Equal to either fortune.
--Eugene Aram.
As the Crown counsel sat down, a low murmur ran through the Court,
whose meaning it would be difficult to define; for if the greater number
present were carried away by the indignant eloquence of the pleader to
believe Cashel a hardened criminal, some few still seemed to cling to
his side, and bent their eyes towards the dock with looks of sympathy
and comfort. And oh, how little know they, whose eyes are beaming with
the bright spark that warms their generous hearts, what loadstars are
they to him who stands alone, forsaken, and accused in the criminal
dock! What a resting-place does the weary and tired soul feel that
glance of kindly meaning! How does it speak to his bruised and
wounded spirit of hope and charity! What energy will it impart to the
fast-failing courage! what self-respect and self-reliance to him who, a
few moments back, was sinking beneath the abasement of despair!
Such was the effect now produced upon Roland Cashel. The array of
circumstances, so formidably marshalled by his accuser, had completely
overwhelmed him; the consciousness of innocence failed to support him
against the feeling which he saw spreading like a mist around him.
Against the accusation--against its fearful penalty--his own stout
heart could sustain him; but how bear up against the contempt and the
abhorrence of his fellow-men! Under the crushing weight of this shame he
was sinking fast, when a stray glance--a chance expression of interest,
like sunlight piercing a dark cloud--gave promise that all was not lost.
He felt that there were yet some who wished to believe him guiltless,
and that all sympathy for him had not yet died out.
“Does the prisoner desire to avail himself of the privilege he possesses
to call witnesses to character?” asked the judge.
“No, my Lord,” said Cashel, firmly, but respectfully. “Since my
accession to fortune, my life has been passed for the most part in what
is called the 'fashionable world;' and from what I have seen of it, the
society does not seem rich in those persons whose commendations, were
they to give them, would weigh heavily with your Lordship. Besides, they
could say little to my praise, which the learned counsel has not
already said to my disparagement,--that I had the command of wealth, and
squandered it without taste and without credit.”
Few and insignificant as were these words, the easy and fearless mode
of their delivery, the manly energy of him who spoke them, seemed to
produce a most favorable impression throughout the court, which as
rapidly reacted upon Cashel; for now the embers of hope were fanned, and
already glowed into a slight flicker.
“The prisoner having waived his privilege, my Lord,” said the
Attorney-General, “I beg to observe that the case is now closed.”
“Is it too late, then, my Lord, for me to address a few words to the
jury?” asked Roland, calmly.
“What say you, Mr. Attorney-General?” asked the judge.
“Your Lordship knows far better than I, that to address the Court
at this stage of the proceedings, would be to concede the right of
reply--and, in fact, of speaking twice; since the prisoner's not having
availed himself of the fitting occasion to comment on the evidence,
gives him not the slightest pretension to usurp another one.”
“Such is the law of the case,” said the judge, solemnly.
“I have nothing to observe against it, my Lord,” said Cashel. “If I have
not availed myself of the privilege accorded to men placed as I am, I
must only submit to the penalty my pride has brought upon me,--for it
was pride, my Lord. Since that, however, another, and I hope a higher
pride has animated me, to vindicate my character and my fame; so that,
at some future day--a long future, it may be--when the true facts of
this dark mystery shall be brought to light, a more cautious spirit will
pervade men's minds as to the guilt of him assailed by circumstantial
evidence. It might be, my Lord, that all I could adduce in my own behalf
would weigh little against the weight of accusations which even to
myself appear terribly consistent. I know, for I feel, how hard it would
be to accept the cold unsupported narrative of a prisoner, in which many
passages might occur of doubtful probability, some of even less credit,
and some again of an obscurity to which even he himself could not afford
the clew; and yet, with all these difficulties, enhanced tenfold by my
little knowledge of the forms of a court, and my slender capacity,
I regret, my Lord, that I am unable to address the few words I had
intended to the jury,--less, believe me, to avert the shipwreck that
awaits myself, than to be a beacon to some other who may be as solitary
and unfriended as I am.”
These words, delivered with much feeling, but in a spirit of calm
determination, seemed to thrill through the entire assemblage; and even
the senior judge stopped to confer for some minutes with his brother
on the bench, in evident hesitation what course to adopt. At length he
said,--
“However we may regret the course you have followed in thus depriving
yourself of that legitimate defence the constitution of our country
provides, we see no sufficient reason to deviate from the common order
of proceeding in like cases. I will now, therefore, address the
jury, who have already heard your words, and will accord them any
consideration they may merit.”
“It may be, my Lord,” said Cashel, “that evidence so strongly imbued
with probability may induce the gentlemen in that box to believe me
guilty; in which case, I understand, your Lordship would address to me
the formal question, 'If I had anything to say why sentence of death
should not be passed upon me.' Now, if I am rightly informed, any
observations of a prisoner at such a moment are regarded rather in the
light of petitions for mercy, than as explanations or corrections of
falsehood. I have, therefore, only now to say, that, whatever
decision you may come to, the Court shall not be troubled further with
interference of mine.”
The Judge bowed slightly, as if in reply to this, and began his
charge; but the foreman of the jury, leaning forward, said that his
fellow-jurors had desired him to ask, as a favor to themselves, that the
prisoner might be heard. A short conference ensued between the Bench and
the Crown counsel, which ended by the permission being accorded; and now
Cashel rose to address the Court.
“I will not,” said he, “abuse the time of this Court by any irrelevant
matter, nor will I advert to a single circumstance foreign to the
substance of the charge against me. I purpose simply to give a narrative
of the last day I passed with my poor friend, and to leave on record
this detail as the solemn protestation of innocence of one who has too
little to live for to fear death.”
With this brief preface he began a regular history of that eventful
day, from the hour he had started from Tubbermore in company with Mr.
Kennyfeck.
The reader is already familiar with every step and circumstance of
that period, so that it is not necessary we should weary him by any
recapitulation; enough if we say that Cashel proceeded with a minuteness
devoid of all prolixity, to mention each fact as it occurred, commenting
as he went on upon the evidence already given, and explaining its
import without impugning its truth. Juries are ever disposed to listen
favorably to a speaker who brings to his aid no other allies than candor
and frankness, and who, without pretensions to legal acuteness, narrates
facts with clear and distinctive precision. Leaving him, therefore,
still speaking, and in the irresistible force of truth gradually winning
upon his hearers, let us quit the court for a brief time, and passing
through the crowded space before the doors, traverse the town, densely
thronged by curious and eager visitors. We do not mean to linger with
them, nor overhear the comments they passed upon the eventful scene
beside them; our business is about a mile off, at a small public-house
at a short distance from the roadside, usually frequented by
cattle-dealers and the customers at the weekly markets. Here, in a
meanly-furnished room, where, for it was now evening, a common dip
candle shed its lugubrious yellow light upon the rude appliances of
vulgar life, sat a man, whose eager expectancy was marked in every line
of his figure. Every now and then he would arise from his chair, and,
screening the candle from the wind, open the window to look out.
The night was dark and gusty; drifting rain beat at intervals against
the glass, and seemed the forerunner of a great storm. The individual
we have spoken of did not seem to care for, if he even noticed, the
inclemency; he brushed the wet from his bushy beard and mustaches with
indifference, and bent his ear to listen to the sounds upon the road in
deepest earnestness. At last the sound of horses' feet and wheels was
heard rapidly approaching, and a car drove up to the door, from which a
man, wrapped up in a loose frieze coat, descended, and quickly mounted
the stairs. As he reached the landing, the door of the room was thrown
vide, and the other man, in a low, but distinct, voice said, “Well, what
news?”
“All right,” said he of the frieze coat, as, throwing off the wet
garment, he discovered the person of Mr. Clare Jones. “Nothing could
possibly go better; my cross-examination clinched Keane's evidence
completely, and no jury could get over it.”
“I almost wish you had let him alone,” said the other, gruffly, and in
evident discontent; “I foresee that the sympathy the scoundrel affected
will be troublesome to us yet.”
“I have no fears on that head,” replied the other, confidently. “The
facts are there, and Crankle's speech to evidence ripped him up in a
terrific manner.”
“Did he allude to the Spanish girl?”
“He did, and with great effect.”
“And the Kilgoff affair--did he bring 'My Lady' up for judgment?”
“No. The Attorney-General positively forbade all allusion to that
business.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the other, with a savage sneer. “'The Court' was too
sacred for such profanation.”
“I think he was right, too,” said Jones. “The statement could never have
been brought to bear upon the case before the Court. It would have
been a mere episode outside of the general history, and just as likely
impress the Jury with the opinion that all the charges were trumped up
to gain a conviction in any way.”
The other paused, and seemed to reflect for some minutes, when he said,
“Well, what are they about now?”
“When I left, the Court had just refused Cashel's demand to address the
jury. The Chief Baron had ruled against him, and, of course, the
charge is now being pronounced. As I know how this must run, I took the
opportunity of coming over here to see you.”
“_My_ name was but once mentioned, you tell me,” said the other, in an
abrupt manner.
“It was stated that you were dangerously ill, without hope of recovery,”
said Jones, faltering, and with evident awkwardness.
“And not alluded to again?” asked the other, whom there is no need of
calling Mr. Linton.
“Yes, once passingly,” said Jones, still faltering.
“How do you mean, passingly?” asked Linton, in anger.
“The Crown lawyers brought forward that note of yours from Ennismore.”
Linton dashed his closed fist against the table, and uttered a horrible
and blasphemous oath.
“Some bungling of yours, I'll be sworn, brought this about,” said he,
savagely; “some piece of that adroit chicanery that always recoils upon
its projector.”
“I 'll not endure this language, sir,” said Jones. “I have done more
to serve you than any man would have stooped to in my profession. Unsay
those words.”
“I do unsay them. I ask pardon for them, my dear Jones. I never meant
them seriously,” said Linton, in that fawning tone he could so well
assume. “You ought to know me better than to think that _I_, who have
sworn solemnly to make your fortune, could entertain such an opinion of
you. Tell me now of this. Did Cashel say anything as the note was read?”
“Not a syllable.”
“How did he look?”
“He smiled slightly.”
“Ah, he smiled,” said Linton, growing pale; “he smiled! He can do that
when he is most determined.”
“What avails all his determination now? No narrative of his can shake
the testimony which the examination has confirmed. It was a masterstroke
of yours, Mr. Linton, to think of supplying him with counsel.”
Linton smiled superciliously, as though he was accustomed to higher
flights of treachery than this. “So then,” said he, at length, “you say
the case is strong against him?”
“It could scarcely be stronger.”
“And the feeling--how is the feeling of the Court?”
“Variable, I should say; in the galleries, and among the fashionably
dressed part of the assemblage, inclined somewhat in his favor.”
“How? Did not the charge of attempted bigamy tell against him with his
fair allies?”
“Not so much as I had hoped.”
“What creatures women are!” said Linton, holding up his hands. “And how
are they betting? What says Frobisher?”
“He affects to think it no case for odds; he says there 's a little
fellow in the jury-box never was known to say 'Guilty.'”
“A scheme to win money,--a stale trick, my Lord Charles!” muttered
Linton, contemptuously; “but I've no objection to hedge a little, for
all that.”
“I must be going,” said Jones, looking at his watch; “the charge will
soon be over, and I must look to the proceedings.”
“Will they be long in deliberation, think you?” asked Linton.
“I suspect not; they are all weary and tired. It is now ten o'clock.”
“I thought it later,” said Linton, thoughtfully; “time lags heavily with
him whose mind is in expectancy. Hark! there is some one below talking
of the trial! What says he?”
“He speaks of Cashel as still addressing the Court. Can they have
consented to hear him, after all?”
A fearful curse broke from Linton, and he closed the door noiselessly.
“See to this, Jones; see to it speedily. My mind misgives me that
something will go wrong.”
“You say that you know him thoroughly, and that he never would--”
“No, no,” broke in Linton, passionately; “he'll not break one tittle of
his word, even to save his life! When he promised me that all should be
secret between us, he made no reservations, and you 'll see that he 'll
not avail himself of such privileges now. I do know him thoroughly.”
“Then what, or whence, is your fear?”
Linton made no other answer than a gesture of his hand, implying some
vague and indistinct dread. “But go,” said he, “and go quickly. You
ought never to have left the court. Had you remained, perhaps this might
have been prevented. If all goes right, you 'll be here by daybreak at
furthest, and Keane along with you. Take care of that, Jones; don't
lose sight of him. If--if--we are unfortunate--and do you think such
possible?”
“Everything is possible with a jury.”
“True,” said he, thoughtfully; “it is an issue we should never have left
it to. But away; hasten back. Great Heaven! only to think how much hangs
upon the next half-hour!”
“To Cashel, you mean?” said Jones, as he prepared himself for the road.
“No; I mean to _me_, I _do_ know him thoroughly; and well I know the
earth would be too narrow to live upon, were that man once more free and
at liberty.”
In his eagerness for Jones's departure, he almost pushed him from the
room; and then, when he had closed and locked the door again, he sat
down beside the low flickering fire, and as the fitful light played upon
his features, all the appliances of disguise he wore could not hide the
terrible ravages that long corroding anxiety had made in him. Far more
did he resemble the arraigned criminal than he who now stood in the
dock, and with a cheek blanched only by imprisonment, waited calm,
collected, and erect--“Equal to either fortune.”
Linton had often felt all the terrible suspense which makes the paradise
or the hell of the gambler: he had known what it was to have his whole
fortune on the issue, at a moment when the rushing mob of horsemen and
foot concealed the winning horse from view, and mingled in their mad
cheers the names of those whose victory had been his ruin and disgrace.
He had watched the rolling die, on whose surface, as it turned, all he
owned in the world was staked; he had sat gazing on the unturned card,
on which his destiny was already written;--and yet all these moments of
agonizing suspense were as nothing compared to that he now suffered, as
he sat with bent down head trying to catch the sounds which from time to
time the wind bore along from the town.
As if to feed his mind with hope, he would recapitulate to himself all
the weighty and damnatory details which environed Cashel, and which, by
their singular consistency and coherence, seemed irrefutable. He would
even reckon them upon his fingers, as “so many chances against him.” He
would try to imagine himself one of the jury, listening to the evidence
and the charge; and asked himself “were it possible to reject such
proofs?” He pictured to his mind Cashel addressing the Court with all
that rash and impetuous eloquence so characteristic of him, and which,
to more trained and sober tempers, would indicate a nature little
subject to the cold discipline of restraint; and from all these
speculative dreams he would start suddenly up, to lean out of the window
and listen. Other thoughts, too, would cross his mind, scarcely less
distracting. What would become of himself should Cashel escape? Whither
should he retire? If, at one moment, he half resolved to “stand his
ground” in the world, and trust to his consummate skill in secret
calumny to ruin him, another reflection showed that Cashel would not
play out the game on these conditions. A duel, in which one at least
must fall, would be inevitable; and although this was an ordeal he had
braved oftener than most men, he had no courage to dare it now. Through
all this tangled web of harassing hope and fear, regrets deep and
poignant entered, that he had not worked his ruin by slower and safer
steps. “I might have been both judge and jury--ay, and executioner too,”
muttered he, “had I been patient.” And here he gave a low, sardonic
laugh. “When the hour of confiscation came, I might have played the
Crown's part also.” But so is it: there is no halting in the downward
course of wickedness; the very pleadings of self-interest cannot
save men from the commission of _crimes_, by which they are to hide
_follies_.
The slow hours of the night dragged heavily on; the fire had gone out,
and the candle too--unnoticed, and Linton sat in the dark, brooding over
his gloomy thoughts. At one moment he would start up, and wonder if the
whole were not a terrible dream,--the nightmare of his own imagination;
and it was only after an effort he remembered where he was, and with
what object. He could not see his watch to tell the hour, but he knew it
must be late, since the fire had long since died out, and the room was
cold and chill. The agony of expectation became at last too great to
endure; he felt his way to the door and passed out, and groping down the
narrow stair, reached the outer door, and the road.
All was dark and lonely; not a sound of horseman or foot-traveller broke
the dreary stillness of the hour, as Linton, urged on by an impulse
he could not restrain, took his way towards the town. The distance was
scarcely above a mile, but his progress was slow, for the road was wet
and slippery, and the darkness very great. At last he reached the long
straggling suburb, with its interminable streets of wretched hovels; but
even here none were yet astir, and not a light was seen to glimmer. To
this succeeded the narrow streets of the town itself,--where, at long
intervals, a dusky yellow haze glimmered by way of lamplight. Stopping
beneath one of these, Linton examined his watch, and found that it was
near five o'clock. The lateness of the hour, and the unbroken stillness
on every side, half induced him to believe that “all was over,” and
Cashel's fate sealed for good or evil; but then Jones would have
hastened back to bring the tidings! There could not be a doubt on this
head. Urged onward to greater speed by emotions which now were scarcely
supportable, he traversed street after street in frantic haste; when
suddenly, on turning a corner, he came in front of a large building,
from whose windows, dimmed by steam, a great blaze of light issued, and
fell in long columns upon the “Square” in front. A dense, dark mass
of human figures crowded the wide doorway, but they were silent and
motionless all. Within the court, too, the stillness was unbroken; for
as Linton listened he could now hear a cough, which resounded through
the building.
“The jury are in deliberation,” thought he, and sat down upon the step
of a door, his eyes riveted upon the court-house, and his heart beating
so that he could count its strokes. Not far from him, as he sat there,
scarcely a hundred paces off, within the building, there sat another
man, waiting with a high throbbing heart for that word to be uttered
which should either open the door of his prison, or close that of the
grave upon him forever. The moments of expectancy were terrible to both!
they were life-long agonies distilled to seconds; and he who could live
through their pains must come forth from the trial a changed man forever
after.