THE LAWYER'S VISIT TO HIS CLIENT.
I am his wife; full forty years
This head was pillowed on his breast;
I shared his joy, I shared his tears,
And in deep sorrow loved him best.
Yes, tempter, I am still his wife!
I hold the glory of his name!
To purchase liberty or life
I would not dim its light with shame!
If those who think that happiness exists only in those external
circumstances that surround a man, could have seen old Mr. Warren in his
prison, they would have been astonished at the placidity of his
countenance, at the calm and holy atmosphere that had made his cell
emphatically a home. His wife and grandchild haunted it with their love,
and it seemed to him--so the old man said--that God had never been quite
so near to him as since he entered these gloomy walls. He might die; the
laws might sacrifice him, innocent as he was; but should this happen, he
only knew that God permitted it for some wise purpose, which might never
be explained till the sacrifice was made.
True, life was sweet to the old man; for in his poverty and his trouble
two souls had clung to him with a degree of love that would have made
existence precious to any one. All that earth knows of heaven, strong,
pure affection had always followed him. It is only when the soul looks
back upon a waste of buried affection, a maze of broken ties, that it
thirsts to die. Resignation is known to every good Christian, but the
wild desire which makes men plunge madly toward eternity, comes of
exhausted affections and an insane use of life. Good and wise men are
seldom eager for death. They wait for it with still, solemn faith in
God, whose most august messenger it is.
There was nothing of bravado in the old man's heart; he made no
theatrical exhibition of the solemn faith that was in him; but when
visitors passed the open door of his cell--for, being upon the third
corridor, there was little chance of escape--and saw him sitting there
with that meek old woman at his feet, and an open Bible on his lap, a
huge, worn book that had been his father's, they paused involuntarily,
with that intuitive homage which goodness always wins, even from
prejudice.
A few comforts had been added to his prison furniture; for Mrs. Gray was
always bringing some cherished thing from her household stores. A
breadth of carpet lay before the bed; a swing shelf hung against the
wall, upon which two cups and saucers of Mrs. Gray's most antique and
precious china, stood in rich relief; while a pot of roses struggled
into bloom beneath the light which came through the narrow loop-hole cut
through the deep outer wall.
Altogether that prison-cell had a home-like and pleasant look. The old
man believed that it might prove the gate to death, but he was not one
to turn gloomily from the humble flowers with which God scattered his
way to the grave. He lifted his eyes gratefully to every sunbeam that
came through the wall; and when darkness surrounded him, and that
blessed old woman was forced to leave him alone, he would sit down upon
his bed, and murmur to himself, "Oh! it is well God can hear in the
dark!"
Thus as I have said, the time of trial drew near. The prisoner was
prepared and tranquil. The wife and grandchild were convinced of his
innocence, and full of gentle faith that the laws could never put a
guiltless man to death. Thus they partook somewhat of his own heavenly
composure. Mrs. Gray was always ready to cheer them with her genial
hopefulness; and Robert Otis was prompt at all times with such aid as
his youth, his strength, and his fine, generous nature enabled him to
give.
One morning, just after Mrs. Gray had left the cell--for she made a
point of accompanying the timid old woman to the prison of her
husband--Mr. Warren was disturbed by a visitor that he had never seen
before. It was a quiet demure sort of personage, clothed in black, and
with an air half-clerical, half-dissipated, that mingled rather
incongruously upon his person. He sat down by the prisoner, as a hired
nurse might cajole a child into taking medicine, and after uttering a
soft good morning, with his palm laid gently on the withered hand of the
old man, he took a survey of the cell.
Mrs. Warren stood in one corner, filling the old china cup from which
her husband had just taken his breakfast, with water; two or three
flowers, gathered from the plants in Mrs. Gray's parlor windows, lay on
the little table, whose gentle bloom this water was to keep fresh. To
another man it might have been pleasant to observe with what care this
old woman arranged the tints, and turned the cup that its brightest side
might come opposite her husband.
But the lawyer only saw that she was a woman, and reflected that the sex
might always be found useful if properly managed. Instead of being
struck by the womanly sweetness of her character, and the affection so
beautifully proved by her occupation, he began instantly to calculate
upon the uses of which she might be capable.
"Rather snug box this that they have got you in, my good friend," said
the lawyer, turning his eyes with a sidelong glance on the old man's
face, and keeping them fixed more steadily than was usual with him, for
it was seldom a face like this met his scrutiny within the walls of a
prison. "Trust that we shall get you out soon. Couldn't be in better
hands, that fine old friend of yours, a woman in a thousand, isn't
she?--confides you to my legal keeping entirely!"
"Did Mrs. Gray send you? Are you the gentleman she spoke to about my
case?" inquired the old man, turning his calm eyes upon the lawyer,
while Mrs. Warren suspended her occupation and crept to the other side
of her husband. "She wished me to talk with you. I am glad you have
come!"
"Well, my dear old friend, permit me to call you so--for if the lawyer
who saves the man from the gallows isn't his friend, I should like to
know who is. When shall we have a little quiet chat together?"
"Now, there will be no better time!"
"But this lady; in such cases one must have perfect confidence. Would
she have the goodness just to step out while we talk a little?"
"She is my wife. I have nothing to say which she does not know!"
answered the old man, turning an affectionate look upon the grateful
eyes lifted to his face.
"Your wife, ha!" cried the lawyer, rubbing his palms softly together, as
was his habit when a gleam of villainy more exquisite than usual dawned
upon him. "Perhaps not, we shall see! may want her for a witness! but we
can tell better when the case is laid out. Now go on; remember that your
lawyer is your physician; must have all the symptoms of a case, all its
parts, all its capabilities. Now just consider me as your conscience;
not exactly that, because one sometimes cheats conscience, you
know--after all there is nothing better--think that I am your
lawyer--that I have your life in my hands--that I must know the truth in
order to save it--cheat conscience, if you like, but never cheat the
lawyer who tries your case, or the doctor who feels your pulse."
"I have nothing to conceal. I am ready to tell you all," answered the
old man.
The calmness with which this was said took the lawyer somewhat aback. He
had expected that more of his cajoling eloquence would be necessary,
before his client would be won to speak frankly. His astonishment was
greatly increased, therefore, when the old man in his grave and truthful
way related everything connected with the death of William Leicester
exactly as it had happened. Nothing could be more discouraging than this
narrative, as it presented itself to the lawyer. Had the man been
absolutely guilty, his counsel would have found far less difficulty in
arranging some grounds of defence. Without some opening for legal
chicanery the lawyer felt himself lost. Unprincipled as he was, there
still existed in his mind some little feeling of interest in any case
he undertook, independent of the money to be received. He loved the
excitement, the trickery, the manoeuvering of a desperate defence. He
had a sort of fellow feeling for the clever criminal that sharpened his
talent, and sent him into court with the spirit of an old gambler.
But a case like this was something new. He did not for a moment doubt
the old man's story; there was truth breathing in every word, and
written in every line of that honest countenance. Indeed it was this
very conviction that dampened the lawyer's ardor in the case. It seemed
completely removed from his line of position. He had so long solemnly
declared his belief in the innocence of men whom he knew to be steeped
in guilt, that he felt how impossible it was for him to utter the truth
before a jury with any kind of gravity. His only resource was to make
this plain, solemn case as much like a falsehood as possible.
"And so you were entirely alone in the room?"
"Entirely."
The lawyer shook his head.
"You have no witnesses of his coming in, or of the conversation, except
this old lady and your grandchild?"
"None!"
"Your neighbors, how were you situated there? No kind fellow in the next
casement who heard a noise, and peeped through the key-hole, ha?"
The old man looked up gravely, but made no answer.
"I tell you," said the lawyer sharply, for he was nettled by the old
man's look, "yours is a desperate case!"
"I believe it is," was the gentle reply.
"A desperate case, to be cured only with desperate measures. Some person
must be found who saw this man strike the blow himself."
"But who did see it, save God and myself?"
"Your wife there, she must have seen it. The door was not quite closed;
she was curious--women always are; she looked through, saw the man
seize the knife; you tried to arrest his hand; he was a strong man; you
old and feeble. You saw all this, madam!"
The old woman was stooping forward, her thin fingers had locked
themselves together while the lawyer was speaking, and her eyes were
fixed on him, dilating like those of a bird when the serpent begins its
charm. At first she waved her head very faintly, thus denying that she
had witnessed what he described; then she began to stoop forward,
assenting, as it were, to the force and energy of his words, almost
believing that she had actually looked through the door and saw all that
the lawyer asserted.
"No, she did not see all this," answered the prisoner, quietly; "and if
she had, how would it be of use?"
"You did see it, madam!" persisted the lawyer, without removing his eyes
from the old woman's face, but fascinating her, as it were, with his
gaze--"you did see it!"
"I don't know. I--I, perhaps--yes, I think."
"But you did see it; your husband's life depends on the fact. Refresh
your memory; his life, remember--his life!"
"Yes--yes. I--I saw!"
It was not a deliberate falsehood; the weak mind was held and moulded by
a strong will. For the moment that old woman absolutely believed that
she had witnessed the scene, which had been so often impressed upon her
fancy. The lawyer saw his power, and a faint smile stole over his lip,
half undoing the work his craft had accomplished. The old woman began to
shrink slowly back; she met the calm, sorrowful gaze of her husband, and
her eyes fell under the reproach it conveyed.
The lawyer saw all this, and without giving her time to retract, went
on.
"By remembering this you have saved his life--saved him from the
gallows--his name from dishonor--his body from being mangled at the
medical college."
The old woman wove her wrinkled fingers together; the kerchief on her
bosom quivered with the struggle of her breath.
"I saw it--I saw it all!" she cried, lifting up her clasped hands and
dropping them heavily on her lap. "God forgive me, I saw it all!"
"Wife!" said the old man, in a voice so solemn that it made even the
lawyer shrink. "Wife!"
She did not answer; her head dropped upon her bosom; those old hands
unlocked and fell apart in her lap, but she muttered still, "God forgive
me, I saw it all!"
It _was_ a falsehood now, and as she uttered it the poor creature shrunk
guiltily from her husband's side, and attempted to steal out of the
cell.
"One moment," said the lawyer, beginning to kindle up in his unholy
work. "Another thing is to be settled, and then you have the proud
honor, the glorious reflection that it is to you this good, this
innocent man owes his life. How long have you been married?"
The old woman looked at a gold ring on her finger, worn almost to a
thread, and answered--
"It is near on forty years."
"Where?"
The old woman looked at her husband, but his eyes were bent sorrowfully
downward, giving her neither encouragement or reproach, so she answered
with some hesitation--
"We were married Down East, in Maine!"
"So much the better. Is the marriage registered anywhere?"
"I don't know!"
"The witnesses, where are they?"
"All dead!"
The lawyer rubbed his hands with still greater energy.
"Very good, very good indeed; nothing could be better! Just tell me,
could you prove the thing yourselves?"
"Prove what?" said Mrs. Warren, half in terror, while the prisoner
remained motionless, paralyzed, as it seemed, by the weakness of his
wife.
"Prove?--why, that you were ever married. The truth is, madam, you could
not have been married to the prisoner--never where the thing is
impossible. It spoils you for a witness--do you understand?"
"No," said the old woman--"no, how should I? What does it mean?"
"Mean?--you are not his wife!"
"Not his wife--not his wife! Why, didn't I tell you we had lived
together above forty years?"
"Certainly; no objection to that, a beautiful reproof to the slander
that there is no constancy in woman. Still you are not his
wife--remember that!"
"But I _am_ his wife. Look up, husband, and tell him if I am not your
own lawfully married wife."
"Madam," said the lawyer, in a voice that he intended should reach her
heart. "In order to save this man's life you must learn to forget as
well as to remember. You saw Leicester kill himself, that is settled. I
shall place you on the stand to prove the fact--a fact which saves your
husband from the gallows. His _wife_ would not be permitted to give this
evidence; the laws forbid it--therefore you are not his wife. They
cannot prove that you are; probably you could not easily prove it
yourself. I assert, and will maintain it, no marriage ever existed
between you and the prisoner."
"But we have lived together forty years; more than forty years!" cried
the old woman, and a blush crept slowly over her wrinkled features till
it was lost in the soft grey of her hair. "What am I then?"
"What matters a name at your time of life. Besides, the moment he is
clear you may prove your marriage before all the courts in America for
aught I care; they can't put him on trial a second time."
"And you wish me to deny that we are married--to say that I am not his
wife."
The old woman, so weak, so frail, grew absolutely stern as she spoke;
the blush fled from her face, leaving it almost sublime. The lawyer
even, felt the moral force of that look, and said, half in apology--
"It is the only way to save his life!"
"Then let him die; I could bear it better than to say he is not my
husband--I not his wife." She sunk to the floor as she spoke, and bowing
her forehead to the old man's knee, sobbed out, "Oh, husband--husband,
say that I am right now--did you hear--did you hear?"
The old man sat upright. A holy glow came over his face, and his lips
parted with a smile that was heavenly in its sweetness. He raised the
feeble woman from his feet, and putting the grey hair gently back from
her forehead, kissed it with tender reverence. Then, holding her head to
his bosom, he turned to the lawyer. "You may be satisfied, she does not
think her husband's poor life worth that price," he said. "Now leave us
together."
The lawyer went out rebuked and crest-fallen, muttering to himself as he
passed from one flight of steps to another, "Well, let the stubborn old
fellow hang, it will do him good; the prettiest case I ever laid out
spoiled for an old woman's fancy. It was badly managed, I should have
taken her alone! I verily believe the old wretch is innocent, but they
will hang him high as Haman, if the woman persists."