the horror of her situation. It was only when she was received by the
kind physician and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless
incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not insane; it
was only when she passed through the ward to which she was consigned and
saw the horrible creatures, the victims of a double calamity, whose
dreadful faces she was hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the
small, bare room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook
her. She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone–she had been
searched by the matron–and tried to think. But her brain was in a
whirl. She recalled Braham’s speech, she recalled the testimony
regarding her lunacy. She wondered if she were not mad; she felt that
she soon should be among these loathsome creatures. Better almost to
have died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement.
–We beg the reader’s pardon. This is not history, which has just been
written. It is really what would have occurred if this were a novel.
If this were a work of fiction, we should not dare to dispose of Laura
otherwise. True art and any attention to dramatic proprieties required
it. The novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess
could not escape condemnation. Besides, the safety of society, the
decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our modern civilization,
all would demand that Laura should be disposed of in the manner we have
described. Foreigners, who read this sad story, will be unable to
understand any other termination of it.
But this is history and not fiction. There is no such law or custom as
that to which his Honor is supposed to have referred; Judge O’Shaunnessy
would not probably pay any attention to it if there were. There is no
Hospital for Insane Criminals; there is no State commission of lunacy.
What actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided the
sagacious reader will now learn.
Laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother and other friends,
amid the congratulations of those assembled, and was cheered as she
entered a carriage, and drove away. How sweet was the sunlight, how
exhilarating the sense of freedom! Were not these following cheers the
expression of popular approval and affection? Was she not the heroine of
the hour?
It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura reached her hotel, a scornful
feeling of victory over society with its own weapons.
Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken with the
disgrace and the long anxiety.
“Thank God, Laura,” she said, “it is over. Now we will go away from this
hateful city. Let us go home at once.”
“Mother,” replied Laura, speaking with some tenderness, “I cannot go with
you. There, don’t cry, I cannot go back to that life.”
Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing. This was more cruel than anything else, for
she had a dim notion of what it would be to leave Laura to herself.
“No, mother, you have been everything to me. You know how dearly I love
you. But I cannot go back.”
A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch. Laura took it and read:
“The bill is lost. Dilworthy ruined. (Signed) WASHINGTON.”
For a moment the words swam before her eyes. The next her eyes flashed
fire as she handed the dispatch to her m other and bitterly said,
“The world is against me. Well, let it be, let it. I am against it.”
“This is a cruel disappointment,” said Mrs. Hawkins, to whom one grief
more or less did not much matter now, “to you and, Washington; but we
must humbly bear it.”
“Bear it; replied Laura scornfully, “I’ve all my life borne it, and fate
has thwarted me at every step.”
A servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman below who
wished to speak with Miss Hawkins. “J. Adolphe Griller” was the name
Laura read on the card. “I do not know such a person. He probably comes
from Washington. Send him up.”
Mr. Griller entered. He was a small man, slovenly in dress, his tone