Free to go forth once more, but oh, How changed!
Harold.
A slight movement in the crowd near the door--a kind of waving motion
like the quiet surging of the sea--seemed to-indicate some commotion
within the court; and although Linton saw this, and judged it rightly,
as the evidence of something eventful about to happen, he sat still
to await the result with the dogged firmness with which he would have
awaited death itself.
As we are less interested spectators of the scene, let us press our
way through the tired and exhausted crowd that fill the body of the
building. And now we stand beneath the gallery, and immediately behind
a group of about half a dozen, whose dress and demeanor at once proclaim
them of the world of fashion. These are Lord Charles Frobisher and his
friends, who, with memorandum-books and timepieces before them, sit in
eager anxiety, for they have wagers on everything: on the verdict--how
the judge will charge--if the prisoner will confess--if he will
attempt a defence; and even the length of time the jury will sit in
deliberation, is the subject of a bet!
This anxiety was now at its climax, for, directly in front of them, a
small door had just opened, and a crowd of men entered, and took their
seats in the gallery.
Their grave countenances, marked by watching and eager discussion, at
once proclaimed that they were the jury.
There was a low murmur heard throughout the court as they took their
seats; and instinctively many an eye was turned towards the dock, to
watch how _he_ bore himself in that trying moment With a steady gaze
fixed upon the spot from which his doom was to be spoken, he stood
erect, with arms folded and his head high. He was deathly pale; but
not a trace of anything like fear in the calm lineaments of his manly
features.
“The jury seem very grave,” whispered Upton to Frobisher.
“I wish that stupid old judge would bestir himself,” replied Lord
Charles, looking at his watch; “it wants four minutes to five: he 'll
scarcely be in court before it strikes, and I shall lose a pony through
it.”
“Here he comes!--here he comes!” said another; and the Chief Baron
entered the court, his face betraying that he had been aroused from
sleep.
“Are you agreed, gentlemen of the jury?” asked the judge, in a low
voice.
“Not perfectly, my Lord,” said the foreman. “We want your Lordship to
decide a point for us; which is--If we should be of opinion that any
grave provocation led to the death of Kennyfeck, whether our verdict
could be modified, and our finding be, in consequence, for manslaughter,
and not murder?”
“The indictment,” said the judge, “does not give you that option. It is
framed without any count for the minor offence. I ought, perhaps, also
to observe, that nothing has transpired in the evidence given here,
this day, to warrant the impression you seem inclined to entertain. Your
verdict must be one of Guilty or Not Guilty.”
“We are of opinion, my Lord,” said a juryman, “that great latitude in
the expression of temper should be conceded to a young man reared and
educated as the prisoner has been.”
“These sentiments, honorable to you as they are, cannot be indulged
at the expense of justice, however they may find a fitting place in a
recommendation to mercy; and even this must be accompanied by something
more than sympathies.”
“Well said, old boy!” muttered Frobisher to himself. “My odds are
looking up again.”
“In that case, my Lord, we must retire again,” said the foreman; and the
jury once more quitted the court, whose occupants at once resumed all
the lounging attitudes from which the late scene had aroused them.
Exhaustion, indeed, had overcome all save the prisoner himself, who
paced the narrow limits of the dock with slow and noiseless steps,
raising his head at intervals, to watch the gallery where the jury were
to appear.
In less than half an hour the creaking of a door awoke the drowsy court,
and the jury were seen re-entering the box. They continued to talk among
each other as they took their seats, and seemed like men still under the
influence of warm discussion.
“Not agreed!” muttered Frobisher, looking at his book. “I stand to win,
even on that.”
To the formal question of the Court, the foreman for an instant made no
reply, for he was still in eager conversation with another juror.
“How say you, gentlemen of the jury? Are you agreed?”
“We are, my Lord,” said the foreman; “that is to say, some of the jury
have conceded to the rest for the sake of a verdict.”
“This does not seem to me like agreement,” interposed the judge. “If you
be not of the same mind, it will be your duty to retire once more, and
strive by the use of argument and reason to bring the minority to
your opinion; or, in failure of such result, to avow that you are not
like-minded.”
“We have done all that is possible in that respect, my Lord; and we beg
you will receive our verdict.”
“If it be your verdict, gentlemen,” said the judge, “I desire nothing
more.”
“We say, Not Guilty, my Lord,” said the foreman.
There was a solemn pause followed the words, and then a low murmur
arose, which gradually swelled till it burst forth into a very clamor,
that only the grave rebuke of the Bench reduced to the wonted decorum of
a court of justice.
“I am never disposed, gentlemen of the jury, to infringe upon the sacred
prerogative which environs your office. You are responsible to God and
your own consciences for the words you have uttered here, this day; but
my duty requires that I should be satisfied that you have come to
your conclusion by a due understanding of the facts laid before you
in evidence, by just and natural inferences from those facts, and by
weighing well and dispassionately all that you have heard here, to the
utter exclusion of anything you may have listened to outside of this
court. Is your verdict in accordance with these conditions?”
“So far, my Lord, as the mysterious circumstances of this crime admit, I
believe it is. We say 'Not Guilty,' from a firm conviction on our minds
that we are saying the truth.”
“Enough,” said the judge. “Clerk, record the verdict.” Then turning to
the dock, towards which every eye was now bent, he continued: “Roland
Cashel, a jury of your countrymen, solemnly sworn to try you on the
charge of murder, have this day pronounced you 'Not Guilty.' You go,
therefore, free from this dock, to resume that station you occupied in
society, without stain upon your character or blemish upon your fame.
The sworn verdict we have recorded obliterates the accusation. But, for
the sake of justice, for the interests of the glorious prerogative
we possess in trial by jury, for the sacred cause of truth itself, I
implore you, before quitting this court, to unravel the thread of this
dark mystery, so far as in you lies,--to fill up those blanks in the
narrative you have already given us,--to confirm, to the extent in your
power, the justice of that sentence by which you are restored once more
to the society of your friends and family. This, I say, is now your
duty; and the example you will give, in performing it, will reflect
credit upon yourself, and do service to the cause of truth, when you and
I and those around us shall be no more.”
It was with stronger show of emotion than Cashel had yet displayed that
he leaned over the dock and said,--
“My Lord, when life, and something more than life, were in peril, I
deemed it right to reserve certain details from the notoriety of this
court. I did so, not to involve any other in the suspicion of this
guilt, whose author I know not. I did not do so from any caprice, still
less from that misanthropic affectation the counsel was ungenerous
enough to ascribe to me. I believe that I had good and sufficient
reasons for the course I adopted. I still think I have such. As to the
rest, the discovery of this guilt is now become the duty of my life,--I
owe it to those whose words have set me free, and I pledge myself to the
duty.”
The Bench now conferred with the Crown lawyers as to the proceedings
necessary for the discharge of the prisoner; and already the crowds,
wearied and exhausted, began to withdraw. The interest of the scene was
over; and in the various expressions of those that passed might be read
the feelings with which they regarded the result. Many reprobated the
verdict as against law and all the facts; some attributed the “finding”
to the force of caprice; others even hinted the baser motive, that they
didn't like “to hang a man who spent his income at home;” and others,
again, surmised that bribery might have had “something to do with it.”
Few believed in Cashel's innocence of the crime; and even they said
nothing, for their convictions were more those of impulse than reason.
“Who could have thought it!” muttered Upton, as, with a knot of others,
he stood waiting for the crowd to pass out.
Frobisher shrugged his shoulders, and went on totting a line of figures
in his memorandum-book.
“Better off than I thought!” said he to himself; “seven to five taken
that he would not plead--eight to three that he would not call Linton.
Long odds upon time won: lost by verdict four hundred and fifty. Well,
it might have been worse; and I 've got a lesson--never to trust a
Jury.”
“I say, Charley,” whispered Upton, “what are you going to do?”
“How do you mean?”
“Will you go up and speak to him?” said he, with a motion of his head
towards the dock.
Frobisher's sallow cheek grew scarlet. Lost and dead to every sense of
honorable feeling for many a day, the well had not altogether dried up,
and it was with a look of cutting insolence he said,--
“No, sir; if I did not stand by him before, I 'll not be the hound to
crawl to his feet now.”
“By Jove! I don't see the thing in that light. He's all right now, and
there 's no reason why we should n't know him as we used to do.”
“Are you so certain that he will know _you?_” was Fro-bisher's sharp
reply as he turned away.
The vast moving throng pressed forward, and now all were speedily
commingled,--spectators, lawyers, jurors, witnesses. The spectacle
was over, and the empty court stood silent and noiseless, where a few
moments back human hopes and passions had surged like the waves of a
sea.
The great space in front of the court-house, filled for a few moments
by the departing crowd, grew speedily silent and empty,--for day had not
yet broken, and all were hastening homeward to seek repose. One figure
alone was seen to stand in that spot, and then move slowly, and to all
seeming irresolutely, onward. It was Cashel himself, who, undecided
whither to turn, walked listlessly and carelessly on.
As he turned a corner of a street, a jaunting-car, around which some
travellers stood, stopped the way, and he heard the words of the driver.
“There's another place to spare.”
“Where for?” asked Cashel.
“Limerick, sir,” said the man.
“Drive on, b------t you,” cried a deep voice from the other side of the
vehicle; and the fellow's whip descended with a heavy slash, and the
beast struck out into a gallop, and speedily was out of sight.
“Did n't you see who it was?” muttered the speaker to the man beside
him.
“No.”
“It was Cashel himself,--I knew him at once; and I tell you, Jones, he
would have known _me_, too, for all this disguise, when a gleam of day
came to shine.”
As for Cashel, he stood gazing after the departing vehicle, with a
strange chaos of thought working within.
“Am I then infamous?” said he at last, “that these men will not travel
in my company? Is it to this the mere accusation of crime has brought
me!” And, slight as the incident was, it told upon him as some acrid
substance would irritate and corrode an open wound,--festering the
tender surface.
“Better thus dreaded than the 'dupe' I have been!” said he, boldly,
and entered the inn, where now the preparations for the coming day had
begun. He ordered his breakfast, and post-horses for Killaloe, resolved
to see Tubbermore once again, ere he left it forever.
It was a bright morning in the early spring as Cashel drove through the
wide-spreading park of Tubbermore. Dewdrops spangled the grass, amid
which crocus and daffodil flowers were scattered. The trees were topped
with fresh buds; the birds were chirping and twittering on the branches;
the noiseless river, too, flowed past, its circling eddies looking like
blossoms on the stream. All was joyous and redolent of promise, save
him whose humbled spirit beheld in everything around him the signs of
self-reproach.
“These,” thought he, “were the rich gifts of fortune that I have
squandered. This was the paradise I have laid waste! Here, where I might
have lived happy, honored, and respected, I see myself wretched and
shunned! The defeats we meet with in hardy and hazardous enterprise are
softened down by having dared danger fearlessly,--by having combated
manfully with the enemy. But what solace is there for him whose reverses
spring from childlike weakness and imbecility,--whose life becomes the
plaything of parasites and flatterers! Could I ever have thought I
would become this? What should I have once said of him who would have
prophesied me such as I now am?”
These gloomy reveries grew deeper and darker as he wandered from place
to place, and marked the stealthy glances and timid reverences of the
peasants as they passed him. “It is only the jury have called me 'Not
Guilty,'” said he to himself; “the world has pronounced another verdict.
I have come from that dock as one might have risen from an unhonored
grave, to be looked on with fear and sorrow. Be it so; mine must be a
lonely existence.”
Every room he entered recalled some scene of his past life. Here was the
spacious hall, where, in all the excesses of the banquet, laughter had
rung and wit had sparkled, loud toasts were proffered, and high-spirited
mirth had once held sway. Here was the drawing-room, where grace and
female loveliness were blended, mingling their odors like flowers in a
“bouquet.” Here, the little chamber he had often sought to visit Lady
Kilgoff, and passed those hours of “sweet converse” wherein his whole
nature became changed, and his rude spirit softened by the tender
influences of a woman's mind. Here was his own favorite room,--the spot
from which, in many an hour snatched from the cares of host, he had
watched the wide-flowing river, and thought of the current of his own
life, mingling with his reveries many a high hope and many a glorious
promise. And now the whole scene was changed. The mirth, the laughter,
the guests, the hopes, were fled, and he stood alone in those silent
halls, that never again were to echo with the glad voice of pleasure.
The chief object of his return to Tubbermore was to regain possession
of that document which he had concealed in the cleft of a beech-tree,
before scaling the approach to the window. He found the spot without
difficulty, and soon possessed himself of the paper, the contents of
which, however, from being conveyed in a character he was not familiar
with, he could not master.
He next proceeded to the gate-lodge, desirous to see Keane, and
make some arrangement for his future support before he should leave
Tubbermore. The man, however, was absent; his wife, whose manner
betrayed considerable emotion, said that her husband had returned in
company with another, who remained without, while he hastily packed a
few articles of clothing in a bundle, and then left the house, whither
to she knew not.
Roland's last visit was to Tiernay's house; but he, too, was from home.
He had accompanied Corrigan to Dublin, intending to take leave of him
there; but a few hurried lines told that he had resolved to proceed
further with his friends, and darkly hinting that his return to the
village was more than doubtful.
Wherever Cashel turned, desertion and desolation met him; and the
cutting question that ever recurred to his mind was, “Is this _my_
doing? Are these the consequences of _my_ folly?” The looks of the
villagers seemed to tally with the accusation, as in cold respect they
touched their hats as he passed, but never spoke: “not one said God
bless him.”
He twice set out for the cottage, and twice turned back,--his over-full
heart almost choked with emotion. The very path that led thither
reminded him too fully of the past, and he turned from it into the wood,
to wander about for hours long, lost in thought.
He sought and found relief in planning out something for his future
life. The discovery of the murderer--the clearing up of the terrible
mystery that involved that crime--had become a duty, and he resolved to
apply himself to it steadily and determinedly. His unacquitted debt
of vengeance on Linton, too, was not forgotten. These accomplished, he
resolved again to betake himself to the “new world beyond seas.” Wealth
had become distasteful to him; it was associated with all that lowered
and humiliated him. He felt that with poverty his manly reliance, his
courageous daring to confront danger, would return,--that once more upon
the wild prairie, or the blue waters of the Pacific, he would grow young
of heart, and high in spirit, forgetting the puerile follies into which
a life of affluence had led him. “Would that I could believe it all a
dream!” thought he. “Would that this whole year were but a vision, and
that I could go back to what I once was, even as 'the buccaneer,' they
called me!”
His last hours in Tubbermore were spent in arrangements that showed he
never intended to return there. His household was all discharged; his
equipages and horses despatched to the capital to be sold; his books,
his plate, and all that was valuable in furniture, were ordered to
be packed up, and transmitted to Dublin. He felt a kind of malicious
pleasure in erasing and effacing, as it were, every trace of the last
few months.
“I will leave it,” muttered he, “to become the wreck I found it--would
that I could be what I was ere I knew it!”
The following day he left Tubbermore forever, and set out for Dublin.