THE SUB-POENA.
"And must it then depend on this poor eye
And this unsteady hand, whether the bark,
That bears my all of treasured hope and love,
Shall find a passage through these frowning rocks
To some fair port where peace and safety smile,--
Or whether it shall blindly dash against them,
And miserably sink? Heaven be my help;
And clear my eye, and nerve my trembling hand!"
"THE CONSTANT WOMAN."
Her heart beating, her head full of ideas, which required time and
solitude to be reduced into order, Mary hurried home. She was like
one who finds a jewel of which he cannot all at once ascertain the
value, but who hides his treasure until some quiet hour when he may
ponder over the capabilities its possession unfolds. She was like one
who discovers the silken clue which guides to some bower of bliss,
and secure of the power within his grasp, has to wait for a time
before he may tread the labyrinth.
But no jewel, no bower of bliss was ever so precious to miser or
lover as was the belief which now pervaded Mary's mind, that Jem's
innocence might be proved, without involving any suspicion of that
other--that dear one, so dear, although so criminal--on whose part in
this cruel business she dared not dwell even in thought. For if she
did, there arose the awful question,--if all went against Jem the
innocent, if judge and jury gave the verdict forth which had the
looming gallows in the rear, what ought she to do, possessed of her
terrible knowledge? Surely not to inculpate her father--and yet--and
yet--she almost prayed for the blessed unconsciousness of death or
madness, rather than that awful question should have to be answered
by her.
But now a way seemed opening, opening yet more clear. She was
thankful she had thought of the _alibi_, and yet more thankful to
have so easily obtained the clue to Jem's whereabouts that miserable
night. The bright light that her new hope threw over all seemed also
to make her thankful for the early time appointed for the trial. It
would be easy to catch Will Wilson on his return from the Isle of
Man, which he had planned should be on the Monday; and on the Tuesday
all would be made clear--all that she dared to wish to be made clear.
She had still to collect her thoughts and freshen her memory enough
to arrange how to meet with Will--for to the chances of a letter she
would not trust; to find out his lodgings when in Liverpool; to try
and remember the name of the ship in which he was to sail: and the
more she considered these points the more difficulty she found there
would be in ascertaining these minor but important facts. For you are
aware that Alice, whose memory was clear and strong on all points in
which her heart was interested, was lying in a manner senseless: that
Jane Wilson was (to use her own word, so expressive to a Lancashire
ear) "dazed," that is to say, bewildered, lost in the confusion of
terrifying and distressing thoughts; incapable of concentrating her
mind; and at the best of times Will's proceedings were a matter of
little importance to her (or so she pretended), she was so jealous of
aught which distracted attention from her pearl of price, her only
son Jem. So Mary felt hopeless of obtaining any intelligence of the
sailor's arrangements from her.
Then, should she apply to Jem himself? No! she knew him too well.
She felt how thoroughly he must ere now have had it in his power to
exculpate himself at another's expense. And his tacit refusal so to
do had assured her of what she had never doubted, that the murderer
was safe from any impeachment of his. But then neither would he
consent, she feared, to any steps which might tend to prove himself
innocent. At any rate, she could not consult him. He was removed to
Kirkdale, and time pressed. Already it was Saturday at noon. And even
if she could have gone to him, I believe she would not. She longed to
do all herself; to be his liberator, his deliverer; to win him life,
though she might never regain his lost love, by her own exertions.
And oh! how could she see him to discuss a subject in which both
knew who was the blood-stained man; and yet whose name might not be
breathed by either, so dearly with all his faults, his sins, was he
loved by both.
All at once, when she had ceased to try and remember, the name of
Will's ship flashed across her mind.
The _John Cropper_.
He had named it, she had been sure, all along. He had named it in his
conversation with her that last, that fatal Thursday evening. She
repeated it over and over again, through a nervous dread of again
forgetting it. The _John Cropper_.
And then, as if she were rousing herself out of some strange stupor,
she bethought her of Margaret. Who so likely as Margaret to treasure
every little particular respecting Will, now Alice was dead to all
the stirring purposes of life?
She had gone thus far in her process of thought, when a neighbour
stepped in; she with whom they had usually deposited the house-key,
when both Mary and her father were absent from home, and who
consequently took upon herself to answer all inquiries, and receive
all messages which any friends might make, or leave, on finding the
house shut up.
"Here's somewhat for you, Mary! A policeman left it."
A bit of parchment.
Many people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of parchment.
I am one. Mary was another. Her heart misgave her as she took it,
and looked at the unusual appearance of the writing, which, though
legible enough, conveyed no idea to her, or rather her mind shut
itself up against receiving any idea, which after all was rather a
proof she had some suspicion of the meaning that awaited her.
"What is it?" asked she, in a voice from which all the pith and
marrow of strength seemed extracted.
"Nay! how should I know? Policeman said he'd call again towards
evening, and see if you'd getten it. He were loth to leave it, though
I telled him who I was, and all about my keeping th' key, and taking
messages."
"What is it about?" asked Mary again, in the same hoarse, feeble
voice, and turning it over in her fingers, as if she dreaded to
inform herself of its meaning.
"Well! yo can read word of writing and I cannot, so it's queer I
should have to tell you. But my master says it's a summons for yo to
bear witness again Jem Wilson, at th' trial at Liverpool Assize."
"God pity me!" said Mary, faintly, as white as a sheet.
"Nay, wench, never take on so. What yo can say will go little way
either to help or to hinder, for folk say he's certain to be hung;
and sure enough it was t'other one as was your sweetheart."
But Mary was beyond any pang this speech would have given at another
time. Her thoughts were all busy picturing to herself the terrible
occasion of their next meeting--not as lovers meet should they meet!
"Well!" said the neighbour, seeing no use in remaining with one who
noticed her words or her presence so little; "thou'lt tell policeman
thou'st getten his precious bit of paper. He seemed to think I should
be keeping it for mysel; he's th' first as has ever misdoubted me
about giving messages, or notes. Good day."
She left the house, but Mary did not know it. She sat still with the
parchment in her hand.
All at once she started up. She would take it to Job Legh and ask him
to tell her the true meaning, for it could not be _that_.
So she went, and choked out her words of inquiry.
"It's a sub-poena," he replied, turning the parchment over with the
air of a connoisseur; for Job loved hard words, and lawyer-like
forms, and even esteemed himself slightly qualified for a lawyer,
from the smattering of knowledge he had picked up from an odd volume
of Blackstone that he had once purchased at a book-stall.
"A sub-poena--what is that?" gasped Mary, still in suspense.
Job was struck with her voice, her changed, miserable voice, and
peered at her countenance from over his spectacles.
"A sub-poena is neither more nor less than this, my dear. It's a
summonsing you to attend, and answer such questions as may be asked
of you regarding the trial of James Wilson, for the murder of Henry
Carson; that's the long and short of it, only more elegantly put, for
the benefit of them who knows how to value the gift of language. I've
been a witness before-time myself; there's nothing much to be afeared
on; if they are impudent, why, just you be impudent, and give 'em tit
for tat."
"Nothing much to be afeared on!" echoed Mary, but in such a different
tone.
"Ay, poor wench, I see how it is. It'll go hard with thee a bit, I
dare say; but keep up thy heart. Yo cannot have much to tell 'em,
that can go either one way or th' other. Nay! may be thou may do
him a bit o' good, for when they set eyes on thee, they'll see fast
enough how he came to be so led away by jealousy; for thou'rt a
pretty creature, Mary, and one look at thy face will let 'em into th'
secret of a young man's madness, and make 'em more ready to pass it
over."
"Oh! Job, and won't you ever believe me when I tell you he's
innocent? Indeed, and indeed I can prove it; he was with Will all
that night; he was, indeed, Job!"
"My wench! whose word hast thou for that?" said Job, pityingly.
"Why! his mother told me, and I'll get Will to bear witness to it.
But, oh! Job" (bursting into tears), "it is hard if you won't believe
me. How shall I clear him to strangers, when those who know him, and
ought to love him, are so set against his being innocent?"
"God knows, I'm not against his being innocent," said Job, solemnly.
"I'd give half my remaining days on earth,--I'd give them all, Mary
(and but for the love I bear to my poor blind girl, they'd be no
great gift), if I could save him. You've thought me hard, Mary, but
I'm not hard at bottom, and I'll help you if I can; that I will,
right or wrong," he added; but in a low voice, and coughed the
uncertain words away the moment afterwards.
"Oh, Job! if you will help me," exclaimed Mary, brightening up
(though it was but a wintry gleam after all), "tell me what to say,
when they question me; I shall be so gloppened, [46] I shan't know
what to answer."
[Footnote 46: "Gloppened," terrified.]
"Thou canst do nought better than tell the truth. Truth's best at
all times, they say; and for sure it is when folk have to do with
lawyers; for they're 'cute and cunning enough to get it out sooner or
later, and it makes folk look like Tom Noddies, when truth follows
falsehood, against their will."
"But I don't know the truth; I mean--I can't say rightly what I mean;
but I'm sure, if I were pent up, and stared at by hundreds of folk,
and asked ever so simple a question, I should be for answering
it wrong; if they asked me if I had seen you on a Saturday, or a
Tuesday, or any day, I should have clean forgotten all about it, and
say the very thing I should not."
"Well, well, don't go for to get such notions into your head; they're
what they call 'narvous,' and talking on 'em does no good. Here's
Margaret! bless the wench! Look, Mary, how well she guides hersel."
Job fell to watching his grand-daughter, as with balancing, measured
steps, timed almost as if to music, she made her way across the
street.
Mary shrank as if from a cold blast--shrank from Margaret! The blind
girl, with her reserve, her silence, seemed to be a severe judge;
she, listening, would be such a check to the trusting earnestness of
confidence, which was beginning to unlock the sympathy of Job. Mary
knew herself to blame; felt her errors in every fibre of her heart;
but yet she would rather have had them spoken about, even in terms of
severest censure, than have been treated in the icy manner in which
Margaret had received her that morning.
"Here's Mary," said Job, almost as if he wished to propitiate his
grand-daughter, "come to take a bit of dinner with us, for I'll
warrant she's never thought of cooking any for herself to-day; and
she looks as wan and pale as a ghost."
It was calling out the feeling of hospitality, so strong and warm in
most of those who have little to offer, but whose heart goes eagerly
and kindly with that little. Margaret came towards Mary with a
welcoming gesture, and a kinder manner by far than she had used in
the morning.
"Nay, Mary, thou know'st thou'st getten nought at home," urged Job.
And Mary, faint and weary, and with a heart too aching-full of other
matters to be pertinacious in this, withdrew her refusal.
They ate their dinner quietly; for to all it was an effort to speak,
and after one or two attempts they had subsided into silence.
When the meal was ended Job began again on the subject they all had
at heart.
"Yon poor lad at Kirkdale will want a lawyer to see they don't put on
him, but do him justice. Hast thought of that?"
Mary had not, and felt sure his mother had not.
Margaret confirmed this last supposition.
"I've but just been there, and poor Jane is like one dateless; so
many griefs come on her at once. One time she seems to make sure
he'll be hung; and if I took her in that way, she flew out (poor
body!) and said, that in spite of what folk said, there were them as
could, and would prove him guiltless. So I never knew where to have
her. The only thing she was constant in, was declaring him innocent."
"Mother-like!" said Job.
"She meant Will, when she spoke of them that could prove him
innocent. He was with Will on Thursday night, walking a part of the
way with him to Liverpool; now the thing is to lay hold on Will and
get him to prove this." So spoke Mary, calm, from the earnestness of
her purpose.
"Don't build too much on it, my dear," said Job.
"I do build on it," replied Mary, "because I know it's the truth, and
I mean to try and prove it, come what may. Nothing you can say will
daunt me, Job, so don't you go and try. You may help, but you cannot
hinder me doing what I'm resolved on."
They respected her firmness of determination, and Job almost gave
in to her belief, when he saw how steadfastly she was acting upon
it. Oh! surest way of conversion to our faith, whatever it may
be,--regarding either small things, or great,--when it is beheld as
the actuating principle, from which we never swerve! When it is seen
that, instead of over-much profession, it is worked into the life,
and moves every action!
Mary gained courage as she instinctively felt she had made way with
one at least of her companions.
"Now I'm clear about this much," she continued, "he was with Will
when the--shot was fired (she could not bring herself to say, when
the murder was committed, when she remembered _who_ it was that, she
had every reason to believe, was the taker-away of life). Will can
prove this. I must find Will. He wasn't to sail till Tuesday. There's
time enough. He was to come back from his uncle's, in the Isle of
Man, on Monday. I must meet him in Liverpool, on that day, and tell
him what has happened, and how poor Jem is in trouble, and that he
must prove an _alibi_, come Tuesday. All this I can and will do,
though perhaps I don't clearly know how, just at present. But surely
God will help me. When I know I'm doing right, I will have no fear,
but put my trust in Him; for I'm acting for the innocent and good,
and not for my own self, who have done so wrong. I have no fear when
I think of Jem, who is so good."
She stopped, oppressed with the fulness of her heart. Margaret began
to love her again; to see in her the same sweet, faulty, impulsive,
lovable creature she had known in the former Mary Barton, but with
more of dignity, self-reliance, and purpose.
Mary spoke again.
"Now I know the name of Will's vessel--the _John Cropper_; and I
know that she is bound to America. That is something to know. But
I forget, if I ever heard, where he lodges in Liverpool. He spoke of
his landlady, as a good, trustworthy woman; but if he named her name,
it has slipped my memory. Can you help me, Margaret?"
She appealed to her friend calmly and openly, as if perfectly aware
of, and recognising the unspoken tie which bound her and Will
together; she asked her in the same manner in which she would have
asked a wife where her husband dwelt. And Margaret replied in the
like calm tone, two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone bearing
witness to any internal agitation.
"He lodges at a Mrs. Jones's, Milk-House Yard, out of Nicholas
Street. He has lodged there ever since he began to go to sea; she is
a very decent kind of woman, I believe."
"Well, Mary! I'll give you my prayers," said Job. "It's not often
I pray regular, though I often speak a word to God, when I'm either
very happy or very sorry; I've catched myself thanking Him at odd
hours when I've found a rare insect, or had a fine day for an
out; but I cannot help it, no more than I can talking to a friend.
But this time I'll pray regular for Jem, and for you. And so will
Margaret, I'll be bound. Still, wench! what think yo of a lawyer? I
know one, Mr. Cheshire, who's rather given to th' insect line--and a
good kind o' chap. He and I have swopped specimens many's the time,
when either of us had a duplicate. He'll do me a kind turn, I'm sure.
I'll just take my hat, and pay him a visit."
No sooner said, than done.
Margaret and Mary were left alone. And this seemed to bring back the
feeling of awkwardness, not to say estrangement.
But Mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was the first to
break silence.
"Oh, Margaret!" said she, "I see--I feel how wrong you think I have
acted; you cannot think me worse than I think myself, now my eyes are
opened." Here her sobs came choking up her voice.
"Nay," Margaret began, "I have no right to--"
"Yes, Margaret, you have a right to judge; you cannot help it; only
in your judgment remember mercy, as the Bible says. You, who have
been always good, cannot tell how easy it is at first to go a little
wrong, and then how hard it is to go back. Oh! I little thought when
I was first pleased with Mr. Carson's speeches, how it would all end;
perhaps in the death of him I love better than life."
She burst into a passion of tears. The feelings pent up through the
day would have vent. But checking herself with a strong effort, and
looking up at Margaret as piteously as if those calm, stony eyes
could see her imploring face, she added,
"I must not cry; I must not give way; there will be time enough
for that hereafter, if--I only wanted you to speak kindly to me,
Margaret, for I am very, very wretched; more wretched than any
one can ever know; more wretched, I sometimes fancy, than I have
deserved,--but that's wrong, isn't it, Margaret? Oh! I have done
wrong, and I am punished; you cannot tell how much."
Who could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of humility? Who
would refuse the kindness for which she begged so penitently? Not
Margaret. The old friendly manner came back. With it, may be, more of
tenderness.
"Oh! Margaret, do you think he can be saved; do you think they can
find him guilty if Will comes forward as a witness? Won't that be a
good _alibi_?"
Margaret did not answer for a moment.
"Oh, speak! Margaret," said Mary, with anxious impatience.
"I know nought about law, or _alibis_," replied Margaret, meekly;
"but, Mary, as grandfather says, aren't you building too much on
what Jane Wilson has told you about his going with Will? Poor soul,
she's gone dateless, I think, with care, and watching, and over-much
trouble; and who can wonder? Or Jem may have told her he was going,
by way of a blind."
"You don't know Jem," said Mary, starting from her seat in a hurried
manner, "or you would not say so."
"I hope I may be wrong; but think, Mary, how much there is against
him. The shot was fired with his gun; he it was as threatened Mr.
Carson not many days before; he was absent from home at that very
time, as we know, and, as I'm much afeared, some one will be called
on to prove; and there's no one else to share suspicion with him."
Mary heaved a deep sigh.
"But, Margaret, he did not do it," Mary again asserted.
Margaret looked unconvinced.
"I can do no good, I see, by saying so, for none on you believe me,
and I won't say so again till I can prove it. Monday morning I'll go
to Liverpool. I shall be at hand for the trial. Oh dear! dear! And I
will find Will; and then, Margaret, I think you'll be sorry for being
so stubborn about Jem."
"Don't fly off, dear Mary; I'd give a deal to be wrong. And now I'm
going to be plain spoken. You'll want money. Them lawyers is no
better than a spunge for sucking up money; let alone your hunting out
Will, and your keep in Liverpool, and what not. You must take some of
the mint I've got laid by in the old tea-pot. You have no right to
refuse, for I offer it to Jem, not to you; it's for his purposes
you're to use it."
"I know--I see. Thank you, Margaret; you're a kind one, at any
rate. I take it for Jem; and I'll do my very best with it for him.
Not all, though; don't think I'll take all. They'll pay me for my
keep. I'll take this," accepting a sovereign from the hoard which
Margaret produced out of its accustomed place in the cupboard. "Your
grandfather will pay the lawyer. I'll have nought to do with him,"
shuddering as she remembered Job's words, about lawyers' skill in
always discovering the truth, sooner or later; and knowing what was
the secret she had to hide.
"Bless you! don't make such ado about it," said Margaret, cutting
short Mary's thanks. "I sometimes think there's two sides to the
commandment; and that we may say, 'Let others do unto you, as you
would do unto them,' for pride often prevents our giving others a
great deal of pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their
hearts are longing to help; and when we ourselves should wish to do
just the same, if we were in their place. Oh! how often I've been
hurt, by being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about
their care, or sorrow, when I saw them in great grief, and wanted to
be of comfort. Our Lord Jesus was not above letting folk minister to
Him, for He knew how happy it makes one to do aught for another. It's
the happiest work on earth."
Mary had been too much engrossed by watching what was passing in the
street to attend very closely to that which Margaret was saying. From
her seat she could see out of the window pretty plainly, and she
caught sight of a gentleman walking alongside of Job, evidently in
earnest conversation with him, and looking keen and penetrating
enough to be a lawyer. Job was laying down something to be attended
to she could see, by his up-lifted fore-finger, and his whole
gesture; then he pointed and nodded across the street to his own
house, as if inducing his companion to come in. Mary dreaded lest he
should, and she be subjected to a closer cross-examination than she
had hitherto undergone, as to why she was so certain that Jem was
innocent. She feared he was coming; he stepped a little towards the
spot. No! it was only to make way for a child, tottering along, whom
Mary had overlooked. Now Job took him by the button, so earnestly
familiar had he grown. The gentleman looked "fidging fain" to be
gone, but submitted in a manner that made Mary like him in spite
of his profession. Then came a volley of last words, answered by
briefest nods, and monosyllables; and then the stranger went off with
redoubled quickness of pace, and Job crossed the street with a little
satisfied air of importance on his kindly face.
"Well! Mary," said he on entering, "I've seen the lawyer, not Mr.
Cheshire though; trials for murder, it seems, are not his line o'
business. But he gived me a note to another 'torney; a fine fellow
enough, only too much of a talker; I could hardly get a word in, he
cut me so short. However, I've just been going over the principal
points again to him; may be you saw us? I wanted him just to come
over and speak to you himsel, Mary, but he was pressed for time; and
he said your evidence would not be much either here or there. He's
going to the 'sizes first train on Monday morning, and will see Jem,
and hear the ins and outs from him, and he's gived me his address,
Mary, and you and Will are to call on him (Will 'special) on Monday
at two o'clock. Thou'rt taking it in, Mary; thou'rt to call on him in
Liverpool at two, Monday afternoon?"
Job had reason to doubt if she fully understood him; for all this
minuteness of detail, these satisfactory arrangements, as he
considered them, only seemed to bring the circumstances in which she
was placed more vividly home to Mary. They convinced her that it was
real, and not all a dream, as she had sunk into fancying it for a
few minutes, while sitting in the old accustomed place, her body
enjoying the rest, and her frame sustained by food, and listening to
Margaret's calm voice. The gentleman she had just beheld would see
and question Jem in a few hours, and what would be the result?
Monday: that was the day after to-morrow, and on Tuesday, life and
death would be tremendous realities to her lover; or else death would
be an awful certainty to her father.
No wonder Job went over his main points again:--
"Monday; at two o'clock, mind; and here's his card. 'Mr. Bridgenorth,
41, Renshaw Street, Liverpool.' He'll be lodging there."
Job ceased talking, and the silence roused Mary up to thank him.
"You're very kind, Job; very. You and Margaret won't desert me, come
what will."
"Pooh! pooh! wench; don't lose heart, just as I'm beginning to get
it. He seems to think a deal on Will's evidence. You're sure, girls,
you're under no mistake about Will?"
"I'm sure," said Mary, "he went straight from here, purposing to go
see his uncle at the Isle of Man, and be back Sunday night, ready for
the ship sailing on Tuesday."
"So am I," said Margaret. "And the ship's name was the _John
Cropper_, and he lodged where I told Mary before. Have you got it
down, Mary?" Mary wrote it on the back of Mr. Bridgenorth's card.
"He was not over-willing to go," said she, as she wrote, "for he knew
little about his uncle, and said he didn't care if he never knowed
more. But he said kinsfolk was kinsfolk, and promises was promises,
so he'd go for a day or so, and then it would be over."
Margaret had to go and practise some singing in town; so, though loth
to depart and be alone, Mary bade her friends good-bye.