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THE WEEKLY NOVELETTE.
THE STORM.
BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.
The tempest rages wild and high,
The waves lift up their voice and cry;
Time answers to the angry sky,
Miserere Domine.
Through the black night and driving raia
A ship is struggling all in vain
'To live upon the stormy main,
Miserere Domine.
The thunders roar, the lightnings glare,
Vain is it now to strive or dare;
Acry goes up of great despair,
Miserere Domine.
The stormy voices of the main,
The moaning wind, and pelting rain,
Beat on the nursery window pane,
Miserere Domine.
Warm curtained was the little bed,
Soft pillowed was the little head ;
“ The storm will wake the child,” they said,
Miserere Donine.
Cowering among his pillows white,
He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright,
‘* Father, save those at sea to-night!”
Miserere Domine.
The morning shone all clear and gay
On a ship at anchor in the bay,
And on a little child at play,
Gloria tibi Domine.
[Written for The Weekly Novelette.]
WILLARD MOUNTJOY.
THE STORY OF A MURDERER.
BY JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS.
J HAVE shut myself up in my study for an hour, this
stormy March evening, to write the story of him whose
name I have written first above in commencing it. I
am well aware that the narrative exhibits one of the
darkest phases of the human character, and is founded
upon one of the most unpardonable sins of which a hu-
man being can be guilty; and still, I have no desire to
suppress it from the sight of those who, perhaps, have
been accustomed to turn with shuddering from every-
thing in literature which presents to them experiences
of life treating of its shadows, rather than its sunshine.
It was perhaps a month after my succession to the
pastoral charge of oue of the largest churches in the
western city of C——, that I was one day requested to
visit a prisoner, confined at that time in the city jail. I
complied with the request without hesitation, and it
was only upon my arrival at the prison that I learned
that the person whom I was about to visit was resting
under an indictment for murder.
«A curious case, sir,” the garrulous jailor remarked,
as he conducted me along the hall. ‘Never saw so
young a hand at the killing business in tay life—and
how he ever came to do such a thing is more than I
can tell. He don’t look as though he had the heart to
harm a kitten.”
“There is no doubt, then, that the charge against
him can be substantiated ?”
“ Be which, sir?”
“J mean, is it thought that he can be proved guilty ?”
“Bless you, sir, yes. The thing was done in broad
daylight, and in one of the most public places in the
city. There are no less than twenty who saw it.”
“There are probably mitigating circumstances.”
“J don’t quite understand you, sir; but here we are
at his cell, and you can talk the matter over with him.
You needn’t be afraid to"trust yourself alone with him,
he’s a remarkably quiet prisoner, and as I said before,
very gentle—unless he’s been playing sham, which I
don’t believe.” .
"The cell door closed behind me, and I was left alone
with the felon. He was sitting, as I entered, npon his
pallet, immediately beneath the grated window, oppo-
site me; and as he becamé aware of my presence, he
removed his hands from his face, and after looking up,
arose and came a few steps forward. Although I had
just learned from the jailor that he was young and re-
sembled not at all the usual class of culprits, I found it
at first difficult.to convince myself that the man before
me was charged with a capital crime. I have seen
many men whose faces might be well denominated
beautiful; but a countenance of such a feminine cast as
his, and one which at the same time so denoted a heart
fitted for gentleness and love, I have never met with.
He was a tall and slender youth, of not more than
twenty-three ; his auburn hair curled in profusion over
a broad, white forehead, beneath which were a pair of
deep, dreamy blue eyes. But it was’iot difficult to see
that he was not unconscious of the critical position in
which he was placed; there was a look of haggard dis-
tress upon his face, a deep nervousness in his manner,
and even a slight huskiness in his otherwise clear voice
which could not fail to convey the idea of great and
harrowivg mental suffering.
My dress must have betrayed my professional char-
acter to him, for after a slight hesitation, he said :
“JT hardly intended, sir, to ask that a clergyman
might be sent to me; the jailor probably misunderstood
my words. Let me, however, express my thanks; I
had hardly hoped that any person could be found will-
ing to gratify the wish of a poor outcast like myself.”
The marked respect evident in his manner, as well
as the remarkable character of his words, increased the
interest I already felt in him, and I hastened to say :
“The duties of my holy office would lead me here,
even had I not a strong desire to see and converse with
you. And while I am with you, let me ask you to re-
member that your confession, if you wish to make one,
will be strictly confined to my own breast, and that I
should rejoice beyond measure if, through my efforts,
you might be induced to lay your sins and transgres-
sions at the feet of Him who alone can pardon and
restore.”
He listened respectfully, and when I had finished, he
shook his head and smiled sadly.
“Tknow,” he said, “that you speak sincerely; and
though no one knows the value of repentance and
‘atonement better than myself, yet I am constrained to
believe that repentance and atonement are not for such
as I! You would interrupt me—I know your thoughts.
You wish to say that there can be no transgression s0
great that repentance cannot purge it ; but it is no such
belief as this that leads me to tell you the story of my
sufferings and my crime. It is rather the hope that I
may excite some little sympathy in the breast of one
human creature; that when I am dead, if my crime
shall be remembered, it will be with the justification,
little though it be, which rightfully belongs to it.”
“ God forbid that I should judge you,” I exclaimed.
“No man is sinless; and although yours may be an
error which the law cannot overlook, yet I should rather
seek to pity than condemn you.”
I saw in an instant that his heart was touched. He
turned partly from me, to hide the quick-springing tear
which he could not repress ; and when he again spoke
his voice was far more tremulous than before.
“ Sir—may God bless you for your kindness! Now,
indeed, it will be a relief for me to relate to you my sad
and tragical though brief story. I can place implicit
trust in your promise not to betray me, but this is a
matter of little consequence. I have become almost
indifferent to my fate, since I have gained the certainty
that that fate will most surely be death! But, however,
I will ask you to hear me—to judge me, if you must,
and to console me if you can.”
At his request I took my seat upon a low stool, the
only furniture in the cell, save the pallet—and seating
himself upon the latter, he told me his story:
“My name,” he commenced, ‘is Willard Mountjoy.
Perhaps I needed not to tell it; certainly my crime has
made it notorious enough. I was born, and have
always lived, in a little village not mauy miles south of
us ; you can almost see it from the church-steeples of
this city.
“Tam not yet twenty-four years of age. It was just
four years ago that a family of strangers came to our
village, and took up their abode in a cottage situated
next to the one where I lived. They were a widow
and her two daughters; and though at first I visited
their house simply because they were neighbors, I soon
came to make these visits more frequent and prolonged,
from the fact that I became daily more interested in
them. These sisters were certainly the most lovely
beings I have ever seen. Charlotte Howard, the elder,
was one of those women whose beauty is of the spirit-
ual cast, reminding you constantly, by the strange re-
finement of the outward being, of the perfectness of the
soul within. I had known her but a few short weeks,
and then—it is not enough to say that I loved her; I
almost worshipped and adored her. She was the acme
of all my hopes; I sincerely believe that at this time
there was never a moment in which she was absent
frormmy thoughts.
“TI deemed myself perfectly happy in the possession
of her love, for she had blessed me by the confession.
But my joy was short lived; from the very summit of
happiness, I was suddenly cast down into the lowest
depths of wretchedness and despair. I had not thought
before that there was a terrible reason for the strange,
corpse-like beauty of Charlotte Howard; I had never
thought that the dread disease, consumption, was slowly
preying at her heart, But so it was; and I awoke to
the bitter knowledge of the fact only when the event
which it foreshadowed was inevitable. Unconsciously,
and yet rapidly as the mists of a summer morning, did
my betrothed grow weaker, paler, and more ethereal in
her appearance—uutil at last I stood by the bedside
where she was breathing her last. She died, calmly
and peacefully ; but first she faintly uttered a few words
which have had a powerful influence upon my destiny.
Reaching forth her own thin and wasted hands, she
placed that of her sister, who was standing beside me,
in my own.
«Love him, Frances—cherish him, forevermore !”
were her words—almost her last. ‘ Be to him what I
would have been, and may Heayen bless you both!’
eo“ So she died ; and for months I mourned her loss as
disconsolately as one who had no hope. It was long
before I recalled the words which she had spoken upon
her death-bed; and when at last I sought the com-
panionship of the surviving daughter, it was rather with
the design of receiving her sympathy and condolence,
than with thoughts of centering my affections upon a
new object. But gradually, and as I associated more
and more with Frances Howard, I found myself recall-
ing again and again, and with secret satisfaction, the
wish of her dying sister. You cannot wonder at this ;
there was a new passion springing up in my breast
which made it easy to obey that wish; and when the
beautiful Frances Howard promised to be my bride, I
was as happy as though I had not experienced a bitter
grief but six short months before.
“Sir, I will not. dwell upon the brief season of joy
which followed. My story shall be as short as I can
well make it. The day had been appointed for our
marriage—and this was less than a year ago—when a
traveller came to our village, to stay, as he professed,
for a few days. He was an Englishman, Henry Thorn-
ton by name ; and his appearance was that of a wealthy
foreigner. Upon his first coming, I was thrown by
chance several times into his company ; and from the
slight acquaintance which I formed with him, it seemed
almost a second nature to me to distrust and dislike
him; and from the first, the feeling was reciprocal.
Let me occupy a moment in describing him.
“Henry Thornton was much older than myself, be-
ing several years past the age of thirty, Tall and
slender in form, with dark hair and eyes, regular fea-
tures, and an almost olive complexion, (his mother, I
have heard, was an Italian,) he was essentially a hand-
some man; one whose form and face could not fail to
impress the beholder with the idea of a perfect model
of manly beauty. To many he seemed truly perfect,
and without a fault; the polished exterior and capti-
yating address of the man served to disguise his real
.