The next six weeks dragged heavily enough for John Leslie within the
four walls of his cell at Carlisle, but, to Cynthia, they were one
long agony. She spent one short week-end with her people at Galston
and then gratefully accepted Miss Allen’s proposal that she should
stay with her till the Assizes opened at Carlisle. Her mother’s open
antagonism to John Leslie made her home unbearable to the girl and she
was thankful to get away.
Miss Allen’s tactful sympathy and uncompromising common sense acted as
a tonic to the girl and the older woman, who was never idle for long
herself, managed to keep her guest employed with a variety of small
occupations which gave her little chance to brood over the ordeal that
lay before her.
“It’s no earthly good meeting troubles half-way,” Miss Allen assured
her. “The more you think of things, the more likely you are to invent
all sorts of horrors that will probably never happen. And, for
heaven’s sake, don’t go off your food now or you’ll be fit for nothing
when the time comes.”
In spite of her sharp tongue she watched over the girl like a mother,
pampered her uncertain appetite with all sorts of unexpected and
tempting dishes and developed an almost uncanny instinct for knowing
when she was sleeping badly and would appear in her room with hot milk
and biscuits in the small hours of the morning and sit and chat until
she saw the girl’s eyelids beginning to droop. Cynthia grew to love
the sight of her bulky red-quilted dressing-gown and the grey plait
that stuck out stiffly between her shoulders.
Fayre ran down to Staveley for a fortnight and spent most of his time
over at Greycross. He and Miss Allen were fast becoming close friends
and she had already promised to be the first of his guests when the
cottage of his dreams materialized.
The rest of his time he spent in London, looking up old friends and
haunting Grey’s office, a disheartening pursuit, for the solicitor had
little enough to report as time went on.
The middle of May found them all gathered at Carlisle. Dreading the
publicity of a hotel Miss Allen had taken lodgings for herself and
Cynthia. Grey and Fayre were at the station hotel, where they were
joined by Kean on the night before the trial.
Fayre had tried in vain to persuade Cynthia not to go near the
courthouse until she was actually called as witness for the Defence,
but he received no support from either Kean or Grey, both of whom
considered that her appearance would create a good impression and, in
any case, he would not have succeeded in keeping her away. He could
only feel thankful that she was in the keeping of so staunch a friend
as Miss Allen and do all in his power to make things as easy for her
as possible.
The trial seemed to drag on interminably and it was not till the
afternoon of the sixth day that Kean rose to make his speech for the
Defence. To Fayre, who had sat through the Counsel for the Crown’s
very able address to the Jury, Leslie’s case seemed almost hopeless
and he was beginning to feel that only a miracle could save him. He
had watched Kean, on whom all their hopes rested, sitting motionless,
his face utterly impassive, apparently entirely unmoved by his rival’s
eloquence, and had tried to read his mind in vain. And all the time he
had thanked his stars that he had allowed Cynthia to influence him and
had kept back until after the trial the secret that, even now, he
dreaded to reveal to Kean. Indeed, it seemed to Fayre, during the long
hours of suspense, as though his mind had become a sort of Bluebeard’s
chamber into which he no longer dared look. So much that he could not
fathom and a little that he understood only too well he had locked
away there until after Leslie’s fate was decided. Even if Kean managed
to secure an acquittal for him Fayre could only look forward with a
kind of horror to the aftermath of the trial.
For one who wished nothing but happiness to his fellow men the world
had indeed gone agley. The knowledge that lay at the back of all his
thoughts and actions had come between him and Edward Kean and their
friendship had lost its old ease and intimacy. In his distress he had
lost all desire to see and consult with Sybil Kean and, in spite of
the fact that her health was mending rapidly and that he had had a
charming letter of invitation from her in answer to the note he had
written in Kean’s Chambers and had eventually posted from his club, he
had felt unable to face her. Fortunately her health had given no
further cause for anxiety and her improvement had been so steady that
Kean had come north for the trial comparatively free from anxiety.
He was at his best now as he stood facing the Jury. Fayre, who had
persuaded Cynthia to allow Miss Allen to take her home before lunch,
fell so completely under the spell of his eloquence that, for a few
brief moments, he forgot his personal interest in the case and was
lost in admiration of the sheer genius that inspired it. It was not
the first time he had heard Kean plead. One of his first actions on
reaching England had been to go to the Old Bailey to see his old
friend in harness. He had not been disappointed then, in spite of all
he had heard of his ability, but to-day Kean spoke like a man
inspired. One by one he took the very points which the Counsel for the
Crown had used so effectively and turned them to his client’s
advantage. He possessed a beautiful voice and knew how to make the
most of it. He had had Cynthia in the box the day before and had
examined her with a skill that was so little apparent that it was all
the more telling. And Cynthia, partly helped by her own quick wits and
partly as the result of careful coaching, had backed him up nobly. He
used her evidence now as the basis of his speech, turning even the
quarrel between her and Leslie to advantage and playing on the
emotions of his audience with a skill and audacity that was little
short of amazing. Given a Latin jury, Fayre told himself, the result
would have been a foregone conclusion by now and, not for the first
time in his life, he cursed British stolidity as he gazed hopelessly
at the inscrutable countenances of the twelve respectable citizens who
composed the jury and tried in vain to follow the progress of their
thoughts. To his excited fancy they seemed the only people in the
packed courthouse who remained totally unmoved by Kean’s eloquence.
Then, suddenly it was over and, like a douche of icy water, after the
burning flow of Kean’s impassioned appeal, came the calm, measured
accents of the Judge as he summed up.
By the time he had finished Fayre was once more in the depths of
depression and in bad shape to face the long wait while the Jury
considered their verdict. He watched them file out feeling as near
despair as he had ever been in his life and then settled down to
endure a suspense that seemed interminable but which, in reality,
lasted just over an hour and a half.
By the time the jury returned, the proceedings seemed to Fayre to have
taken on all the unreality of a nightmare. As one in a dream he heard
the Judge’s voice break the tense silence of the crowded court.
“Are you all agreed?”
“We are all agreed, My Lord.”
Then, as his numbed brain mechanically registered the fact that the
foreman, surprisingly, spoke with a strong Cockney accent instead of
the North-country burr he had expected, came the verdict.
“We find the prisoner guilty, My Lord.”