borrowed their present use. Ny father
was called to testify to the fact, and to
state what he thought of Deloraine's char
acter. The latter statement was of course
favorable, but on cross examination il
was proved that my father had not actu-
ally seen William pick up the book, and
to my horror and despair was put into
the witness. box. | can never forget it !
At this minute can see Delorane's eager
look at me-his look Of love and trust and
hope. A word from me would give him
life IA word cCnsign him to the gallows
1t was an awful temptation. But dared
not fail in truth; could not-no, thank
God! | was not perured. | tried to
hold the truth back; at least, answered
reluctantly; but my cross.examination
was severe, and when the counsel for the
prosecution asked me- Did you actually
see William Deloraine find the book -
| almost shrieked my fatal Nor
Did you see him take it from his own
person ?
There was pause. Igasped out
did And then | heard wild, piercing
cry from the prisoner. remember nc
more, for ! tainted, and was carried out
of court. Deloraine was condemned t.
death. He confessed his crime, my ia.
ther told me; and showed much earnest
ness in acquitting his mother and Kate o.
all share in it. They were subsequently
set at liberty, for they, also, had beef
under restraint.
But was miserable. felt like a mur
deress, and besought my father, as he ev
er hoped to see Inc happy again, to pro
cure commutatiOn Of the sentence. We
had powerful friends; and Mr.. Morton
used such exertions, that, difficult as the
task was at that time, he achieved it, and
the sentence Of Dcloraine was changed
into transportation for life All this
dreadful anxiety increased my previous
indispostion, and it became impossible
for me to return home. as my father
wished, when the trial and his subsequent
efforts were over. So we remained by
the seaside. One day received, to my
astoniShmcnt, a letter from Kate Delo.
raine; it was full of gratitude for my ia.
theirs goodness in saving her brother from
the last rigor Of the law and Of regrets
over his blighted life and their own ruin
cd prospects. She did not blame me for
the part had taken in his conviction. -
She pitied me for it, and said poor vii,
liam admired my u1shaken truthfulncss.
And now, dear Jane she concluded,
ain going to urge one last request. We
are about to leave England forever, to hide
our shame and sorrow in strange land.
We 60 tomorrow. viii you come to the
old cottage Ito which mamma and have
returned and bid me last farewell, and
hear message poor William left, which
will explain and extenuate, in a degree,
his sad fault?'
This letter touched me deeply. | de.
sired to see Kate once more, to assure her
how cruelty | had felt the dreadful duty
cast on me, and to hear something more
of William Deloraine. My father was
from home; he had gone to spend few
days with friend, some ten or twelve
miles of, and was not to return till the
next day, or perhaps the following one.
If he had been at home, most assuredly
| should not have been permitted to go,
but as it was, my girlish enthusiasm, my
lingering pity and tenderness for the con-
vict induced me to comply: 1t was very
silly and romantic, know; but so it was.
The cottage was within a walk, and not
liking to expose the unhappy Deloraines
to the curious gaze Of the servants, de-
tcrmined to go alone, and for the same
reason did not tell any Of them whittier
was going.
1t was a chilly, windy April afternoon,
about four o'clock, when started on my
walk.
l hurried along, and, in about an hour,
found myself in the lane leading to the
cottage. 1t was certainly n very lonely
place, and now association added TO its
natural gloom.
The grove had been much troddcn and
the trees broken in the search made by
the Bow Street officers for engraving tools,
&C., (Which, howebr, they had failed to
fnd,) and altogether it looked very
wretched and depressing. Just opposite
the eastern gable Of the dwelling, was an
old oak of great size, which was obliged
to pass in approaching the door. AS |
glanced at it, perceived hole or cavity
recently dug or uncovered Uor had new
er noticed it before) close to the root.
Why never knew, but the sight Of it
made me shiver, and strong impulse
(perhaps induced by the drcariness of the
place) made me turn back. just as did
so, Kate Deloraine emerged from behind
the tree and stood before me.
She wac radlv olkerad very nala and