The self-convicted

It was a wild, boisterous evening at the commencement of winter. The wind, howling in fearful gusts, swept the earth as with a whirlwind, booming and rushing with a force seldom met with in an inland county. The rain descended in torrents, pattering against the window-panes, especially against those of a solitary farm-house, situated several miles from the city of Worcester. In fact, it seemed a battle between the wind and the rain which should treat the house most roughly, and the wind had the best of it. It roared in the chimneys, it shook the old gables on the roof, burst open the chamber casements, and fairly unseated the weathercock from its perch on the barn. The appearance of the dwelling would seem to denote that it belonged to one of the middle class of agriculturists. There was no finery about it, inside or out, but plenty of substance. A large room, partaking partly of the parlour, partly of the hall, and somewhat of the kitchen, was the general sitting-room; and in this apartment, on this same turbulent Friday evening, sat, knitting by firelight, a middle-aged lady, homely, but very neat, in her dress.

"Eugh!" she shuddered, as the wind roared and the rain dashed against the windows, which were only protected by inside shutters, "what a night it is! I wish to goodness Robert would come home."

Laying down her knitting, she pushed the logs together on the hearth, and was resuming her employment, when a quiet, sensible-looking girl, apparently about one or two and twenty, entered. Her features were not beautiful, but there was an air of truth and good-nature pervading them more pleasing than beauty.

"Well, Jane," said the elder lady, looking up, "how does she seem now?"

"Her ankle is in less pain, mother," was the reply, "but it appears to me that she is getting feverish. I gave her the draught."

"A most unfortunate thing!" ejaculated Mrs. Armstrong. "Benjamin at home ill, and now Susan must get doing some of his work, that she has no business to attempt, and falls down the loft, poor girl, and sprains her ankle. Why could she not have trusted to Wilson? I do believe," broke off Mrs. Armstrong, abruptly, and suspending her knitting to listen, "that your father is coming. The wind howls so that one can scarcely hear, but it sounds to me like a horse's hoofs."

"I do not think it is a horse," returned Jane. "It is more like some one walking round to the house-door."

"Well, child, your ears are younger than mine; it may be as you say."

"I hope it is not Darnley! " cried Jane, involuntarily.

"Jane," rebuked her mother, "you are very obstinate to persist in this dislike of a neighbour. A wealthy young man with a long lease of one of the best farms in the county over his head is not to be sneezed at. What is there to dislike in James Darnley?"

"I--I don't know that there is anything particularly to dislike in him," hesitated Jane, "but I cannot see what there is to like."

"Don't talk foolishly, but go and open the door," interposed Mrs. Armstrong. "You hear the knocking."

Jane made her way to the house-door, and, withdrawing the chain and bolt, a rush of wind, a shower of rain, and a fine-looking young man sprang in together. The latter clasped Jane round the waist, and--if the truth must be told--brought his lips into contact with hers.

"Hush, hush, Ronald," she whispered; "my mother is in the hall alone; what if she should hear!"

"I will fasten the door," was all the answer she received. And Jane disengaged herself, and walked towards the hall.

"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Armstrong, as her daughter reappeared. "Mr. Darnley?"

"It is Ronald Payne," answered Jane, in a timid voice.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Armstrong, in a very short tone. "Get those shirts of your father's, Jane, and look to the buttons; there they lie, on the sideboard. And light the candles: you cannot see to work by firelight."

"How are you, Mrs. Armstrong?" inquired the young man, in cheerful tones, as he entered and seated himself on the opposite side of the large fireplace. "What an awful night! I am not deficient in strength, but it was as much as I could do to keep my feet coming across the land."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Armstrong, plying her knitting-needles with great energy; "you would have been better at home."

"Home is dull for me now," was the answering remark of Ronald Payne. "Last winter my poor mother was alive to bear me company, but this, I have no one to care for."

"Go upstairs, Jane, and see if Susan has dropped asleep," interrupted Mrs. Armstrong, who did not seem to be in the most pleasant humour, "and as you will have the beds to turn down to-night, you can do that."

Jane rose, and departed on her errand.

"And lonely my home is likely to be," continued Ronald, "until I follow good example and marry."

"It would be the very thing for you, Mr. Payne," replied the lady. "Why don't you set about it?"

"I wish I dare. But I fear it will take time and trouble to win the wife I should like to have."

"There's a great deal of trouble in getting a wife--a good one; as for the bad ones, they are as plentiful as blackberries. There have been two or three young blades wanting to be after Jane," continued the shrewd Mrs. Armstrong, "but I put a stop to them at once, for she is promised already."

"Promised!" echoed Ronald.

"Of course she is. Her father has promised her to Mr. Darnley; and a good match it will be."

"A wretched sacrifice," exclaimed Payne, indignantly. "Jane hates him."

"How do you know that?" demanded Mrs. Armstrong, sharply.

"I hate him too," continued the excited Ronald. "I wish he was a thousand miles away."

And the conversation continued in this strain until Jane returned, when another loud knocking at the house-door was heard above the wind.

"Allow me to open it," cried Mr. Payne, starting up; and a second stranger entered the sitting-room.

"How are you, Mr. Darnley? I am very glad to see you," was the cordial salutation of Mrs. Armstrong, "Come to the fire; and, Jane, go and draw a tankard of ale. Susan has managed to sprain her ankle tonight, and cannot stir a step," she explained. "An unlucky time for it to happen, for our indoor man went home ill three days ago, and is not back yet. Did you ever know such weather?"

"Scarcely," returned the new-comer. "As I rode home from the fair, I thought the wind could not be higher, but it gets worse every hour."

"You have been to the fair, then?"

"Yes. I had a heavy lot of stock to sell. I saw Mr. Armstrong there; he was buying, I think."

"I wish he would make baste home," was Mrs. Armstrong's answer. "It is not a desirable night to be out in."

"A pretty prospect for going to Worcester market to-morrow!" observed Darnley.

"But need you go?"

"I shall go if it rains cats and dogs," was the gentleman's reply. "My business to-day was to sell stock--to-morrow, it will be to buy."

Jane entered with the silver tankard, its contents foaming above its brim like a mountain of snow, and placed it on a small, round table between the two young men. They sat there, sipping the ale occasionally, now one, now the other, but angry words passed continually between them. Darnley was fuming at the evident preference Jane accorded to his rival, and Payne fretted and chafed at Darnley's suit being favoured by Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong. They did not quite come to a quarrel, but it was little short of it, and when they left the house together, it was in anything but a cordial humour.

"Jane, what can have become of your father?" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong, as the door closed upon the two young men. "It is hard upon ten o'clock. How late it will be for him to go to Wilson's: he will have, as it is, to knock him up, for the man must have been in bed an hour ago."

Now it is universally known that farmers in general, even the most steady, have an irresistible propensity to yield to one temptation--that of taking a little too much on a fair or market night. Mr. Armstrong was not wholly exempt from this failing, though it was rare indeed that he fell into the snare. For a twelvemonth, at least, had his family not seen him the worse for liquor; yet, as ill-luck would have it, he came in on this night stumbling and staggering, his legs reeling one way, and his head flying another. How he got home was a mystery to Mrs. Armstrong; and to himself also, when lie came to his senses. As to making him comprehend that an accident had befallen Susan, and that in consequence he was wanted to go and tell some one of their outdoor men to be at the house early in the morning, it was not to be thought of. All that could be done with him was to get him upstairs--a feat that was at length accomplished.

"This is a pretty business, Jane!" cried the indignant Mrs. Armstrong. "You will be obliged to milk the cows in the morning, now."

"Milk the cows!" returned Jane, aghast at the suggestion.

"What else can be done? Neither you nor I can go to tell Wilson at this time of night, and in such a storm; and the cows must be milked. You can milk, I suppose?"

"Oh, mother!" was Jane's remonstrance.

"I ask if you can milk?" repeated Mrs. Armstrong, impatiently--she was by far too much put out to speak otherwise.

"I have never tried since I was a child," was Jane's reply "I sometimes used to do it then, for pastime."

"Then, my dear, you must do it once for use. It would be a mercy," continued the excited lady, "if all the public-houses and their drinkables were at the bottom of the sea."

Jane Armstrong was a girl of sound sense and right feeling. Unpalatable as the employment was, she nevertheless saw that it was her duty, under the present circumstances, to perform it; so she quietly made up her mind to the task, and requested her mother to call her at the necessary hour in the morning.

They were highly respectable and respected people, Robert Armstrong and his wife, though not moving in the sphere exclusive to gentlefolks. Jane had been brought up well. Perfectly conversant with all household duties, her education in other respects would scarcely have disgraced the first lady in the county--for it must be remembered that education then was not what it is now--and her parents could afford to spend money upon their only child. Amply she repaid them by her duty and affection. One little matter only did they disagree upon, and that not openly. Very indignant was Mrs. Armstrong at Ronald Payne's presuming to look up to her, and exceedingly sore did she feel with Jane for not checking this presumption. But she could urge nothing against Ronald, excepting that he was a poor, rather than a rich man, and that the farm he rented was regarded as an unproductive one. His pretensions created a very ill-feeling towards him in Mrs. Armstrong's mind, for she believed, that but for him, her daughter would consent to marry the wealthy James Darnley, and so become mistress of his splendid farm.

Before it was light the next morning Jane left the house with her milk-pail. Only the faintest glimmer of dawn was appearing in the east. There was no rain, and the wind had dropped to a calm; but it was a cold, raw morning. Jane wrapped her woollen shawl closely round her, and made good speed.

The field in which the cow-sheds were situated was bounded on the left by a lonely lane, leading from the main road. It branched off in various directions, passing some of the farm-houses. Jane had reached the field, and was putting down her milk-pail, when a strange noise on the other side of the hedge caused her to start and listen.

A violent struggle, as for life or death, was taking place. A voice that was certainly familiar to her, twice called out "Murder!" with a shriek of agony, but heavy blows, seemingly from a club or other formidable weapon, soon silenced it, and some one fell to the earth amidst moans and groans of anguish.

"Lie there, and be still!" burst forth another voice, rising powerfully over the cries. "What! you are not finished yet! I have laid in wait for ye to a pretty purpose if ye be to escape me now. One! two! three!" and Jane shuddered and turned sick as she listened, for each sentence was followed by a blow upon the prostrate form. The voice was totally strange to Jane--one that she had never heard in her life--and shocking blasphemy was mingled with the words.

Ere silence supervened, Jane, half stupefied with horror and fear, silently tore her thick shoes off her feet, leaving them where they were, in her agitation, and stole away on the damp path, gathering her clothes about her, so that not a sound should betray her presence to those on the other side. As she widened the distance between herself and that fearful scene, her speed increased; she flew, rather than ran, and entered her father's and mother's bedroom to fall senseless on the floor.

Later in the morning, when broad daylight had come, a crowd stood around the murdered man. The face was bruised and blood-stained, and the head had been battered to death; but there was no difficulty in recognizing the features of James Darnley. His pockets were turned inside out; they had been rifled of their contents, and a thick, knotted stick, covered with blood and hair, lay by his side. It was supposed he had a heavy sum about him in his pockets, but all had been abstracted.

And now came a question, first whispered amongst the multitude, but repeated louder and louder by indignant voices.

"Who is the murderer?" "Ronald Payne," was the answer, deliberately uttered by a bystander. "I have just heard it from Mrs. Armstrong's own lips. They were at her house last night quarrelling and contending, and she knows he is the murderer."

"Ronald Payne!" echoed the crowd, with one universal accent of surprise and incredulity.

"As God is my Judge," cried the unhappy young man--for he was also present--"I am innocent of this deed!"

"You have long been upon ill terms," retorted the before-mentioned bystander--and it may be remarked that he was an acquaintance of Payne's; had never borne anything but kind feeling towards him. Yet now, so gratifying is it to the vain display and pride of human nature to be mixed up with one of these public tales of horror, he suddenly became his vehement accuser. "Mrs. Armstrong says that you left her house bickering with each other; and she heard you assert, before he was present, that you hated him, and wished he was a thousand miles away."

"That is all true," answered Ronald, turning his clear eye to the crowd, who now began to regard him with doubt. "We were bickering one with the other at Mrs. Armstrong's last night; not quarrelling, but talking at each other; but no ill words passed between us after we left the house. We walked peaceably together, and I left him at his own door. I never set eyes upon him afterwards till I saw him here with you, lying dead."

Words of doubt, hints of suspicion, ran through the multitude, headed by the contumacious bystander: and Robert Payne's cheeks, as he listened, burnt like fire.

"How can you think I would have a hand in such an awful deed!" he indignantly exclaimed. "Can you look in my face and believe me one capable of committing murder?"

"Faces don't go for nothing, sir," interposed the constable, Samuel Dodd, who had come bustling up and heard the accusation made; "we don't take 'em into account in these matters. I am afeared, sir, it's my duty to put the ancuffs on you."

"Handcuff on me!" exclaimed Ronald, passionately.

"You may be wanted, sir, at the crowner's quest, and perhaps at another tribune after that. It is more than my office is worth to let you be at large."

"Do you fear I should attempt to run away?" retorted Ronald.

"Such steps have been heered on, sir," answered the constable; "and my office is give me, you see, to prevent such."

The idea of resistance rose irresistibly to the mind of Ronald Payne; but his better judgment came to his aid, and he yielded to the constable, who was calling on those around to help to secure him in the king's name--good old George III.

"I resign myself to circumstances," was his remark to the officer, "and will not oppose your performing what is your apparent duty. Yet, oh! believe me," he added, earnestly, "I am entirely innocent of this foul deed--as innocent as you can be. I repeat, that I never saw James Darnley after I left him at his own house last night; and far from quarrelling during our walk home, we were amicably talking over farming matters."

When the constable had secured his prisoner in the place known as the "lock-up," he made his way to Mr. Armstrong's, intensely delighted at all the excitement and stir, and anxious to gather every possible gossip about it, true or untrue. Such an event hart never happened in the place since he was sworn in constable. In Farmer Armstrong's hall were gathered several people, Sir John Seabury, the landlord of that and the neighbouring farms, standing in the midst.

Sir John was an affable man, and, as times went, a liberal landlord. It happened that he was then just appointed high sheriff of Worcestershire for the ensuing year, his name having been the one pricked by the king.

When the constable entered, all faces were turned towards him. Several voices spoke, but Sir John's rose above the rest.

"Well, constable, what news?"

"He's in the lock-up, sir," was Mr. Sam Dodd's reply; "and there he'll be, safe and sound, till the crowner holds his quest."

"Who is in the lock-up?" asked Sir John, for the parties now present were not those who had been at the taking of Payne: they had flocked, one and all, to the "lock-up," crowd-like, at the heels of the constable and his prisoner. And Sir John Seabury, having but just entered, had not heard of Mrs. Armstrong's suspicion.

"Him what did the murder, sir," was the constable's explanatory answer, who had reasoned himself to the conclusion, as rural constables were apt to do in those days, that, because some slight suspicion attached to Payne, he must inevitably have committed it. "And he never said a word," exulted Mr. Dodd, "but he held out his hands for the ancuffs as if he knowed they'd fit. He only declared he waren't guilty, and walked along with his head up, like a lord, and not a bit o' shame about him, saying that the truth would come out sooner or later. It's a sight to see, gentlemen, the brass them murderers has, and many on 'em keeps it up till they's a-ridin' to the drop."

"How was it brought home to him?--who is it?" reiterated the baronet.

"It's young Mr. Payne," answered the officer, wiping his face, and then throwing the handkerchief into the hat, which stood on the floor beside him.

"Mr. Payne!" repeated Sir John Seabury, in astonishment; whilst Jane, never for a moment believing the words, but startled into anger, stood forward, and spoke with trembling lips.

"What are you talking about, constable? what do you mean?"

"Mean, miss! Why, it were young Mr. Payne what did the murder, and I have took him into custody."

"The constable says right," added Mrs. Armstrong. "There's not a doubt about it. He and Darnley were disputing here all last evening, and they left with ill-feeling between them. Who else can have done it?"

But she was interrupted by Miss Armstrong; and it should be explained that Jane, having just risen from the bed where they had placed her in the morning, had not until this moment known of the accusation against Payne. She turned to Sir John Seabury; she appealed to her father; she essayed to remonstrate with her mother; her anger and distress at length finding vent in hysterical words.

"Father! Sir John! there is some terrible mistake. Mother! how can you stand by and listen? I told you the murderer was a stranger--I told you so: what do they mean by accusing Ronald Payne?"

Jane might have held her tongue, for instilled suspicion is a serpent that gains quick and sure ground, and perhaps there was scarcely one around her who did not think it probable that Payne was the guilty man. They listened to Jane's reiterated account of the morning's scene she had been an ear-witness to; to her assertion that it was impossible Ronald Payne could have been the murderer; but they hinted how unlikely it was, that in her terror, she was capable of recognizing or not recognizing voices; and she saw she was not fully believed.

She found herself, subsequently, she hardly knew how, in their best parlour--a handsome room and handsomely furnished--alone with Sir John Seabury. She had an indefinite idea afterwards, that in passing the door she had drawn him in. He stood there with his eyes fixed on Jane, waiting for her to speak.

"Oh, Sir John! Sir John!" she cried, clinging to his arm in the agitation of the moment as she might cling to that of a brother, "I see I am not believed; yet indeed I have told the truth. It was a stranger who murdered Mr. Darnley."

"Certainly the voice of one we are intimate with is not readily mistaken, even in moments of terror," was Sir John Seabury's reply.

"It was an ill voice, a wicked voice; a voice that, independently of any accessory circumstances, one could only suppose belonged to a wicked man. But the language it used was awful: such that I had never imagined could be uttered."

"And it was a voice you did not recognize?"

"It was a voice I could not recognize," returned Jane, "for I had never until then heard it."

Sir John looked keenly at her. "Is this rumour correct that they have been now hinting at," he whispered--"you heard it as well as I--that there was an attachment between you and Ronald Payne? and that there was ill-feeling between him and Darnley in consequence?"

"I see even you do not believe me," cried Jane, bursting into tears. "There is an attachment between us: but do you think I would avow such attachment for a murderer? The man whom I heard commit the deed was a stranger," she continued earnestly; "and Ronald Payne was not near the spot at the hour."

"There is truth in your face, Miss Armstrong," observed Sir John, gazing at her

"And truth in my heart," she added.

And before he could prevent her, she had slipped towards the ground, and was kneeling on the carpet at the feet of Sir John.

"As truly as that I must one day answer before the bar of God," she said, clasping her hands together, "so have I spoken now: and according to my truth in this, may God deal then with me! Sir John Seabury, do you believe me?"

"I do believe you, my dear young lady," he answered, the conviction of her honest truth forcing itself upon his mind. "And however this unfortunate business may turn out for Ronald Payne, in my mind he will be from henceforth an innocent and a wronged man."

"Can your influence not release him?" inquired Jane. "You are powerful."

"Impossible. I could do no more than yourself. He is in the hands of the law."

"But you can speak to his character at the coroner's inquest?" she rejoined. "You know how good it has always been."

Sir John kindly explained to her that all testimonials to character must be offered at the trial, should it be Payne's fate to be committed for one.

When further inquiries came to be instituted, it was found that Darnley had been roused from his slumbers, and called out of his house, about half-an-hour, perhaps less, before the murder was committed. The only person deposing to this fact was his housekeeper--a most respectable woman, who slept in the room over her master. She declared that she had been unable to sleep in the early part of the night, feeling nervous at the violence of the wind; that towards morning she dropped asleep, and was awakened by a noise, and by some one shouting out her master's name. That she then heard her master open his window, and speak with the person outside, whoever it was; and that he almost immediately afterwards went downstairs, and out at the house-door.

"Who was it? " asked all the curious listeners. "And what did he want with Darnley?"

The housekeeper did not know. She thought the voice was that of a stranger; at any rate it was one she did not recognize. And she could not say what he wanted, for she had not heard the words that passed: in fact, she was but half awake at the time, and had thought it was one of the farm-servants..

The coroner's inquest was held, and the several facts already related were deposed to. Mrs. Armstrong's evidence told against, Jane's for, the prisoner. No article belonging to the unfortunate James Darnley had been found, saving a handkerchief, and that was found in the pocket of Ronald Payne. He accounted for it in this way. He left his own pocket-handkerchief, he said, a red silk one, by accident that night on the table at Mrs. Armstrong's--and this was proved to be correct; that when he and Darnley got out, the wind was so boisterous they could not keep their hats on. Darnley tied his handkerchief over his. Payne would have done the same, but could not find it, so he had to hold his hat on with his hand. That when Darnley entered his house, he threw the handkerchief to his companion, to use it for the same purpose the remainder of his way, he having further to go than Darnley. And, finally, Payne asserted that he had put the handkerchief in his pocket upon getting up that morning, intending to return it to Darnley as soon as he saw him.

The handkerchief was produced in court. It was of white lawn, large and of fine texture, marked in full, "James Darnley."

"He was always a bit of a dandy, poor fellow," whispered the country rustics, scanning the white handkerchief: "especially when he went a-courting."

Ronald Payne, as one proof of his innocence, stated that he was in bed at the time the murder was committed. A man-servant of his, who slept on the same floor as himself, also deposed to this; and said that a labourer came to the house with the news that a man had been found killed, before his master came downstairs. But upon being asked whether his master could not have left his bedroom and the house in the night, and have subsequently returned to it without his knowledge, he admitted that such might have been the case; though it was next to a "moral impossibility,"--such were his words--for it to have been done without his hearing.

But what was the verdict?--"Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown;" for the jury and the coroner did not find the evidence sufficiently strong to commit Payne for trial. So he left the court a discharged man, but not, as the frequent saying runs, without a stain upon his character. Although the verdict, contrary to general expectation, was in his favour, the whole neighbourhood believed him guilty. And from that moment, so violent is popular opinion, whether for good or for ill, he was exposed to nearly all the penalties of a. guilty man. A dog could scarcely have been more badly treated than was he; and, so far as talking against him went, Mrs. Armstrong headed the malcontents.

So matters went on till the month of February. In the quiet dusk of one of its evenings, Jane Armstrong crept away from her house, and, taking a direction opposite to that where the murder was committed, walked quickly until her father's orchard was in view. Crossing the stile of this, she turned to the right, and there stood Ronald Payne.

"This is kind of you, Jane," he said, as he seated her upon the stump of a felled tree, and placed himself beside her. "God bless you for this!"

"It is but little matter, Ronald, to be thanked for," she replied. "Perhaps it is not exactly what I ought to do, coming secretly to meet you here, but--"

"It is a great matter," he interrupted, bitterly. "I am now a proscribed man; a thing for boys to hoot at. It requires some courage, Jane, to meet a murderer."

"I know your innocence, Ronald," she answered, as, in all confiding affection, she leaned upon his bosom, while her tears fell fast. "Had you been tried--condemned--executed, I would still have testified unceasingly to your innocence."

"I sent for you here, Jane," he resumed, "to tell you my plans. I am about to leave this country for America. Perhaps I may there walk about without the brand upon my brow."

"Oh, Ronald!" she ejaculated, "is this your fortitude? Did you not promise me to bear this affliction with patience, and to hope for better days?"

"Jane, I did so promise you," replied the unhappy young man; "and if it were not for that promise, I should have gone long ago: but things get worse every day, and I can no longer bear it. I believe if I remained here I should go mad. See what a life mine is! I am buffeted--trampled down--spit upon--shunned--jeered--deserted by my fellow-creatures; not by one, but by all: save you, Jane, there is not a human being who will speak with me. I would not so goad another, were he even a known murderer, whilst I am but a suspected one. I have not deserved this treatment--God knows I have not!" And suddenly breaking off, he bent down his head, and, giving way to the misery that oppressed him, for some moments sobbed aloud like a child.

"Ronald, dearest Ronald," she entreated, "think better of this for my sake. Trust in--"

"It is useless, Jane, to urge me," he interrupted. "I cannot remain in England."

Again she tried to combat his resolution: it seemed useless. But, unwilling to give up the point, she wrung a promise from him that he would well reconsider the matter during the following night and day: and, agreeing to meet him on the same spot the next evening, she parted from him with his kisses warm on her lips.

"Where can Jane be?" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong, calling out, and looking up and down the house in search of her. "Robert, do you know?"

Mr. Armstrong knew nothing about it.

The lady went into the kitchen, where the two indoor servants were seated at their tea.

"Susan--Benjamin, do you know anything of Miss Jane?"

"She is up there in the orchard with young Mr. Payne, ma'am," interposed Ned, the carter's boy, who stood by.

"How do you know?" demanded Mrs. Armstrong, wrathfully.

"Because I brought her a message from him to go there. So I just trudged up a short while ago, and there I see 'em. He was a-kissin' of her or something o' that."

"My daughter with him!" cried Mrs. Armstrong, her face crimson, whilst Susan overbalanced her chair in her haste to administer a little wholesome correction to the bold-speaking boy. "My daughter with a murderer!"

"That's why I went up," chimed in the lad, dodging out of Susan's way. "I feared he might be for killin' Miss Jane as he killed t'other, so I thought I'd watch 'em a bit."

Away flew Mrs. Armstrong to her husband, representing the grievance with all the exaggeration of an angry woman. Loud, stinging denunciations from both greeted Jane upon her entrance, and she, miserable and heartbroken, could offer no resistance to the anger of her incensed parents. It was very seldom Mr. Armstrong gave way to passion; never with Jane; but he did that night: and she, terrified and sick at heart, promised compliance with his commands never to see Ronald Payne again.

Here was another blow for the ill-fated young man. Whether he had wavered or not, after his previous interview with Jane, must remain unknown, but he now determined to leave England, and without loss of time. He went to Sir John Seabury, and gave up the lease of his farm. It was said that Sir John urged him to stop and battle out the storm; but in vain. He disposed privately of his stock and furniture, and by the first week in March was on his way to Liverpool.

It was on the following Saturday that Jane Armstrong accompanied her father and mother to Worcester. She seemed as much like a person dead as alive; and Susan said, in confidence to a gossip, that young Mr. Payne's untoward fate was breaking her heart. The city, in the afternoon, wore an aspect of gaiety and bustle far beyond that of the customary market-day, for the judges were expected in from Oxford to hold the assizes: a grand holiday then, and still a grand show for the Worcester people. Jane and her mother spent the day with seine friends, whose residence was situated in the London Road, as it is called, the way by which the judges entered the city. It has been mentioned that the high sheriff for that year was Sir John Seabury; and, about three o'clock, he went out with his procession to meet the judges, halting at the little village of Whittington until they should arrive.

It may have been an hour or more after its departure from the city that the sweet, melodious bells of the cathedral struck out upon the air, giving notice that the cavalcade had turned and was advancing; and, in due time, a flourish of trumpets announced its approach. The heralds rode first, at a slow and stately pace, with their trumpets, preceding a double line of javelin men in the sumptuous liveries of the Seaburys, their javelins in rest, and their horses, handsomely caparisoned, pawing the ground. A chaise, thrown open, followed, containing the governor of the county gaol, his white wand raised in the air; and then came the sheriff's carriage, an equipage of surpassing elegance, the Seabury arms shining forth on the panels, and its four stately steeds prancing and chafing at the deliberate pace to which they were restrained.

It contained only one of the judges, all imposing in his flowing wig and scarlet robes. The Oxford assizes not having terminated when he left, he had hastened on to open court at Worcester, leaving his learned brother to follow. Opposite to him sat Sir John Seabury, with his chaplain in his gown and bands and as Jane stood with her mother and their friends at the open window, the eye of their affable young landlord caught hers, and he leaned forward and bowed: but the smile on his face was checked, for he too surely read the worn and breaking spirit betrayed by Jane's. Some personal friends of the sheriff followed the carriage on horseback; and, closing the procession, rode a crowd of Sir John's well-mounted tenants, the portly person of Mr. Armstrong conspicuous in the midst. But when Mrs. Armstrong turned towards her daughter with an admiring remark on the pageantry, Jane was sobbing bitterly.

Mrs. and Miss Armstrong left their friends' house when tea was over, on their way to the inn used by Mr. Armstrong at the opposite end of the town. They were in High Street, passing the Guildhall; Jane walking dreamily forwards, and her mother gazing at the unusual groups scattered about it, though all signs of the recent cavalcade had faded away; when master Samuel Dodd, the constable, met them. He stood still, and addressed Jane.

"I think we have got the right man at last, Miss Armstrong. I suppose it will turn out, after all, that you were right about young Mr. Payne."

"What has happened?" faltered Jane.

"We have took a man, miss, on strong suspicions that he is the one what cooked Mr. Darnley. We have been upon the scent this week past. You must be in readiness, ladies, for you'll be wanted on the trial, and it will come on next Tuesday or Wednesday. You'll get your summonses on Monday morning."

"Good heart alive, constable!" cried the startled Mrs. Armstrong. "You don't mean to say that Ronald Payne was innocent!"

"Why, ma'am, that have got to be proved. For my part, I think matters would be best left as they is, and not rake 'em up again. He have been treated so very shameful if it should turn out that he warn't guilty."

It was even as the constable said. A man had been arrested and thrown into the county gaol at Worcester charged with the wilful murder of James Darnley

Late on Tuesday evening, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, with their daughter, drove into Worcester, to he in readiness for the next day's trial. It was a dull, rainy evening, and Jane leaned back in the carriage, almost careless as to what the following day would bring forth, since Ronald Payne had gone away for ever.

At about five minutes past nine in the morning, the presiding judge took his seat on the bench. The crowded, noisy court was hushed to silence, the prisoner was brought in, and the trial began.

The chief fact against the accused was, that the pocket-book, with its contents, known to have been in Darnley's possession on the ill-fated morning, had been traced to the prisoner. The bank-notes he had changed away, and a silver pencil-case that was in it he had pledged. All this he did not deny; but he asserted that he had found the pocket-book hid in the hedge, close to the spot, when he had been prowling about there a few hours subsequent to the murder. It might be as he said; and the counsel chattered wisely to each other, saying there was no evidence to convict him.

The last witness called was Jane Armstrong; and her sensible, modest, and ladylike appearance prepossessed every one in her favour. She gave her testimony clearly and distinctly. The deadly struggle she had heard; the groans of the victim, and his shrieks of murder; the words uttered by the assailant; the blows which had been dealt, and the fall of the murdered man--all she separately deposed to. Still the crime was not brought home to the prisoner. Jane thought her testimony was over, and was waiting for her dismissal from the witness-box, when the counsel for the prosecution addressed her.

"Look around you, young lady: can you point out any one present as the murderer?"

She looked attentively round the court, but as she had not seen the murderer on the dark morning, the effect was vain. But, though she felt it was fruitless, she once more gazed minutely and carefully at the sea of faces around her--at the prisoner's amongst the rest; and turning again to the judge, she shook her head.

At this moment a voice was heard, rising harshly above all the murmur of the court. Jane's back was towards the speaker, and she did not know from whom it came, but the tones thrilled upon her ear with horror, for she recognized them instantaneously. They were addressed to the judge.

"My lord, she's going to swear away my life."

"THAT'S THE MAN!" uttered Jane, with the startling earnestness of truth. "I know him by his voice."

The prisoner--for he had been the speaker--quailed as he heard her, and an ashy paleness overspread his face. The judge gazed sternly, but somewhat mournfully, at him, and spoke words that are remembered in Worcester unto this day.

"Prisoner, you have hanged yourself."

The trial proceeded to its close. A verdict of GUILTY was returned against the prisoner: and the judge, placing on his head the dread black cap, pronounced upon him the extreme sentence of the law.

Before he suffered, he confessed his guilt, with the full particulars attending it. It may be remembered, that on the stormy evening when the chief actors in this history were introduced to the reader, the unfortunate James Darnley spoke of having just returned from a neighbouring fair. At this fair, it seemed, he had entered a public-house, and finding there some farmers of his acquaintance, he sat down with them to drink a glass of ale. In the course of conversation he spoke of the stock, cattle, etc., he had just sold, and the sum he had received for it, the money being then--he himself gratuitously added--in his breeches-pocket. He mentioned also his intended journey to Worcester market the following day, and that, there his business would be to buy.

The wretched man, afterwards his murderer, was present amongst various other strangers, which a fair is apt to collect together, and he formed the diabolical project of robbing him that night; but by some means or other the intention was frustrated. How, was never clearly ascertained, but it was supposed through Darnley's leaving for home at an unusually early hour, that he might be in time to pay a visit to the house of Miss Armstrong. The villain, however, was not to be so baulked. Rightly judging that Darnley would not remove his money from his breeches-pocket, as he would require it at Worcester market the following day, he made his way to his victim's house in the early dark of the ensuing winter's morning, and knocked him up. A strange proceeding, the reader will say, for one with the intentions he held. Yes. There stood James Darnley shivering at his chamber-window, suddenly roused from a sound sleep, by the knocking; and there, underneath, stood one in the dark, whose form lie was unable to distinguish; but it seemed a friendly voice that spoke to him, and it told a plausible tale. That Darnley's cows had broken from their enclosure and were strolling away, trespassing, and that he would do well to rise and hasten to them.

With a few cordial thanks to the unknown warner, with a pithy anathema on his cows, Darnley thrust on his knee-breeches--the breeches, as his destroyer had foreseen--and his farm jacket: went downstairs, and departed hastily on his errand. The reader need be told no more.

This was the substance of his confession; and on the appointed day he was placed in the cart to be drawn to execution. At that period, the gallows consecrated to Worcester criminals was erected on Red-hill; a part of the London Road, situated about midway between Worcester and Whittington; and here he was executed. An exhibition of the sort generally attracts its spectators, but such an immense assemblage has rarely been collected in Worcester, whether before or since, as was gathered together to witness the show on the day of his execution.

In proportion as the tide had turned against Ronald Payne, so did it now set in for him. The neighbourhood, one and all, took shame to themselves for their conduct to an innocent man, and it was astonishing to observe how quick they were in declaring that they must have been fools to suspect a kind-hearted, honourable man could be guilty of murder. Mrs. Armstrong's self-reproaches were keen: she was a just woman: and she knew that she had treated him with bitter harshness. Sir John Seabury however, did not waste words in condolence and reproaches, as did the others: he dispatched a trusty messenger to Liverpool, in the hope of catching Payne before he embarked for a foreign land; and, as vessels in those times did not start every day, as steamers do in these, he was successful.

It was a beautiful afternoon in the middle of March. The villagers were decked out as for a holiday; garlands and festoons denoted that there was some unusual cause for rejoicing; and the higher class of farmers and their wives were grouped together, conversing cheerfully. Jane Armstrong stood by her mother, a happy flush upon her pleasing countenance. It was the hour of the expected return of Ronald Payne, and a rustic band of music had gone forth to meet the stage-coach.

Everybody was talking, nobody listening; the buzz of expectation rose louder and louder; and soon the band was heard returning, half of it blowing away at "See the Conquering Hero comes," the other half (not having been able to agree amongst themselves) drumming and whistling "God save the King." Before the audience had time to comment on the novel effect of this new music, horses' heads were seen in the distance, and not the heavy coach, as had been expected, but the open barouche of Sir John Seabury came in sight, containing himself and Ronald Payne.

Ronald was nearly hugged to death. Words of apology and congratulation, of excuse and good-will, of repentance and joy, were poured into his ear by all, save Jane; and she stood away, the uncontrollable tears coursing down her face. It was plain, in a moment, that he bore no malice to any of them: his brow was as frank as ever, his eye as merry, his hands as open to clasp theirs. He was the same old Ronald Payne of months ago.

"Ronald Payne!" exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong, standing a little before the rest: "I was the first to accuse you; I was the foremost to rail at and shun you; let me be the most eager to express my painful regret, and so far--which is all I can do--make reparation. For the future, you shall not have a more sincere friend than myself."

"And allow me, Mr. Payne, to be the second to speak," added Sir John; "although I have no apology to make, for I never believed you guilty, as you know; but all these good people did, and it is useless, you are aware, to run against a stream. As some recompense for what you have suffered, I hereby offer you a lease of the farm and lands rented by the unfortunate James Darnley. It is the best vacant farm on my estate. And--a word yet: should you not have sufficient ready money to stock it, I will be your banker."

Ronald Payne grasped in silence the offered hand of his landlord. His heart was too full to speak; but a hum of gratification from those around told that the generosity was appreciated.

"But, Mrs. Armstrong," continued Sir John, a merry smile upon his countenance; "is there no other recompense you can offer him?"

Jane was now standing amongst them, by Ronald's side, though not a word had yet passed between them. His eyes fondly sought hers at the last words, but her glowing countenance was alike turned from him and from Sir John Seabury.

"Ay, by all that's right and just, there is, Sir John!" burst forth good Farmer Armstrong. "He deserves her, and he shall have her; and if my wife still says no, why I don't think she is any wife of mine."

Sir John glanced at Mrs. Armstrong, waiting no doubt for her lips to form themselves into the negative; but they formed themselves into nothing, excepting an approving smile cast towards Ronald Payne.

"And with many thanks, grateful thanks--which I am sure he feels--for your generous offer of being his banker, Sir John," continued Mr. Armstrong, "you must give me leave to say that it will not now be needed. My daughter does not go to her husband portionless."

"You must let me have notice of the time, Miss Armstrong," whispered Sir John, as he leaned forward and took her hand; "for I have made up my mind to dance at your wedding."

But the secret was not confined to Sir John Seabury. The crowd had comprehended it now; and suddenly, as with one universal voice, the air was rent with shouts. "Long live Ronald Payne and his fair wife when he shall win her! Long life and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Payne!"