"So we come at last to find that evidence is evidence, and that all evidence is important, and may prove convincing. This is true, without regard to the technical cla.s.sification. Leave cla.s.sification to the lawyers, gentlemen. You have but to weigh all that has been offered to you as relevant, and bearing upon the issue. Be a.s.sured, the Recorder would not have admitted any extraneous matter. You are not to cast aside anything that you have heard, merely because Mr. Bliss tells you that it is delusive. It is not delusive. On the contrary, all is very clear, as I shall now demonstrate to you.

"I will take up the chain of evidence much in the same order as did Mr. Bliss. First, then, we have Dr. Meredith. Mr. Bliss hints to you that he is a prejudiced witness, but whilst I might argue that a man must be more than a villain to falsely accuse another of murder, I need go into no defence of this witness, because it has been freely admitted that his testimony is true. Mr. Bliss argues that all that can be deduced from what Dr. Meredith tells us, is that morphine was present in quant.i.ty sufficient to show toxic symptoms. Now that is all that we care to claim from this witness. He recognized morphine poisoning prior to death, but Mr. Bliss attempts to belittle the value of this by the hypothesis that the drug was self-administered. He calls your attention to the statements of the prisoner to this effect, and tells you to believe him. On this subject I will speak again in a moment. The princ.i.p.al thing at this point is, do they ask us to believe that the girl died from diphtheria, or did she die of poison, regardless of how she received it? They do not choose between these two queries, but ask you to say either that she died of diphtheria, or, if of poison, that it was self-administered. It rests with you, gentlemen, then, to decide this weighty point. As to diphtheria, we have the report of the experts against it. Dr. Meredith declared, even before her death, that she was dying from poison. The autopsy showed that the cause of death was poison. The chemical a.n.a.lysis shows morphine in a poisonous dose, which is declared to be more than three grains. True, Dr. Fisher, a witness who was forced upon the prosecution, declares that diphtheria caused the death, but this is in contradiction to the opinion of all the others, and though honestly offered, no doubt, may be accounted for by the natural desire to substantiate the statement made in the death certificate. But this same witness tells us later that exactly three and a half grains of morphine is missing from his medicine-case, the one from which the defence admits that the morphine was taken. We find also that the defence seem to lay more stress upon explaining the death by morphine, than upon any effort to prove that diphtheria killed this girl.

"I think, then, that, with no injustice to the accused, you may adopt the pet theory of the defence, and conclude that this girl died of morphine poisoning. But, gentlemen, I shall now even admit more than that. Let us grant that a diseased kidney will cause acc.u.mulation of morphine, and that this girl had such a disease. More than that, let us admit that she had taken a considerable quant.i.ty of morphine prior to her illness, and that a large portion of it was held secreted in some part of her body. Now, what is the situation on that last evening of her life? She has been ill for several days with diphtheria, but she is recovering. She is so far convalescent that the senior physician deems it unnecessary for him to see her again that night.

She also has slight kidney trouble, and she has some morphine stored up in her system; an amount, however, which has been tolerated throughout the attack of diphtheria, when vitality was at its lowest ebb, but which has neither acted fatally, nor even affected her so that symptoms of its presence attracted the attention of the doctors.

"Gentlemen of the jury, now follow me closely if you please. We can often bring witnesses to a murder where a weapon is used, but rare indeed is it that the poisoner is actually seen at his deadly work.

But, by a singular act of Providence, that is what happened here. The prisoner arrived at that house that night, and dismissed the trained nurse. Observe that this occurs precisely upon the night when the patient has been declared to be convalescent. Here, then, is this man, a physician himself, alone in the presence of a weak woman. Does not this surely indicate to you that he had the opportunity to commit the foul deed? Supposing that he wished to rid himself of this girl, how gladly would he have awaited for her death by natural causes? How willingly have seen the dread diphtheria remove her from his path, and save his soul from the stain of crime? But no! It was not to be! On this night, his skilled eye saw what the other doctors had seen. The girl would recover! If she was to die, it must be by his hand. Now how should he accomplish it? By what means rid himself of the girl, and be safe from the hangman himself. Here the diabolical working of a scientific mind reveals itself. As he has told us he well knew her condition. He knew that she had kidney disease. He knew that she had been taking morphine, and readily guessed that some of the deadly drug was still stored up in her system. If he administered morphine to this poor woman, infatuated alike with the drug and with him, she would not offer the slightest remonstrance. No cry would escape her lips as the deadly needle punctured her fair flesh. Loving him and trusting him, she would yield to his suggestion, and so go into the last sleep. But what of the after effects? He certainly would think of that? Why, certainly! The girl would die of coma, and the attending physicians, if summoned in time, would say that she died of anaemia caused by diphtheria. Or, even if suspicion were aroused, it might be claimed afterwards, just, gentlemen, as it has been claimed, that the drug was self-administered, and was not enough in itself to have proven fatal.

He knew that the autopsy would substantiate his claim of kidney trouble, and that the toxicologists would admit the effect upon morphine. But more than all, being himself something of an expert in all branches of medical science, and especially in chemistry, he could almost to a nicety gauge the quant.i.ty of the drug which would be required, which of itself might not prove fatal to a morphine _habitue_, but which would compa.s.s her death when added to what was already in her system. Chance seemed to favor his horrible design, for Dr. Fisher had left his syringe and a supply of the drug. See this fiend, this scientific wife murderer, measure out and prepare the lethal dose! See him pierce the yielding flesh and inject the deadly drug, and then, lo! Providence brings upon the scene a witness to the deed! The nurse returns unexpectedly and sees, gentlemen, mark my words, actually sees this man in the act of using the hypodermic syringe!

"What can he do? He knows that it would be hazardous to deny the testimony of this trained nurse. Therefore he admits what she tells us, and then ingeniously invents the explanation that he was removing the syringe, but had not made the injection. But I submit it to you, gentlemen, is that a probable tale? If this girl had time to prepare the drug, to fill the syringe, to pierce her flesh, to inject the drug, would she not have been able to remove it herself? Does it take ten minutes to withdraw a needle? Or five minutes, or one minute? Or one second, gentlemen? Can you even compute the brief moment of time in which the withdrawal could have been effected? Mr. Bliss told you that the testimony of the accused must be final on this point. That until he is convicted of crime his word is as acceptable as that of any other witness. This may be a presumption of law, gentlemen, but it is a still greater presumption on the part of counsel to ask such intelligent men as you are, to believe that a murderer, or even an innocent man, would not perjure himself to save his life! Such things are told in romance, but we know that in actual life the most scrupulous of us all, will lie unhesitatingly if life itself be the stake.

"Thus, gentlemen, the whole thing comes to this. It matters not how much morphine this woman had taken herself, prior to her illness; it matters not how diseased were her kidneys: the cause of her death was that last dose of morphine, and you have to decide whether this man administered it as the nurse tells us, or whether the weak convalescent mixed and prepared the drug, and then injected it herself. We claim that Dr. Medjora administered that last dose, and that by that act he committed the crime of murder. And remember this, that if you decide that he administered that morphine, your verdict must be murder in the first degree, for having denied that he gave the drug at all, he cannot claim now that he gave it with no intention to destroy life. Gentlemen, you are the final arbiters in this matter."

The Recorder immediately charged the jury, but though he spoke at considerable length, I need scarcely give his speech here, as it was chiefly an explanation of the law. He was eminently impartial in all that he said, and it was surprising, therefore, how many objections and exceptions were entered by the defence. At last the jury was sent out, and the long wait began. The hours pa.s.sed slowly and still those present remained in their seats, loath to risk being absent when the verdict should be announced.

It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and the jury had been out five hours, when word was sent in, that a verdict had been found. The Recorder a few moments later resumed his seat, and the jury filed in.

After the usual formalities, the foreman arose and announced the following verdict:

"We find the prisoner, Dr. Emanuel Medjora, not guilty."

The words were received almost in silence by all present. Above the stillness a deep sob was heard at the farther end of the room. This had escaped from the tightly compressed lips of Madame Cora Corona.

BOOK SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

ONE NIGHT.

"Leon! Leon!"

The cry was low and weak, and the suffering woman fell back upon her pillow. The youth, though asleep, heard, and quickly responded to the call. He had been sitting in the large arm-chair, beside a rude wooden table, upon which stood a common gla.s.s lamp, with red wick, whose flickering flame shed but a dim ray across the well-thumbed pages of a book which lay open. While reading under such unfavorable circ.u.mstances, the boy had slumbered, his mind drifting slowly toward dream-land, yet not beyond the voice of the sufferer. She had scarcely repeated his name, when he was kneeling beside her, speaking in a voice that was tender and solicitous.

"What is it, mother?" he asked.

"Nothing," was the reply.

"Do you wish to drink?"

"No."

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes. But no matter."

"Will you take your medicine?"

"No. Leon, I want to tell you something."

"Not to-night, mother. You must sleep to-night. To-morrow you may talk."

"Leon, when I sleep to-night, it will be forever."

"Do not talk so, mother. You are nervous. Perhaps the darkness oppresses you. I will turn up the light."

He did so, but the lamp only spluttered, flaring up brighter for a moment, only to burn as dull as before.

"You see," said the old woman, with a ghastly smile, "there will be no more light in my life."

"Indeed there will be."

"I tell you no!" She spoke fiercely, and summoned all her waning energy to her aid, as she struggled to raise herself upon her elbow.

Then, extending a bony finger in his direction and shaking it in emphasis of her words, she continued: "I tell you I am dying. Death is here; in this room; I see his form, and I feel his cold fingers on my forehead. Sh! Sh! Listen! Do you not hear? A voice from the darkness is calling--'Confess! Confess!'" Then with a feeble cry she dropped back, moaning and groaning as in anguish.

"Mother! Mother! Lie still! Do not talk so." Leon was much agitated by the scene which had just transpired. The woman was quiet for a time, except that she sobbed, but presently she addressed him again.

"Leon, I must talk. I must tell. But don't call me mother."

"Why not?

How frequently in life do we thus rush ruthlessly upon unsuspected crises in our fates? Leon said these words, with no thought of their import, and with no foreboding of what would follow. How could he guess that from the moment of their utterance his life would be changed, and his boyhood lost to him forever, because of the momentousness of the reply which he invited?

When the woman spoke again, her voice was so low that the youth leaned down to hear her words. She said:

"Leon, you have been a good son to me. But--I am not your mother."

Having spoken the words with a sadness in her heart, which found echo in the cadence of her voice, she turned her face wearily away from the youth, and waited for his reply. And he, though astounded by what he had heard, did not at the time fully connect the words with himself, but recognized only the misery which their utterance had caused to the suffering woman. With gentleness as tender as a loving woman's, he turned her face to his, touched her lips with his, and softly said:

"You are my mother! The only mother that I have ever known!" Oh! The weakness of human kind, which, at the touch of a loving hand, the sound of a loving voice, yields up its most sacred principles! This dying woman had lived from birth till now in a secluded New England village, and, imbibing her puritanical instincts from her ancestry, she almost deemed it a sin to smile, or show any outward sign of happiness. She had been a mother to this boy, according to her bigoted ideas; she had been good to him in her own way; but she had kissed him but once, and then he was going upon a journey. Yet now, as overcome by his intense sympathy, his long-suppressed love welled out from his heart toward her, with a happy cry she nestled close within his arms, and cried for joy, a joy that was hers for the first time, yet which might have illumined all her declining days, had she not brushed it away from her.

A long silence ensued, presently broken by the woman, as she slowly related the following story.

"Years ago, no matter how many, I was a pretty woman, and a vain one.

I had admirers, but I loved none as I loved myself. But at last one came, and then my life was changed. I loved him, and I began to despise myself. For the more I saw and loved him, the less likely it seemed that he could love me. I used all my arts in vain. My prettiest frocks, my most coquettish glances, were all wasted on him. It seemed to me that I had not even made him see that I might be won, if he would woo. He went away, and I thought that I would never meet him again, for he had been but a summer visitor. My heart was broken, and besides my pride was hurt, for I suffered the bitterness of being taunted with my failure by my sisters. A year later, he came to me again. Several months before, I had gone to live in Boston, but in some way he had found me out. To my surprise, he told me that he knew that I loved him. He said that he had not offered me his love, because he was already married. Then he asked me to do him a favor. I gladly a.s.sented, without knowing what he would ask, for I would have sacrificed anything for him, I loved him so. The next day he brought me a beautiful baby boy. He told me it was his, that his wife was ill, and that he wished me to care for the baby for a year, whilst he went to Europe. I undertook the charge, without considering the consequences. I returned to the farm, bound to secrecy as to the child's parentage. Very soon I discovered that my friends shunned me, and then I learned that by taking you, Leon, I had lost my good name.

Well! I did not care. You were his baby! You had his eyes, and so my heart grew hard against the world, but I determined to keep the baby whose fingers had already gripped my heart. Then, shut out from all friendships, scorned even by my sisters to whom I had refused to make any explanation, I began to pray that something, anything, would happen so that you should not be taken from me. My wicked prayer was answered, for later I learned that the young mother had died, and I was to continue caring for you. At first my joy was very great, but soon I recognized, that you were mine only because I had prayed for the death of your mother. The Lord had granted my wish, as an everlasting punishment for my sinful longing. Thenceforward, however much I yearned to press you to my heart, I have not dared to do so. I have tried to accept the chastis.e.m.e.nt of the Lord with meekness of spirit. And so I have had my wish! I have kept you with me, ever to be a reproach for my sin. But I thank the Lord, that at the end he has allowed me to have one full moment of happiness. He has granted me the boon to see that my boy has learned to love me in spite of all my harshness. You have kissed me, Leon, and called me mother. Oh! G.o.d!

Thy will be done!"

Then with a smile almost of beat.i.tude, she sank down lower, and nestled closer to her long-denied love. Leon stooped and kissed her again, but did not speak. His heart was full, and his emotions rose within his breast, so that he felt a curious sensation of fulness in his throat, which warned him not to essay speech.

In silence they remained so for a time, not computed by either. She was lost in thoughts such as have been aroused in many hearts by the poet's magic words, "It might have been!" This boy was his, and might have been hers, if----! Ah! What chasms have been bridged by these two letters, which form this little, mighty word!

Leon began to grasp, but slowly, all that the future would hold for him with the added knowledge granted to him this night. He pondered over the past, and remembering how stern had been his life, and how austere had been the manner of this woman who had been his mother, and adding up the sum of all, he wondered that he had found such love for her within his heart. For his love had been recognized by himself as suddenly as he had given fervent expression to it, when he embraced that mother who denied her motherhood. If the poet's words which I have quoted conceal a thought of sadness within their meaning, what woe resides within the thought encompa.s.sed by those other words, "Too late!" To both of these, the woman and the boy, the recognition of the joys of love, had come too late. As this thought at last penetrated the mind of the dreaming youth, he started, awakening from his abstraction. At the same moment, the lamp flared up, flickered, and went out. Then as darkness enshrouded him, so deep that he almost felt it touch his brow, he shivered, and a long moan escaped him followed by an anguished cry: