"THERE IS MY HAND. DARE YOU TAKE IT?"
There is nothing which can transport one so quickly from thoughtland to
acute and comprehensive realization, as the sound of a human voice or
the consciousness of a human presence. Like a flash it all came back to
the lonely occupant of the prison cell--the personal degradation of his
position, his surroundings, and everything connected with them. And with
it, too, came a strong, keen desire to bear himself like a man before
her father.
He rose to his feet, and the pitiful bareness of the place seemed to
become suddenly enhanced by the quiet dignity of his demeanor. Out of
the gloom Mr. Thurwell came forward with outstretched hand, followed by
another gentleman--a stranger. Between the two men, that one long ray of
sunlight lay across the stone floor, and as Bernard Maddison stepped
forward to meet his visitor, it gleamed for a moment upon his white,
haggard face, worn and stricken, yet retaining all that quiet force and
delicacy of expression which seemed like the index of his inward life.
It was the face of a poet, of a dreamer, a visionary perhaps--but a
criminal! the thing seemed impossible.
"This is very good of you, Mr. Thurwell," he said in a low but clear
tone. "I scarcely expected that I should be permitted to see visitors."
Mr. Thurwell grasped his hand, and held it for a moment without
speaking. He had all an Englishman's reticence of speech in times of
great emotion, and it seemed to him that there was nothing that he could
say. But silence was very eloquent.
"I have brought Mr. Dewes with me," he said at last. "He wants to see
you about the defence, you know. The high sheriff's a friend of mine, so
I got him to pass me in at the same time; but if you'd rather see Dewes
alone, you'll say so, won't you?"
There had been an acute nervous force working in Bernard Maddison's face
during that brief silence. At Mr. Thurwell's words, a change came. He
dropped his visitor's hand, and his features were still and cold as
marble, and almost as expressionless, save for the lightly drawn lips,
and lowered eyebrows, which gave to his expression a fixed look of
power.
"That is very kind and thoughtful of you, Mr. Thurwell, and I am sorry
that you should have had the trouble to no purpose. I have nothing to
add to my previous decision. I will not be represented by either lawyer
or counsel."
Mr. Dewes moved forward out of the background, and bowed. He was a
handsome, middle-aged man, looking more like a cavalry officer than a
solicitor. But, as everyone knew, so far as criminal cases were
concerned, he was the cleverest lawyer in London.
"You are relying upon your innocence, of course, Mr. Maddison," he said;
"but it is a very great mistake to suppose that it will establish itself
without extraneous aid. You will have the Attorney-General against you,
and you must have some one of the same caliber on your side. The old
saying, 'Truth will out,' does not apply in an assize court. It requires
to be dragged out. I think you will do well to accept my services.
Roberts holds himself open to take the brief for your defence, if I wire
him before midday."
"I seldom change my mind," Bernard Maddison said quietly. "In the
present case I shall not do so. If it seems to me that there is anything
which should be said on my behalf, I shall say it myself."
There was a short silence. Mr. Dewes looked at Mr. Thurwell, and Mr.
Thurwell looked both perplexed and worried.
"Maddison, you must admit that yours is an extraordinary decision," he
said at last. "You must forgive me if I ask you in plain words what your
reason is for it. I ask as one who is willing to be your friend in this
matter; and I ask you as Helen's father."
A sudden spasm of pain passed across Bernard Maddison's face. He shrunk
back a little, and when he spoke his voice sounded hollow and strained.
"I do not deny you the right to ask--but I cannot tell you. Simply it is
my will. It is best so. It must be so."
"Can you not see, Mr. Maddison," the lawyer said quietly, "that to some
people this will seem almost like a tacit admission of guilt?"
"I shall plead 'not guilty,'" he answered in a low tone.
"That will be looked upon only as a matter of form," Mr. Dewes remarked.
"Mr. Maddison, I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to
you that the evidence against you is terribly strong. Just consider it
yourself, only for a moment. Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is known to have
seriously wronged a member of your family. You are known to have sworn
an oath of vengeance against him. There are witnesses coming from
abroad to prove that. Immediately on his return to his home you take a
cottage, under an assumed name, close to his estate. He is found
murdered close to that cottage, of which it seems that at that time you
were the only occupant. You are the only person known to have been near
the spot. The dagger is proved to be yours. Letters are found in your
cabinet urging you to desist from your threatened vengeance. There is
the stain of blood on the floor of your study, near the place where you
would have washed your hands, and a blood-stained towel is found hidden
in the room. All this and more can be proved, and unless you can throw a
fresh light upon these things, there is no jury in the world that would
not find you guilty. You hold your fate in your own hands."
"I have considered all this," Bernard Maddison answered in a low tone.
"I know that my case is almost hopeless, and I am prepared for the
worst."
Mr. Thurwell turned away, and walked to the furthermost corner of the
apartment. For his daughter's sake, and for the sake of his own strong
liking for this man, he had resolutely shut his eyes upon the damning
chain of evidence against him. Now he felt that that he could do so no
longer. Nothing but guilt could account for this strange reticence. He
was forced to admit it at last. His compassion was still strong, but it
was mingled with a great horror. He felt that he must get away as soon
as possible.
Mr. Dewes, who had all along had the most profound conviction of the
guilt of the accused man seized his opportunity, and stepping close up
to him, whispered in his ear:
"Mr. Maddison, I should like to save you if I can. There have been
cases--forgive me for suggesting it--in which, by knowing every
circumstance and trifling detail connected with a crime, we have been
able to build up a def----"
Bernard Maddison drew himself up with a sudden hauteur, and raised his
hand.
"Stop, Mr. Dewes!" he said firmly. "I do not blame you for assuming what
you do, but you are mistaken. I am not guilty. I do not ask you to
believe it. I only ask you to bring this painful interview to an end."
"We will go," said Mr. Thurwell, suddenly advancing from the other end
of the cell. "I am not your judge, Bernard Maddison, and it is not for
me to hold you guilty. God shall pass His own judgment upon you. There
is my hand. Dare you take it?"
For answer, Bernard Maddison stepped forward and clasped it in his own.
Once more he had moved from out of the darkness, and a soft stream of
sunshine fell upon his pallid face. White though it was, even to
ghastliness, it betrayed no sign of blanching or fear, and his dark
eyes, from their hollow depths, shone with a clear, steadfast light.
Once more its calm spirituality, the effortless force which seemed to
lurk in every line and feature of the pale wasted countenance, had its
effect upon Mr. Thurwell. He wrung the hand which it had cost him a
suppressed effort to take, and for the moment his doubts faded away.
"God help you, Maddison!" he said fervently. "Shall I tell her anything
from you?"
A faint smile parted his tremulous lips. At that moment he was beyond
earthly suffering. A sweet, strong power had filled his heart with
peace.
"Tell her not to grieve, and that I am innocent," he said softly.
"Farewell!"