The Trial.
The tidings of the unfortunate act committed by Adam Andinnian (most
people said it must have been an accident) were bruited abroad far and
wide. Circumstances conspired to give to it an unusual notoriety; and
for more than the traditional nine days it remained a wonder in men's
minds. Sir Adam's recent accession to the family honours; the utter
want of adequate motive; the name of the young lady said to be mixed
up with it: all this tended to arouse the public interest. That a
gentleman of peaceful tendencies, an educated man and new baronet
should take up his gun and shoot another in calm deliberation, was
well nigh incredible. All kinds of reports, true and untrue, were
floating. Public interest was not allowed to flag. Before a sufficient
space of time had elapsed for that, the period of the trial came on.
Sir Adam Andinnian was not fated, as too many prisoners are, to
languish out months of suspense in prison. The calamity occurred
towards the end of June; the assizes were held in July. Almost before
his final examination by the magistrates had concluded, or the
coroner's inquest (protracted after the fashion of inquests, but in
this case without any sufficient reason) had returned its verdict, the
summer assizes were upon the county. The magistrates had committed Sir
Adam Andinnian to take his trial for wilful murder; the coroner's jury
for manslaughter.
But now--what effect does the reader suppose this most awful blow must
have had on Mrs. Andinnian? If any one ever deserved commiseration it
was surely she. To every mother it would have been terrible; to her it
was worse than terrible. She loved her son with the love only lavished
on an idol; she had gone forth to his new inheritance in all the pride
of her fond heart, counting every day, ay, and every hour, until he
should gladden it with his presence. If any mortal man stood on a
pinnacle just then above all his fellows in her estimation, that man
was her handsome son, Sir Adam Andinnian. And oh! the desolation that
fell upon her when the son for whom she cared not, Karl, arrived at
Foxwood to break the news.
And Karl? Hardly less keen, if any, was the blow upon him. Until then,
he did not know how very warm and true was his affection for his
brother. Staggering back to the town the same night after his
interview with Hewitt--and it seemed to Karl Andinnian that he did
really stagger, under the weight of his affliction--he found the
prisoner at the police station, and was allowed to see him. Adam did
not appear to feel his position at all. Karl thought the passion--or
whatever other ill feeling it might have been that prompted him
to the fatal deed--was swaying him still. He was perfectly calm and
self-possessed, and sat quite at ease while the chief of the station
took down sundry reports in writing from the policemen who brought in
the prisoner.
"I have done nothing that I regret," he said to Karl. "The man has but
got his deserts. I should do it again to-morrow under the same
provocation."
"But, Adam, think of the consequences to yourself," gasped Karl,
aghast with dismay at this dangerous admission in the hearing of the
officers.
"Oh, as to consequences, I shall be quite ready to take _them_,"
returned the prisoner, drawing himself up haughtily. "I never yet did
aught that I was ashamed to acknowledge afterwards."
The Inspector ceased writing for a moment and turned round. "Sir Adam
Andinnian, I would advise you for your own sake to be silent. Least
said is soonest mended, you know, sir. A good rule to remember in all
cases."
"Very good indeed, Walls," readily assented Sir Adam--who had
previously been on speaking terms with the Inspector. "But if you
think I shall attempt to disown what I've done, you are mistaken."
"It must have been an accident," urged poor Karl in a low tone, almost
as though he were suggesting it. "I told Hewitt so."
"Hewitt knows better: he saw me take up the gun, level it, and shoot
him," was the reply of Sir Adam, asserted openly. "Look here, Wall.
The fellow courted his fate; _courted_ it. I had assured him that if
he dared to offend in a certain way again, I would shoot him as I'd
shoot a dog. He set me at defiance and did it. Upon that, I carried
out my promise, and shot him. I could not break my word, you know."
Just then a doubt crossed the Inspector's mind--as he related
afterwards--that Sir Adam Andinnian was not in his right senses.
"And the mother?" breathed Karl.
"_There's_ the worst of it," returned Sir Adam, his tone quickly
changing to grave concern. "For her sake, I could almost regret it.
You must go off to Foxwood to-morrow, Karl, and break it to her."
What a task it was! Never in all Karl's life had one like unto it been
imposed upon him. With the early morning he started for Foxwood: and
it seemed to him that he would rather have started to his grave.
It was perhaps somewhat singular that during the short period of time
intervening before the trial, Lieutenant Andinnian should have been
gazetted to his company. It gave Karl no pleasure. The rise he had
hoped for, that was to have brought him so much satisfaction, could
now but be productive of pain. If the trial resulted in the awful
sentence--Condemnation--Karl would not of course continue in the army.
No, nor could he with any inferior result; save and except acquittal.
Karl felt this. It was a matter that admitted of no alternative. To
remain one amidst his fellow officers with his only brother disgraced
and punished, was not to be thought of. And Karl would rather have
remained the nameless lieutenant than have been gazetted captain.
The truest sympathy was felt for him, the utmost consideration
evinced. Leave of absence was accorded him at his request, until the
result of the trial should be known. He wanted his liberty to stand by
his brother, and to make efforts for the defence. Make efforts! When
the accused persisted in openly avowing he was guilty, what efforts
could be made with any hope of success?
One of the hottest days that July has ever given us was that of the
trial. The county town was filled from end to end: thousands of
curious people had thronged in, hoping to get a place in court; or, at
least, to obtain a sight of the baronet-prisoner. It was reported that
but for the earnest pleadings of his mother there would have been no
trial--Sir Adam would have pleaded guilty. It was whispered that she,
the hitherto proud, overbearing, self-contained woman, went down on
her knees to entreat him not to bring upon his head the worst and most
extreme sentence known to England's law--as the said pleading guilty
would have brought--but to give himself a chance of a more lenient
sentence: perhaps of an acquittal. It was said that Captain Andinnian
would have taken his place in the dock to countenance and stand by his
brother, but was not permitted.
The trial was unusually short for one involving murder, and unusually
interesting. Immediately after the judge had taken his seat in the
morning, the prisoner was brought in. The crowded court, who had just
risen to do homage to the judge, rose again amidst stir and
excitement. Strangers, straining their eager eyes, saw, perhaps with a
momentary feeling of surprise, as grand a gentleman as any present. A
tall, commanding, handsome man, with a frank expression of countenance
when he smiled, but haughty in repose; his white teeth, that he showed
so much, and his grey eyes beautiful. He wore deep mourning for his
uncle, Sir Joseph; and bowed to the judge with as much stately
ceremony as though he were bowing before the Queen. On one of his
fingers flashed a ring of rare beauty: an opal set round with diamonds
It had descended to him from his father. Captain Andinnian, in deep
mourning also, sat at the table with the solicitors.
The chief witnesses, it may be said the only ones of consequence, were
Thomas Hewitt the manservant, and Miss Rose Turner. A surgeon spoke to
the cause of death--a shot through the heart--and a policeman or two
gave some little evidence. Altogether not much. The story that came
out to the world through the speeches of counsel, including those for
the defence as well as for the prosecution, may be summed up as
follows:
Mr. Andinnian (now Sir Adam) had a great friendship for a young lady
neighbour who lived close by, with whom he and his mother had been
intimate, and for whose best interests he had a lively regard. This
was a Miss Rose Turner: a young lady (the counsel emphatically said)
worthy of every consideration, and against whom not a breath of slight
had been, or could be whispered. Some few months ago Miss Turner was
introduced at a friend's house to a medical student (the deceased)
named Martin Scott. It had been ascertained, from inquiries set on
foot since Martin Scott's death, that this man's private pursuits and
character were not at all reputable: but that was of course (the
counsel candidly added) no reason why he should have been killed. In
spite of Miss Turner's strong objection, Martin Scott persisted in
offering her his attentions; and two or three times, to the young
lady's great disgust, he had forcibly kissed her. These facts became
known to Mr. Andinnian: and he, being of a hasty, passionate nature,
unfortunately took up the matter warmly. Indignant that the young lady
should have been subjected to anything so degrading, he sought an
interview with the offender, and told him that if ever he dared to
repeat the insult to Miss Turner, he, Mr. Andinnian, would shoot him.
It appeared, the counsel added, that Mr. Andinnian avowed this in
unmistakable terms; that the unfortunate deceased fully understood him
to mean it, and that Mr. Andinnian would certainly do what he said if
provoked. Proof of which would be given. In spite of all this, Martin
Scott braved his fate the instant he had an opportunity. On the fatal
evening, June the twenty-third, Miss Turner having only just returned
home from an absence of some weeks, Martin Scott made his appearance
at her uncle's house, followed her into the garden, and there, within
sight of Mr. Andinnian (or, rather, Sir Adam Andinnian, for he had
then succeeded to his title, said the counsel, stopping to correct
himself) he rudely took the young lady in his arms, and kissed her
several times. Miss Turner, naturally startled and indignant, broke
from him, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobs. Upon this, the
prisoner caught up his loaded gun and shot him dead: the gun,
unhappily, lying close to his hand, for he had been shooting birds
during the day. Such was the substance of the story, as told to the
court.
Thomas Hewitt, the faithful serving man, who deposed that he had lived
in the Andinnian family for many years, and who could hardly speak for
the grief within him, was examined. Alas! he was called for the
prosecution: for all his evidence told against his master, not for
him.
"That evening," he said, "about eight o'clock, or from that to
half-past, I had occasion to see my master, Sir Adam, and went across
the garden and beyond the shrubbery of trees to find him. He was
standing by the gate that divides his grounds from Mr. Turner's; and
all in the same moment, as I came in view, there seemed to be a
scuffle going on in Mr. Turner's wide path by the rose bushes. Just at
first I did not discern who was there, for the setting sun, then going
below the horizon, shone in my face like a ball of fire. I soon saw it
was Miss Turner and Martin Scott. Scott seemed to be holding her
against her will. She broke away from him, crying and sobbing, and ran
towards my master, as if wanting him to protect her."
"Well?--go on," cried the examining counsel, for the witness had
stopped. "What did you see next?"
"Sir Adam caught up his gun from the garden seat close by, where it
was lying, presented it at Martin Scott, and fired. The young man
sprang up into the air a foot or two, and then fell. It all passed in
a moment. I ran to assist him, and found he was dead. That is all I
know."
But the witness was not to be released just yet, in spite of this
intimation. "Wait a bit," said the counsel for the prosecution. "You
saw the prisoner take up the gun, point it at the deceased and fire.
Was all this done deliberately?"
"It was not done hurriedly, sir."
"Answer my question, witness. Was it _deliberately_ done?"
"I think it was. His movements were slow. Perhaps," added poor Hewitt,
willing to suggest a loophole of escape for his master, "perhaps Sir
Adam had forgotten the gun was loaded, and only fired it off to
frighten Scott. It was in the morning he had been shooting the birds:
hours before; he could easily have forgotten that it was loaded. My
master is not a cruel man, but a humane one."
"How came he to leave the gun out there for so many hours, if he had
done with it?" asked the judge.
"I don't know, my lord. I suppose he forgot to bring it in when he
came in to dinner. Sir Adam is naturally very careless indeed."
One of the jury spoke. "Witness, what was it that you wanted with your
master when you went out that evening?"
"A telegram had come for him, sir, and I went to take it to him."
"What did the telegram contain? Do you know?"
"I believe it came from Foxwood, sir."
"From Foxwood?"
"The telegram was from my mother, Mrs. Andinnian," spoke up the
prisoner, in his rather loud, but perfectly calm voice, thereby
electrifying the court. "It was to tell me she had arrived safely at
Foxwood Court: and that the day for my uncle Sir Joseph's funeral was
not then fixed."
The prisoner's solicitor, in a great commotion, leaned over and begged
him in a whisper to be silent.
"Nay," said the prisoner aloud, "if any information that I can give is
required, why should I be silent?" Surely there had never before been
a prisoner like unto this one!
The next witness was Rose Turner. She was accompanied by her uncle and
a solicitor; was dressed handsomely in black, and appeared to be in a
state of extreme nervous agitation. Her face was ashy pale, her manner
shrinkingly reluctant, and her voice was so low that its accents could
not always be caught. In the simple matter of giving her name, she had
to be asked it three times.
Her evidence told little more than had been told by the opening
counsel.
Mr. Scott had persecuted her with his attentions, she said. He wanted
her to promise to marry him when he should be established in practice,
but she wholly refused, and she begged him to go about his business
and leave her alone. He would not; and her aunt had rather encouraged
Mr. Scott; they did not know what kind of private character he bore,
but supposed of course it was good. Martin Scott had twice kissed her
against her will, very much to her own annoyance; she had told Mr.
Andinnian of it--who had always been very kind to her, quite like a
protector. It made Mr. Andinnian very angry; and he had then
threatened Martin Scott that if he ever again attempted to molest her,
he would shoot him. She was sure that Martin Scott understood that Mr.
Andinnian was not joking, but meant to do what he said. So far, the
witness spoke with tolerable readiness: but after this not a word
would she say that was not drawn from her. Her answers were given
shrinkingly, and some of them with evident reluctance.
"You went out on a visit in May: where was it to?" questioned the
counsel.
"Birmingham."
"How long did you stay there?"
"I was away from home five weeks altogether."
"When did you return home?--You must speak a little louder, if you
please."
"On the evening of the twenty-second of June."
"That was the day before the murder?"
"It was not a murder," returned the witness, with emotion. "Sir Adam
Ardinnian was quite justified in what he did."
The judge interposed. "You are not here to state opinions, young lady,
but to answer questions." The counsel resumed.
"Did the deceased, Martin Scott, come to your uncle's residence on the
evening of the twenty-third?"
"Yes. My uncle was at home ill that evening, and he kept Mr. Scott in
conversation, so that he had no opportunity of teasing me."
"You went later, into the garden?"
"Yes. Martin Scott must have seen me pass the window, for I found he
was following me out. I saw Sir Adam standing at his gate, and went
towards him."
"With what motive did you go?"
A pause. "I intended to tell him that Mr. Scott was there."
"Had you seen Sir Adam at all since the previous evening?"
Whether the young lady said Yes or No to this question could not be
told. Her answer was inaudible.
"Now this won't do," cried the counsel, losing patience. "You must
speak so that the jury can hear you, witness; and you must be good
enough to lift your head. What have you to be ashamed of?"
At this sting, a bright flush dyed the young lady's pale cheeks: but
she evidently did not think of resisting. Lifting her face, she spoke
somewhat louder.
"I had seen Sir Adam in the morning when he was shooting the birds. I
saw him again in the afternoon, and was talking with him for a few
minutes. Not for long: some friends called on my aunt, and she sent
for me in."
"Was anything said about Martin Scott that day, between you and Sir
Adam?"
"Not a word. We did not so much as think of him."
"Why, then, were you hastening in the evening to tell Sir Adam that
Scott was there?"
The witness hesitated and burst into tears. Her answer was impeded by
sobs.
"Of course it was a dreadful thing for me to do--as things have turned
out. I had no ill thought in it. I was only going to tell him that
Scott had come and was sitting with my uncle. There was nothing in
that to make Sir Adam angry."
"You have not replied to my question. _Why_ did you hasten to tell Sir
Adam?"
"There was no very particular cause. Before I left home in May, I had
hoped Mr. Scott had ceased his visits: when I found, by his coming
this evening, that he had not, I thought I would tell Sir Adam. We
both disliked Martin Scott from his rudeness to me. I began to feel
afraid of him again."
"Afraid of what?"
"Lest he should be rude to me as he had been before."
"Allow me to ask--in a case of this sort, would it not have been your
uncle's place to deal with Mr. Scott, rather than Sir Adam
Andinnian's?"
The witness bent her head, and sobbed. While the prisoner, without
affording her time for any answer, again spoke up.
"When Martin Scott insulted Miss Turner before, I had particularly
requested her to inform me at once if he ever attempted such a thing
again. I also requested her to let me know of it if he resumed his
visits at her uncle's house. I wished to protect Miss Turner as
efficiently as I would have protected a sister."
The prisoner was ordered to be silent. Miss Turner's examination went
on.
"You went out on this evening to speak to the prisoner, and Martin
Scott followed you. What next?"
"Martin Scott caught me up when I was close to the bed of rose bushes:
that is, about half way between the house and the gate where Sir Adam
was standing. He began reproaching me; saying I had not given him a
word of welcome after my long absence, and did I think he was going to
stand it. Before--before--"
"Before what? Why do you hesitate?"
The witness's tears burst forth afresh: her voice was pitiable in its
distress. A thrill of sympathy moved the whole court; not one in it
but felt for her.
"Before I was aware, Martin Scott had caught me in his arms, and was
kissing my face. I struggled to get away from him, and ran towards Sir
Adam Andinnian for shelter. It was then he took up his gun."
"What did Sir Adam say?"
"Nothing. He put me behind him with one hand, and fired. I recollect
seeing Hewitt standing beside me then, and for a few moments I
recollected no more. At first I did not know any harm was done: only
when I saw Hewitt kneeling down in the path over Martin Scott."
"What did the prisoner do, then?"
"He put the gun back on the seat again, quite quietly, and walked down
the path towards where they were. My uncle and aunt came running out,
and--and that ended it."
With a burst of grief that threatened to become hysterical, she
covered her face. Perhaps in compassion, only two or three further
questions of unimportance were asked her. She had told all she knew of
the calamity, she said; and was allowed to retire: leaving the
audience most favourably impressed with the pretty looks, the
innocence, and the modesty of Miss Rose Turner.
A young man named Wharton was called; an assistant to a chemist, and a
friend of the late Martin Scott. He deposed to hearing Scott speak in
the spring--he thought it was towards the end of April--of Mr.
Andinnian's threat to shoot him. The witness added that he was sure
Martin Scott took the threat as a serious one and knew that Mr.
Andinnian meant it as such; though it was possible that with the lapse
of weeks the impression might have worn away in Scott's mind. He was
the last witness called on either side; and the two leading counsel
then addressed the jury.
The judge summed up carefully and dispassionately, but not favourably.
As many said afterwards, he was "dead against the prisoner." The jury
remained in deliberation fifteen minutes only, and then came back with
their verdict.
Wilful murder: but with a very strong recommendation to mercy.
The judge then asked The prisoner if he had anything to urge against
the sentence of Death that was about to be passed upon him.
Nothing but this, the prisoner replied, speaking courteously and
quietly. That he believed he had done only his duty: and that Martin
Scott had deliberately and defiantly rushed upon his own fate; and
that if young, innocent, and refined ladies were to be insulted by
reprobate men with impunity, the sooner the country went back to a
state of barbarism the better. To this the judge replied, that if for
trifling causes men might with impunity murder others in cold blood,
the country would already be in a state of barbarism, without going
back to it.
But the trial was not to conclude without one startling element of
sensation. The judge had put the black cap on his head, when a tall,
proud-looking, handsome lady stepped forward and demanded to say a
word in stay of the sentence. It was Mrs. Andinnian. Waving the ushers
away who would have removed her, she was, perhaps in very
astonishment, allowed to speak.
Her son had inherited an uncontrollable temper, she said; _her_
temper. If anything occurred greatly to exasperate him (but this was
very rare) his transitory passion was akin to madness: In fact it was
madness for the short time it lasted, which was never more than for a
few moments. To punish him by death for any act committed by him
during this irresponsible time would be, she urged, murder. Murder
upon him.
Only these few words did she speak. Not passionately; calmly and
respectfully; and with her dark eyes fixed--on the judge. She then
bowed to the judge and retired. The judge inclined his head gravely to
her in return, and proceeded with his sentence.
Death. But the strong recommendation of the jury should be forwarded
to the proper quarter.
The judge, as was learnt later, seconded this recommendation warmly:
in fact, the words he used in passing sentence as good as conveyed an
intimation that there might be no execution.
Thus ended the famous trial. Within a week afterwards the fiat was
known: and the sentence was commuted into penal servitude for life!
Penal servitude for life! Think of the awful blight to a man in the
flower of his age and in the position of Adam Andinnian! And all
through one moment's mad act!