THE TRIAL AND VERDICT--"NOT GUILTY."
"Thou stand'st here arraign'd,
That, with presumption impious and accursed,
Thou hast usurp'd God's high prerogative,
Making thy fellow mortal's life and death
Wait on thy moody and diseased passions;
That with a violent and untimely steel
Hast set abroach the blood that should have ebbed
In calm and natural current: to sum all
In one wild name--a name the pale air freezes at,
And every cheek of man sinks in with horror--
Thou art a cold and midnight murderer."
MILMAN'S "FAZIO."
Of all the restless people who found that night's hours agonising
from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was
perhaps the most restless. He had slept but little since the blow had
fallen; his waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which
seemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers.
And this night of all others was the most sleepless. He turned over
and over again in his mind the wonder if every thing had been done
that could be done, to insure the conviction of Jem Wilson. He almost
regretted the haste with which he had urged forward the proceedings,
and yet until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there was no
peace on earth for him (I don't know that he exactly used the term
vengeance in his thoughts; he spoke of justice, and probably thought
of his desired end as such); no peace either bodily or mental, for
he moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp
of a wild beast in a cage, and if he compelled his aching limbs to
cease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to
convulsions, and he re-commenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the
more bearable fatigue.
With daylight increased power of action came; and he drove off to
arouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and
inquiries; and when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the
courts should be opened, and the trial begin.
What were all the living,--wife or daughters,--what were they in
comparison with the dead,--the murdered son who lay unburied still,
in compliance with his father's earnest wish, and almost vowed
purpose of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death, before
he committed the body to the rest of the grave?
At nine o'clock they all met at their awful place of _rendezvous_.
The judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the
witnesses--all were gathered together within one building. And
besides these were many others, personally interested in some part
of the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part; Job Legh,
Ben Sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was Charley
Jones.
Job Legh had carefully avoided any questioning from Mrs. Wilson that
morning. Indeed he had not been much in her company, for he had risen
up early to go out once more to make inquiry for Mary; and when
he could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to
undeceive Mrs. Wilson, as sorrow never came too late; and if the blow
were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of
the impending evil as long as possible. She took her place in the
witness-room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious.
As Job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, Mr.
Bridgenorth's clerk beckoned to him.
"Here's a letter for you from our client!"
Job sickened as he took it. He did not know why, but he dreaded a
confession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope.
The letter ran as follows.
DEAR FRIEND,--I thank you heartily for your goodness in
finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me,
whatever they may do to other people. But I am not the
less obliged to you, dear friend. I foresee things will go
against me--and no wonder. If I was a jury-man, I should
say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought
against him as may be brought against me to-morrow. So
it's no blame to them if they do. But, Job Legh, I think I
need not tell you I am as guiltless in this matter as the
babe unborn, although it is not in my power to prove it.
If I did not believe that you thought me innocent, I could
not write as I do now to tell you my wishes. You'll not
forget they are the wishes of a man shortly to die. Dear
friend, you must take care of my mother. Not in the money
way, for she will have enough for her and Aunt Alice; but
you must let her talk to you of me; and show her that
(whatever others may do) you think I died innocent. I
don't reckon she will stay long behind when we are all
gone. Be tender with her, Job, for my sake; and if she
is a bit fractious at times, remember what she has gone
through. I know mother will never doubt me, God bless her.
There is one other whom I fear I have loved too dearly;
and yet, the loving her has made the happiness of my life.
She will think I have murdered her lover; she will think
I have caused the grief she must be feeling. And she must
go on thinking so. It is hard upon me to say this; but she
_must_. It will be best for her, and that's all I ought
to think on. But, dear Job, you are a hearty fellow for
your time of life, and may live a many years to come; and
perhaps you could tell her, when you felt sure you were
drawing near your end, that I solemnly told you (as I do
now) that I was innocent of this thing. You must not tell
her for many years to come; but I cannot well bear to
think on her living through a long life, and hating the
thought of me as the murderer of him she loved, and dying
with that hatred to me in her heart. It would hurt me sore
in the other world to see the look of it in her face, as
it would be, till she was told. I must not let myself
think on how she must be viewing me now. So God bless you,
Job Legh; and no more from
Yours to command,
JAMES WILSON.
Job turned the letter over and over when he had read it; sighed
deeply; and then wrapping it carefully up in a bit of newspaper he
had about him, he put it in his waistcoat pocket, and went off to
the door of the witness-room to ask if Mary Barton were there.
As the door opened he saw her sitting within, against a table on
which her folded arms were resting, and her head was hidden within
them. It was an attitude of hopelessness, and would have served to
strike Job dumb in sickness of heart, even without the sound of Mrs.
Wilson's voice in passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which
told him as well as words could do (for she was not within view of
the door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at any rate
partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night.
Sorrowfully did Job return into the body of the court; neither Mrs.
Wilson nor Mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness-room
door.
As soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the
present scene, he perceived that the trial of James Wilson for the
murder of Henry Carson was just commencing. The clerk was gabbling
over the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed
question, "How say you, Guilty, or Not Guilty?"
Although but one answer was expected,--was customary in all
cases,--there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity
even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding; while the prisoner at
the bar stood with compressed lips, looking at the judge with his
outward eyes, but with far other and different scenes presented
to his mental vision;--a sort of rapid recapitulation of his
life,--remembrances of his childhood,--his father (so proud of him,
his first-born child),--his sweet little playfellow, Mary,--his
hopes, his love,--his despair, yet still, yet ever and ever, his
love,--the blank, wide world it had been without her love,--his
mother,--his childless mother,--but not long to be so,--not long to
be away from all she loved,--nor during that time to be oppressed
with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling's
heart;--he started from his instant's pause, and said in a low firm
voice,
"Not guilty, my lord."
The circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body, the
causes of suspicion against Jem, were as well known to most of
the audience as they are to you, so there was some little buzz of
conversation going on among the people while the leading counsel for
the prosecution made his very effective speech.
"That's Mr. Carson, the father, sitting behind Serjeant Wilkinson!"
"What a noble-looking old man he is! so stern and inflexible, with
such classical features! Does he not remind you of some of the busts
of Jupiter?"
"I am more interested by watching the prisoner. Criminals always
interest me. I try to trace in the features common to humanity some
expression of the crimes by which they have distinguished themselves
from their kind. I have seen a good number of murderers in my day,
but I have seldom seen one with such marks of Cain on his countenance
as the man at the bar."
"Well, I am no physiognomist, but I don't think his face strikes me
as bad. It certainly is gloomy and depressed, and not unnaturally so,
considering his situation."
"Only look at his low, resolute brow, his downcast eye, his white
compressed lips. He never looks up,--just watch him."
"His forehead is not so low if he had that mass of black hair
removed, and is very square, which some people say is a good sign.
If others are to be influenced by such trifles as you are, it would
have been much better if the prison barber had cut his hair a little
previous to the trial; and as for down-cast eye, and compressed lip,
it is all part and parcel of his inward agitation just now; nothing
to do with character, my good fellow."
Poor Jem! His raven hair (his mother's pride, and so often fondly
caressed by her fingers), was that too to have its influence against
him?
The witnesses were called. At first they consisted principally of
policemen; who, being much accustomed to giving evidence, knew what
were the material points they were called on to prove, and did not
lose the time of the court in listening to any thing unnecessary.
"Clear as day against the prisoner," whispered one attorney's clerk
to another.
"Black as night, you mean," replied his friend; and they both smiled.
"Jane Wilson! who's she? some relation, I suppose, from the name."
"The mother,--she that is to prove the gun part of the case."
"Oh, ay--I remember! Rather hard on her, too, I think."
Then both were silent, as one of the officers of the court ushered
Mrs. Wilson into the witness-box. I have often called her "the old
woman," and "an old woman," because, in truth, her appearance was
so much beyond her years, which might not be many above fifty. But
partly owing to her accident in early life, which left a stamp of
pain upon her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to
her sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave me the
idea of age. But now she might have seemed more than seventy; her
lines were so set and deep, her features so sharpened, and her walk
so feeble. She was trying to check her sobs into composure, and
(unconsciously) was striving to behave as she thought would best
please her poor boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her
uncontrolled impatience. He had buried his face in his arms, which
rested on the front of the dock (an attitude he retained during the
greater part of his trial, and which prejudiced many against him).
The counsel began the examination.
"Your name is Jane Wilson, I believe."
"Yes, sir."
"The mother of the prisoner at the bar?"
"Yes, sir;" with quivering voice, ready to break out into weeping,
but earning respect by the strong effort at self-control, prompted,
as I have said before, by her earnest wish to please her son by her
behaviour.
The barrister now proceeded to the important part of the examination,
tending to prove that the gun found on the scene of the murder was
the prisoner's. She had committed herself so fully to the policeman,
that she could not well retract; so without much delay in bringing
the question round to the desired point, the gun was produced in
court, and the inquiry made--
"That gun belongs to your son, does it not?"
She clenched the sides of the witness-box in her efforts to make her
parched tongue utter words. At last she moaned forth,
"Oh! Jem, Jem! what mun I say?"
Every one bent forward to hear the prisoner's answer; although, in
fact, it was of little importance to the issue of the trial. He
lifted up his head; and with a face brimming full of pity for his
mother, yet resolved into endurance, said,
"Tell the truth, mother!"
And so she did, with the fidelity of a little child. Every one felt
that she did; and the little colloquy between mother and son did them
some slight service in the opinion of the audience. But the awful
judge sat unmoved; and the jurymen changed not a muscle of their
countenances; while the counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly
through this part of the case, including the fact of Jem's absence
from home on the night of the murder, and bringing every admission to
bear right against the prisoner.
It was over. She was told to go down. But she could no longer compel
her mother's heart to keep silence, and suddenly turning towards
the judge (with whom she imagined the verdict to rest), she thus
addressed him with her choking voice.
"And now, sir, I've telled you the truth, and the whole truth, as
_he_ bid me; but don't ye let what I have said go for to hang him;
oh, my lord judge, take my word for it, he's as innocent as the
child as has yet to be born. For sure, I, who am his mother, and
have nursed him on my knee, and been gladdened by the sight of him
every day since, ought to know him better than yon pack of fellows"
(indicating the jury, while she strove against her heart to render
her words distinct and clear for her dear son's sake) "who, I'll go
bail, never saw him before this morning in all their born days. My
lord judge, he's so good I often wondered what harm there was in him;
many is the time when I've been fretted (for I'm frabbit enough at
times), when I've scold't myself, and said, 'You ungrateful thing,
the Lord God has given you Jem, and isn't that blessing enough for
you?' But He has seen fit to punish me. If Jem is--if Jem is--taken
from me, I shall be a childless woman; and very poor, having nought
left to love on earth, and I cannot say 'His will be done.' I cannot,
my lord judge, oh, I cannot."
While sobbing out these words she was led away by the officers of the
court, but tenderly, and reverently, with the respect which great
sorrow commands.
The stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh force from
every witness who was examined, and threatening to overwhelm poor
Jem. Already they had proved that the gun was his, that he had been
heard not many days before the commission of the deed to threaten the
deceased; indeed, that the police had, at that time, been obliged to
interfere to prevent some probable act of violence. It only remained
to bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the murder.
The clue to this had been furnished by the policeman, who had
overheard Jem's angry language to Mr. Carson; and his report in the
first instance had occasioned the subpoena to Mary.
And now she was to be called on to bear witness. The court was by
this time almost as full as it could hold; but fresh attempts were
being made to squeeze in at all the entrances, for many were anxious
to see and hear this part of the trial.
Old Mr. Carson felt an additional beat at his heart at the thought of
seeing the fatal Helen, the cause of all--a kind of interest and yet
repugnance, for was not she beloved by the dead; nay, perhaps in her
way, loving and mourning for the same being that he himself was so
bitterly grieving over? And yet he felt as if he abhorred her and her
rumoured loveliness, as if she were the curse against him; and he
grew jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and
would fain have deprived her of even her natural right of sorrowing
over her lover's untimely end: for you see it was a fixed idea
in the minds of all, that the handsome, bright, gay, rich young
gentleman must have been beloved in preference to the serious, almost
stern-looking smith, who had to toil for his daily bread.
Hitherto the effect of the trial had equalled Mr. Carson's most
sanguine hopes, and a severe look of satisfaction came over the face
of the avenger,--over that countenance whence the smile had departed,
never more to return.
All eyes were directed to the door through which the witnesses
entered. Even Jem looked up to catch one glimpse before he hid his
face from her look of aversion. The officer had gone to fetch her.
She was in exactly the same attitude as when Job Legh had seen her
two hours before through the half-open door. Not a finger had moved.
The officer summoned her, but she did not stir. She was so still he
thought she had fallen asleep, and he stepped forward and touched
her. She started up in an instant, and followed him with a kind of
rushing rapid motion into the court, into the witness-box.
And amid all that sea of faces, misty and swimming before her eyes,
she saw but two clear bright spots, distinct and fixed: the judge,
who might have to condemn; and the prisoner, who might have to die.
The mellow sunlight streamed down that high window on her head, and
fell on the rich treasure of her golden hair, stuffed away in masses
under her little bonnet-cap; and in those warm beams the motes kept
dancing up and down. The wind had changed--had changed almost as
soon as she had given up her watching; the wind had changed, and she
heeded it not.
Many who were looking for mere flesh and blood beauty, mere
colouring, were disappointed; for her face was deadly white, and
almost set in its expression, while a mournful bewildered soul
looked out of the depths of those soft, deep, gray eyes. But others
recognised a higher and stranger kind of beauty; one that would keep
its hold on the memory for many after years.
I was not there myself; but one who was, told me that her look, and
indeed her whole face, was more like the well-known engraving from
Guido's picture of "Beatrice Cenci" than any thing else he could give
me an idea of. He added, that her countenance haunted him, like the
remembrance of some wild sad melody, heard in childhood; that it
would perpetually recur with its mute imploring agony.
With all the court reeling before her (always save and except those
awful two), she heard a voice speak, and answered the simple inquiry
(something about her name) mechanically, as if in a dream. So she
went on for two or three more questions, with a strange wonder in her
brain, as to the reality of the terrible circumstances in which she
was placed.
Suddenly she was roused, she knew not how or by what. She was
conscious that all was real, that hundreds were looking at her, that
true-sounding words were being extracted from her; that that figure,
so bowed down, with the face concealed by both hands, was really Jem.
Her face flushed scarlet, and then paler than before. But in her
dread of herself, with the tremendous secret imprisoned within her,
she exerted every power she had to keep in the full understanding of
what was going on, of what she was asked, and of what she answered.
With all her faculties preternaturally alive and sensitive, she heard
the next question from the pert young barrister, who was delighted to
have the examination of this witness.
"And pray, may I ask, which was the favoured lover? You say you knew
both these young men. Which was the favoured lover? Which did you
prefer?"
And who was he, the questioner, that he should dare so lightly to
ask of her heart's secrets? That he should dare to ask her to tell,
before that multitude assembled there, what woman usually whispers
with blushes and tears, and many hesitations, to one ear alone?
So, for an instant, a look of indignation contracted Mary's brow,
as she steadily met the eyes of the impertinent counsellor. But, in
that instant, she saw the hands removed from a face beyond, behind;
and a countenance revealed of such intense love and woe,--such a
deprecating dread of her answer; and suddenly her resolution was
taken. The present was everything; the future, that vast shroud, it
was maddening to think upon; but _now_ she might own her fault, but
_now_ she might even own her love. Now, when the beloved stood thus,
abhorred of men, there would be no feminine shame to stand between
her and her avowal. So she also turned towards the judge, partly
to mark that her answer was not given to the monkeyfied man who
questioned her, and likewise that her face might be averted from, and
her eyes not gaze upon, the form that contracted with the dread of
the words he anticipated.
"He asks me which of them two I liked the best. Perhaps I liked Mr.
Harry Carson once--I don't know--I've forgotten; but I loved James
Wilson, that's now on trial, above what tongue can tell--above all
else on earth put together; and I love him now better than ever,
though he has never known a word of it till this minute. For you see,
sir, mother died before I was thirteen, before I could know right
from wrong about some things; and I was giddy and vain, and ready to
listen to any praise of my good looks; and this poor young Mr. Carson
fell in with me, and told me he loved me; and I was foolish enough
to think he meant me marriage: a mother is a pitiful loss to a girl,
sir; and so I used to fancy I could like to be a lady, and rich,
and never know want any more. I never found out how dearly I loved
another till one day, when James Wilson asked me to marry him, and
I was very hard and sharp in my answer (for indeed, sir, I'd a deal
to bear just then), and he took me at my word and left me; and from
that day to this I've never spoken a word to him, or set eyes on him;
though I'd fain have done so, to try and show him we had both been
too hasty; for he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute
before I knew I loved--far above my life," said she, dropping her
voice as she came to this second confession of the strength of her
attachment. "But, if the gentleman asks me which I loved the best,
I make answer, I was flattered by Mr. Carson, and pleased with his
flattery; but James Wilson I--"
She covered her face with her hands, to hide the burning scarlet
blushes, which even dyed her fingers.
There was a little pause; still, though her speech might inspire pity
for the prisoner, it only strengthened the supposition of his guilt.
Presently the counsellor went on with his examination.
"But you have seen young Mr. Carson since your rejection of the
prisoner?"
"Yes, often."
"You have spoken to him, I conclude, at these times."
"Only once to call speaking."
"And what was the substance of your conversation? Did you tell him
you found you preferred his rival?"
"No, sir. I don't think as I've done wrong in saying, now as things
stand, what my feelings are; but I never would be so bold as to tell
one young man I cared for another. I never named Jem's name to Mr.
Carson. Never."
"Then what did you say when you had this final conversation with Mr.
Carson? You can give me the substance of it, if you don't remember
the words."
"I'll try, sir; but I'm not very clear. I told him I could not love
him, and wished to have nothing more to do with him. He did his best
to over-persuade me, but I kept steady, and at last I ran off."
"And you never spoke to him again?"
"Never!"
"Now, young woman, remember you are upon your oath. Did you ever tell
the prisoner at the bar of Mr. Henry Carson's attentions to you? of
your acquaintance, in short? Did you ever try to excite his jealousy
by boasting of a lover so far above you in station?"
"Never. I never did," said she, in so firm and distinct a manner as
to leave no doubt.
"Were you aware that he knew of Mr. Henry Carson's regard for you?
Remember you are on your oath!"
"Never, sir. I was not aware until I heard of the quarrel between
them, and what Jem had said to the policeman, and that was after the
murder. To this day I can't make out who told Jem. Oh, sir, may not
I go down?"
For she felt the sense, the composure, the very bodily strength which
she had compelled to her aid for a time, suddenly giving way, and was
conscious that she was losing all command over herself. There was no
occasion to detain her longer; she had done her part. She might go
down. The evidence was still stronger against the prisoner; but now
he stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude, and a
look of determination on his face, which almost made it appear noble.
Yet he seemed lost in thought.
Job Legh had all this time been trying to soothe and comfort Mrs.
Wilson, who would first be in the court, in order to see her darling,
and then, when her sobs became irrepressible, had to be led out into
the open air, and sat there weeping, on the steps of the court-house.
Who would have taken charge of Mary on her release from the
witness-box I do not know, if Mrs. Sturgis, the boatman's wife, had
not been there, brought by her interest in Mary, towards whom she now
pressed, in order to urge her to leave the scene of the trial.
"No! no!" said Mary, to this proposition. "I must be here, I must
watch that they don't hang him, you know I must."
"Oh! they'll not hang him! never fear! Besides the wind has changed,
and that's in his favour. Come away. You're so hot, and first white
and then red; I'm sure you're ill. Just come away."
"Oh! I don't know about any thing but that I must stay," replied
Mary, in a strange hurried manner, catching hold of some rails as if
she feared some bodily force would be employed to remove her. So Mrs.
Sturgis just waited patiently by her, every now and then peeping
among the congregation of heads in the body of the court, to see if
her husband were still there. And there he always was to be seen,
looking and listening with all his might. His wife felt easy that he
would not be wanting her at home until the trial was ended.
Mary never let go her clutched hold on the rails. She wanted them to
steady her, in that heaving, whirling court. She thought the feeling
of something hard compressed within her hand would help her to
listen, for it was such pain, such weary pain in her head, to strive
to attend to what was being said. They were all at sea, sailing away
on billowy waves, and every one speaking at once, and no one heeding
her father, who was calling on them to be silent, and listen to him.
Then again, for a brief second, the court stood still, and she could
see the judge, sitting up there like an idol, with his trappings, so
rigid and stiff; and Jem, opposite, looking at her, as if to say, Am
I to die for what you know your ----. Then she checked herself, and
by a great struggle brought herself round to an instant's sanity.
But the round of thought never stood still; and off she went again;
and every time her power of struggling against the growing delirium
grew fainter and fainter. She muttered low to herself, but no one
heard her except her neighbour, Mrs. Sturgis; all were too closely
attending to the case for the prosecution, which was now being wound
up.
The counsel for the prisoner had avoided much cross-examination,
reserving to himself the right of calling the witnesses forward
again; for he had received so little, and such vague instructions,
and understood that so much depended on the evidence of one who was
not forthcoming, that in fact he had little hope of establishing any
thing like a show of a defence, and contented himself with watching
the case, and lying in wait for any legal objections that might
offer themselves. He lay back on the seat, occasionally taking a
pinch of snuff in a manner intended to be contemptuous; now and then
elevating his eyebrows, and sometimes exchanging a little note with
Mr. Bridgenorth behind him. The attorney had far more interest in the
case than the barrister, to which he was perhaps excited by his poor
old friend Job Legh; who had edged and wedged himself through the
crowd close to Mr. Bridgenorth's elbow, sent thither by Ben Sturgis,
to whom he had been "introduced" by Charley Jones, and who had
accounted for Mary's disappearance on the preceding day, and spoken
of their chase, their fears, their hopes.
All this was told in a few words to Mr. Bridgenorth--so few, that
they gave him but a confused idea, that time was of value; and this
he named to his counsel, who now rose to speak for the defence.
Job Legh looked about for Mary, now he had gained, and given, some
idea of the position of things. At last he saw her, standing by a
decent-looking woman, looking flushed and anxious, and moving her
lips incessantly, as if eagerly talking; her eyes never resting on
any object, but wandering about as if in search of something. Job
thought it was for him she was seeking, and he struggled to get round
to her. When he had succeeded, she took no notice of him, although
he spoke to her, but still kept looking round and round in the same
wild, restless manner. He tried to hear the low quick mutterings of
her voice, as he caught the repetition of the same words over and
over again.
"I must not go mad. I must not, indeed. They say people tell the
truth when they're mad; but I don't. I was always a liar. I was,
indeed; but I'm not mad. I must not go mad. I must not, indeed."
Suddenly she seemed to become aware how earnestly Job was listening
(with mournful attention) to her words, and turning sharp round upon
him, with upbraiding for his eaves-dropping on her lips, she caught
sight of something,--or some one,--who, even in that state, had power
to arrest her attention, and throwing up her arms with wild energy,
she shrieked aloud,
"Oh, Jem! Jem! you're saved; and I _am_ mad--" and was instantly
seized with convulsions. With much commiseration she was taken out
of court, while the attention of many was diverted from her, by the
fierce energy with which a sailor forced his way over rails and
seats, against turnkeys and policemen. The officers of the court
opposed this forcible manner of entrance, but they could hardly
induce the offender to adopt any quieter way of attaining his object,
and telling his tale in the witness-box, the legitimate place. For
Will had dwelt so impatiently on the danger in which his absence
would place his cousin, that even yet he seemed to fear that he might
see the prisoner carried off, and hung, before he could pour out the
narrative which would exculpate him. As for Job Legh, his feelings
were all but uncontrollable; as you may judge by the indifference
with which he saw Mary borne, stiff and convulsed, out of the court,
in the charge of the kind Mrs. Sturgis, who, you will remember, was
an utter stranger to him.
"She'll keep! I'll not trouble myself about her," said he to himself,
as he wrote with trembling hands a little note of information to Mr.
Bridgenorth, who had conjectured, when Will had first disturbed the
awful tranquillity of the life-and-death court, that the witness had
arrived (better late than never) on whose evidence rested all the
slight chance yet remaining to Jem Wilson of escaping death. During
the commotion in the court, among all the cries and commands, the
dismay and the directions, consequent upon Will's entrance, and
poor Mary's fearful attack of illness, Mr. Bridgenorth had kept his
lawyer-like presence of mind; and long before Job Legh's almost
illegible note was poked at him, he had recapitulated the facts on
which Will had to give evidence, and the manner in which he had been
pursued, after his ship had taken her leave of the land.
The barrister who defended Jem took new heart when he was put in
possession of these striking points to be adduced, not so much out
of earnestness to save the prisoner, of whose innocence he was still
doubtful, as because he saw the opportunities for the display of
forensic eloquence which were presented by the facts; "a gallant tar
brought back from the pathless ocean by a girl's noble daring," "the
dangers of too hastily judging from circumstantial evidence," &c.,
&c.; while the counsellor for the prosecution prepared himself by
folding his arms, elevating his eyebrows, and putting his lips in the
form in which they might best whistle down the wind such evidence
as might be produced by a suborned witness, who dared to perjure
himself. For, of course, it is etiquette to suppose that such
evidence as may be given against the opinion which lawyers are
paid to uphold, is any thing but based on truth; and "perjury,"
"conspiracy," and "peril of your immortal soul," are light
expressions to throw at the heads of those who may prove (not the
speaker, there would then be some excuse for the hasty words of
personal anger, but) the hirer of the speaker to be wrong, or
mistaken.
But when once Will had attained his end, and felt that his tale,
or part of a tale, would be heard by judge and jury; when once he
saw Jem standing safe and well before him (even though he saw him
pale and care-worn at the felon's bar); his courage took the shape
of presence of mind, and he awaited the examination with a calm,
unflinching intelligence, which dictated the clearest and most
pertinent answers. He told the story you know so well: how his
leave of absence being nearly expired, he had resolved to fulfil
his promise, and go to see an uncle residing in the Isle of Man;
how his money (sailor-like) was all expended in Manchester, and how,
consequently, it had been necessary for him to walk to Liverpool,
which he had accordingly done on the very night of the murder,
accompanied as far as Hollins Greeb by his friend and cousin, the
prisoner at the bar. He was clear and distinct in every corroborative
circumstance, and gave a short account of the singular way in which
he had been recalled from his outward-bound voyage, and the terrible
anxiety he had felt, as the pilot-boat had struggled home against
the wind. The jury felt that their opinion (so nearly decided half
an hour ago) was shaken and disturbed in a very uncomfortable and
perplexing way, and were almost grateful to the counsel for the
prosecution, when he got up, with a brow of thunder, to demolish
the evidence, which was so bewildering when taken in connexion with
every thing previously adduced. But if such, without looking to the
consequences, was the first impulsive feeling of some among the jury,
how shall I describe the vehemence of passion which possessed the
mind of poor Mr. Carson, as he saw the effect of the young sailor's
statement? It never shook his belief in Jem's guilt in the least,
that attempt at an alibi; his hatred, his longing for vengeance,
having once defined an object to itself, could no more bear to be
frustrated and disappointed than the beast of prey can submit to have
his victim taken from his hungry jaws. No more likeness to the calm
stern power of Jupiter was there in that white eager face, almost
distorted by its fell anxiety of expression.
The counsel to whom etiquette assigned the cross-examination of Will,
caught the look on Mr. Carson's face, and in his desire to further
the intense wish there manifested, he over-shot his mark even in his
first insulting question:
"And now, my man, you've told the court a very good and very
convincing story; no reasonable man ought to doubt the unstained
innocence of your relation at the bar. Still there is one
circumstance you have forgotten to name; and I feel that without
it your evidence is rather incomplete. Will you have the kindness
to inform the gentlemen of the jury what has been your charge for
repeating this very plausible story? How much good coin of Her
Majesty's realm have you received, or are you to receive, for walking
up from the docks, or some less creditable place, and uttering the
tale you have just now repeated,--very much to the credit of your
instructor, I must say? Remember, sir, you are upon oath."
It took Will a minute to extract the meaning from the garb of
unaccustomed words in which it was invested, and during this time he
looked a little confused. But the instant the truth flashed upon him,
he fixed his bright clear eyes, flaming with indignation, upon the
counsellor, whose look fell at last before that stern unflinching
gaze. Then, and not till then, Will made answer.
"Will you tell the judge and jury how much money you've been paid for
your impudence towards one who has told God's blessed truth, and who
would scorn to tell a lie, or blackguard any one, for the biggest fee
as ever lawyer got for doing dirty work? Will you tell, sir?-- But
I'm ready, my lord judge, to take my oath as many times as your
lordship or the jury would like, to testify to things having happened
just as I said. There's O'Brien, the pilot, in court now. Would
somebody with a wig on please to ask him how much he can say for me?"
It was a good idea, and caught at by the counsel for the defence.
O'Brien gave just such testimony as was required to clear Will
from all suspicion. He had witnessed the pursuit, he had heard the
conversation which took place between the boat and the ship; he had
given Will a homeward passage in his boat. And the character of an
accredited pilot, appointed by Trinity House, was known to be above
suspicion.
Mr. Carson sank back on his seat in sickening despair. He knew enough
of courts to be aware of the extreme unwillingness of juries to
convict, even where the evidence is most clear, when the penalty
of such conviction is death. At the period of the trial most
condemnatory to the prisoner, he had repeated this fact to himself
in order to damp his too certain expectation of a conviction. Now it
needed not repetition, for it forced itself upon his consciousness,
and he seemed to _know_, even before the jury retired to consult,
that by some trick, some negligence, some miserable hocus-pocus,
the murderer of his child, his darling, his Absalom, who had never
rebelled,--the slayer of his unburied boy would slip through the
fangs of justice, and walk free and unscathed over that earth where
his son would never more be seen.
It was even so. The prisoner hid his face once more to shield the
expression of an emotion he could not control, from the notice of the
over-curious; Job Legh ceased his eager talking to Mr. Bridgenorth;
Charley looked grave and earnest; for the jury filed one by one back
into their box, and the question was asked to which such an awful
answer might be given.
The verdict they had come to was unsatisfactory to themselves at
last; neither being convinced of his innocence, nor yet quite willing
to believe him guilty in the teeth of the alibi. But the punishment
that awaited him, if guilty, was so terrible, and so unnatural a
sentence for man to pronounce on man, that the knowledge of it had
weighed down the scale on the side of innocence, and "Not Guilty" was
the verdict that thrilled through the breathless court.
One moment of silence, and then the murmurs rose, as the verdict was
discussed by all with lowered voice. Jem stood motionless, his head
bowed; poor fellow, he was stunned with the rapid career of events
during the last few hours.
He had assumed his place at the bar with little or no expectation
of an acquittal; and with scarcely any desire for life, in the
complication of occurrences tending to strengthen the idea of Mary's
more than indifference to him; she had loved another, and in her mind
Jem believed that he himself must be regarded as the murderer of him
she loved. And suddenly, athwart this gloom which made life seem such
a blank expanse of desolation, there flashed the exquisite delight
of hearing Mary's avowal of love, making the future all glorious, if
a future in this world he might hope to have. He could not dwell on
any thing but her words, telling of her passionate love; all else was
indistinct, nor could he strive to make it otherwise. She loved him.
And Life, now full of tender images, suddenly bright with all
exquisite promises, hung on a breath, the slenderest gossamer chance.
He tried to think that the knowledge of her love would soothe him
even in his dying hours; but the phantoms of what life with her
might be, would obtrude, and made him almost gasp and reel under the
uncertainty he was enduring. Will's appearance had only added to the
intensity of this suspense.
The full meaning of the verdict could not at once penetrate his
brain. He stood dizzy and motionless. Some one pulled his coat. He
turned, and saw Job Legh, the tears stealing down his brown furrowed
cheeks, while he tried in vain to command voice enough to speak. He
kept shaking Jem by the hand as the best and necessary expression of
his feeling.
"Here! make yourself scarce! I should think you'd be glad to get
out of that!" exclaimed the gaoler, as he brought up another livid
prisoner, from out whose eyes came the anxiety which he would not
allow any other feature to display.
Job Legh pressed out of court, and Jem followed unreasoningly.
The crowd made way, and kept their garments tight about them, as Jem
passed, for about him there still hung the taint of the murderer.
He was in the open air, and free once more! Although many looked on
him with suspicion, faithful friends closed round him; his arm was
unresistingly pumped up and down by his cousin and Job; when one
was tired, the other took up the wholesome exercise, while Ben
Sturgis was working off his interest in the scene by scolding Charley
for walking on his head round and round Mary's sweetheart, for a
sweetheart he was now satisfactorily ascertained to be, in spite of
her assertion to the contrary. And all this time Jem himself felt
bewildered and dazzled; he would have given any thing for an hour's
uninterrupted thought on the occurrences of the past week, and the
new visions raised up during the morning; aye, even though that
tranquil hour were to be passed in the hermitage of his quiet prison
cell. The first question sobbed out by his choking voice, oppressed
with emotion, was,
"Where is she?"
They led him to the room where his mother sat. They had told her
of her son's acquittal, and now she was laughing, and crying,
and talking, and giving way to all those feelings which she had
restrained with such effort during the last few days. They brought
her son to her, and she threw herself upon his neck, weeping there.
He returned her embrace, but looked around, beyond. Excepting his
mother there was no one in the room but the friends who had entered
with him.
"Eh, lad!" said she, when she found voice to speak. "See what it is
to have behaved thysel! I could put in a good word for thee, and the
jury could na go and hang thee in the face of th' character I gave
thee. Was na it a good thing they did na keep me from Liverpool? But
I would come; I knew I could do thee good, bless thee, my lad. But
thou'rt very white, and all of a tremble."
He kissed her again and again, but looking round as if searching for
some one he could not find, the first words he uttered were still,
"Where is she?"