The mere shone before her, and the cries were on the bank.

Now came something more alarming still. A flash: a pistol shot: and an

agonized voice cried loudly, "Murder! Help! Murder!"

That voice she knew directly. It was Griffith Gaunt's.

CHAPTER V

Ryder ran screaming, and alarmed the other servants.

All the windows that looked on the mere were hung open.

But no more sounds were heard. A terrible silence brooded now over

those clear waters.

The female servants huddled together, and quaked; for who could doubt

that a bloody deed had been done?

It was some time before they mustered the presence of mind to go and

tell Mrs. Gaunt. At last they opened her door. She was not in her room.

Ryder ran to Griffith's. It was locked.

She called to him. He made no reply.

They burst the door open. He was not there: and the window was open.

While their tongues were all going, in consternation, Mrs. Gaunt was

suddenly among them, very pale.

They turned, and looked at her aghast.

"What means all this?" said she. "Did I not hear cries outside?"

"Ay," said Ryder: "Murder! and a pistol fired. Oh, my poor master!"

Mrs. Gaunt was white as death; but self-possessed. "Light torches this

moment, and search the place," said she.

There was only one man in the house, and he declined to go out alone.

So Ryder and Mrs. Gaunt went with him, all three bearing lighted links.

They searched the place where Ryder had heard the cries. They went up

and down the whole bank of the mere, and east their torches; red light

over the placid waters themselves. But there was nothing to be seen,

alive or dead; no trace either of calamity or crime.

They roused the neighbors, and came back to the house with their

clothes all draggled and dirty.

Mrs. Gaunt took Ryder apart, and asked her if she could guess at what

time of the night Griffith had made his escape.

"He is a villain," said she, "yet I would not have him come to harm,

God knows. There are thieves abroad. But I hope he ran away as soon as

your back was turned, and so fell not in with them."

"Humph!" said Ryder. Then, looking Mrs. Gaunt In the face, she said,

quietly, "Where were you when you heard the cries?"

"I was on the other side of the house."

"What, out o'doors, at that time of night!"

"Ay; I was in the grove. Praying."

"Did you hear any voice you knew?"

"No: all was too indistinct. I heard a pistol, but no words. Did you?"

"I heard no more than you, madam," said Ryder, trembling.

No one went to bed any more that night in Hernshaw Castle.

CHAPTER VI

This mysterious circumstance made a great talk in the village, and in

the kitchen of Hernshaw Castle; but not in the drawing-room: for Mrs.

Gaunt instantly closed her door to visitors, and let it be known that

it was her intention to retire to a convent; and, in the meantime, she

desired not to be disturbed.

Ryder made one or two attempts to draw her out upon the subject, but

was sternly checked.

Pale, gloomy, and silent, the mistress of Hernshaw Castle moved about

the place like the ghost of her former self. She never mentioned

Griffith; forbade his name to be uttered in her hearing; and, strange

to say, gave Ryder strict orders not to tell any one what she had heard

from Thomas Leicester.

"This last insult is known but to you and me. If it ever gets abroad,

you leave my service that very hour."

This injunction set Ryder thinking. However, she obeyed it to the

letter. Her place was getting better and better; and she was a woman

accustomed to keep secrets.

A pressing letter came from Mr. Atkins.

Mrs. Gaunt replied that her husband had come to Hernshaw, but had left

again; and the period of his ultimate return was now more uncertain

than ever.

On this Mr. Atkins came down to Hernshaw Castle. But Mrs. Gaunt would

not see him. He retired very angry; and renewed his advertisements,

but in a more explicit form. He now published that Griffith Gaunt, of

Hernshaw and Bolton, was executor and residuary legatee to the late

Griffith Gaunt, of Coggleswade: and requested him to apply directly to

James Atkins, Solicitor, of Gray's Inn, London.

In due course this advertisement was read by the servants at Hernshaw;

and shown, by Ryder, to Mrs. Gaunt.

She made no comment whatever; and contrived to render her pale face

impenetrable.

Ryder became as silent and thoughtful as herself, and often sat bending

her black judicial brows.

By-and-by dark mysterious words began to be thrown out in Hernshaw

village.

"He will never come back at all."

"He will never come into that fortune."

"'Tis no use advertising for a man that is past reading."

These, and the like equivocal sayings, were followed by a vague buzz,

which was traceable to no individual author, but seemed to rise on all

sides, like a dark mist, and envelope that unhappy house.

And that dark mist of Rumor soon condensed itself into a palpable and

terrible whisper, "Griffith Gaunt hath met with foul play."

No one of the servants told Mrs. Gaunt this horrid rumor.

But the women used to look at her, and after her, with strange eyes.

She noticed this, and felt, somehow, that her people were falling away

from her. It added one drop to her bitter cup. She began to droop into

a sort of calm despondent lethargy.

Then came fresh trouble to rouse her.

Two of the county magistrates called on her in their official capacity,

and, with perfect politeness, but a very grave air, requested her

to inform them of all the circumstances attending her husband's

disappearance.

She replied, coldly and curtly, that she knew very little about it. Her

husband had left in the middle of the night.

"He came to stay?"

"I believe so."

"Came on horseback?"

"Yes."

"Did he go away on horseback?"

"No: for the horse is now in my stable."

"Is it true there was a quarrel between you and him that evening?"

"Gentlemen," said Mrs. Gaunt, drawing herself back, haughtily, "did you

come here to gratify your curiosity?"

"No, madam," said the elder of the two; "but to discharge a very

serious and painful duty, in which I earnestly request you, and even

advise you, to aid us. Was there a quarrel?"

"There was--a mortal quarrel."

The gentlemen exchanged glances and the elder made a note.

"May we ask the subject of that quarrel?"

Mrs. Gaunt declined, positively, to enter into a matter so delicate.

A note was taken of this refusal.

"Are you aware, madam, that your husband's voice was heard calling for

help, and that a pistol-shot was fired?"

Mrs. Gaunt trembled visibly.

"I heard the pistol shot," said she, "but not the voice distinctly. Oh,

I hope it was not his voice Ryder heard."

"Ryder, who is he?"

"Ryder is my lady's-maid: her bedroom is on that side the house."

"Can we see Mrs. Ryder?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Gaunt, and rose and rang the bell.

Mrs. Ryder answered the bell, in person, very promptly; for she was

listening at the door.

Being questioned, she told the magistrates what she had heard down by

the mere and said she was sure it was her master's voice that cried

"Help!" and "Murder!" And with this she began to cry.

Mrs. Gaunt trembled and turned pale.

The magistrates confined their questions to Ryder.

They elicited, however, very little more from her. She saw the drift

of their questions, and had an impulse to defend her mistress there

present. Behind her back it would have been other-wise.

That resolution once taken, two children might as well have tried to

extract evidence from her as two justices of the peace.

And then Mrs. Gaunt's pale face and noble features touched them. The

case was mysterious, but no more; and they departed little the wiser

and with some apologies for the trouble they had given her.

The next week down came Mr. Atkins out of all patience, and determined

to find Griffith Gaunt, or else obtain some proof of his decease.

He obtained two interviews with Ryder, and bribed her to tell him all

she knew. He prosecuted other inquiries with more method than had

hitherto been used, and elicited an important fact, viz., that Griffith

Gaunt had been seen walking in a certain direction at one o'clock

in the morning, followed at a short distance by a tall man with a

knapsack, or the like, on his back.

The person who gave this tardy information was the wife of a certain

farmer's man, who wired hares upon the sly. The man himself, being

assured that, in a case so serious as this, no particular inquiries

should be made how he came to be out so late, confirmed what his wife

had let out, and added that both men had taken the way that would lead

them to the bridge, meaning the bridge over the mere. More than that he

could not say, for he had _met_ them, and was full half a mile from the

mere, before those men could have reached it.

Following up this clue, Mr. Atkins learned so many ugly things, that he

went to the Bench on justicing day, and demanded a full and searching

inquiry on the premises.

Sir George Neville, after in vain opposing this, rode off straight from

the Bench to Hernshaw, and in feeling terms conveyed the bad news to

Mrs. Gaunt; and then, with the utmost delicacy, let her know that some

suspicion rested upon herself, which she would do well to meet with the

bold front of innocence.

"What suspicion, pray?" said Mrs. Gaunt, haughtily.

Sir George shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "That you have done

Gaunt the honor--to put him out of the way."

Mrs. Gaunt took this very differently from what Sir George expected.

"What!" she cried, "are they so sure he is dead? murdered!"

And with this, she went into a passion of grief and remorse.

Even Sir George was puzzled, as well as affected, by her convulsive

agitation.

CHAPTER VII

Though it was known the proposed inquiry might result in the committal

of Mrs. Gaunt on a charge of murder, yet the respect in which she had

hitherto been held, and the influence of Sir George Neville, who having

been her lover, stoutly maintained her innocence, prevailed so far,

that even this inquiry was private, and at her own house. Only she was

present in the character of a suspected person, and the witnesses were

examined before her.

First, the poacher gave his evidence.

Then, Jane the cook proved, that a pedlar called Thomas Leicester had

been in the kitchen, and secreted about the premises till a late hour;

and this Thomas Leicester corresponded exactly to the description given

by the poacher.

This threw suspicion on Thomas Leicester, but did not connect Mrs.

Gaunt with the deed in any way.

But Ryder's evidence filled this gap. She revealed three serious

facts:--

First, that, by her mistress's orders, she had introduced this very

Leicester into her mistress's room about midnight, where he had

remained nearly half an hour, and had then left the house.

Secondly, that Mrs. Gaunt herself had been out of doors after midnight.

And, thirdly, that she had listened at the door, and heard her threaten

Griffith Gaunt's life.

This is a mere précis of the evidence, and altogether it looked so

suspicious, that the magistrates, after telling Mrs. Gaunt she could

ask the witnesses any question she chose, a suggestion she treated with

marked contempt, put their heads together a moment, and whispered.

Then the eldest of them, Mr. Underhill, who lived at a considerable

distance, told her gravely he must commit her to take her trial at the

next assizes.

"Do what you conceive to be your duty, gentlemen," said Mrs. Gaunt,

with marvellous dignity. "If I do not assert my innocence, it is

because I disdain the accusation too much."

"I shall take no part in the committal of this innocent lady," said Sir

George Neville: and was about to leave the room.

But Mrs. Gaunt begged him to stay. "To be guilty, is one thing," said

she, "to be accused, is another: I shall go to prison as easy as to my

dinner, and to the gallows as to my bed."

The presiding magistrate was staggered a moment by these words; and

it was not without considerable hesitation he took the warrant, and

prepared to fill it up.

Then Mr. Houseman, who had watched the proceedings very keenly, put in

his word. "I am here for the accused person, sir, and, with your good

leave, object to her committal--on grounds of law."

"What may they be, Mr. Houseman?" said the magistrate, civilly; and

laid his pen down to hear them.

"Briefly, sir, these. Where a murder is proven, you can commit a subject

of this realm upon suspicion. But you cannot suspect the murder as well

as the culprit, and so commit. The murder must be proved to the senses.

Now in this case the death of Mr. Gaunt by violence is not proved.

Indeed his very death rests but upon suspicion. I admit that the law

of England in this respect has once or twice been tampered with, and

persons have even been executed where no corpus delicti was found; but

what was the consequence? In each ease the murdered man turned out to

be alive, and justice was the only murderer. After Harrison's case, and

*'s, no Cumberland jury will ever commit for murder, unless the corpus

delicti has been found, and with signs of violence upon it. Come, come,

Mr. Atkins, you are too good a lawyer, and too humane a man, to send my

client to prison on the suspicion of a suspicion, which you know the

very breath of the judge will blow away, even if the grand jury let it

go into court. I offer bail, ten thousand pounds in two sureties; Sir

George Neville here present, and myself."

The magistrate looked at Mr. Atkins.

"I am not employed by the Crown," said that gentleman, "but acting on

mere civil grounds, and have no right nor wish to be severe. Bail by

all means; but is the lady so sure of her innocence as to lend me her

assistance to find the corpus delicti?"

The question was so shrewdly put, that any hesitation would have ruined

Mrs. Gaunt.

Houseman, therefore, replied eagerly and promptly, "I answer for her,

she will."

Mrs. Gaunt bowed her head in assent.

"Then," said Atkins, "I ask leave to drag, and, if need be, to drain,

that piece of water there, called 'the mere.'"

"Drag it, or drain it, which you will," said Houseman.

Said Atkins, very impressively, "And, mark my words, at the bottom of

that very sheet of water there, I shall find the remains of the late

Griffith Gaunt."

At these solemn words, coming, as they did, not from a loose

unprofessional speaker, but from a lawyer, a man who measured all

his words, a very keen observer might have seen a sort of tremor run

all through Mr. Houseman's frame. The more admirable was the perfect

coolness and seeming indifference with which he replied.

"Find him, and I'll admit suicide; find him, with signs of violence,

and I'll admit homicide, by some person or persons unknown."

All further remarks were interrupted by bustle and confusion.

Mrs. Gaunt had fainted dead away.

CHAPTER VIII

Of course pity was the first feeling; but, by the time Mrs. Gaunt

revived, her fainting, so soon after Mr. Atkins's proposal, had

produced a sinister effect on the minds of all present; and every face

showed it, except the wary Houseman's.

On her retiring, it broke out first in murmurs, then in plain words.

As for Mr. Atkins, he now showed the moderation of an able man who

feels he has a strong cause.

He merely said, "I think there should be constables about, in case of

an escape being attempted; but I agree with Mr. Houseman, that your

worships will be quite justified in taking bail, provided the corpus

delicti should not be found. Gentlemen, you were most of you neighbors

and friends of the deceased, and are, I am sure, lovers of justice: I

do entreat you to aid me in searching that piece of water, by the side

of which the deceased gentleman was heard to cry for help; and, much I

fear, he cried in vain."

The persons thus appealed to entered into the matter with all the ardor

of just men, whose curiosity as well as justice is inflamed.

A set of old rusty drags was found on the premises: and men went

punting up and down the mere, and dragged it.

Rude hooks were made by the village blacksmith, and fitted to

cart-ropes; another boat was brought to Hernshaw in a wagon, and all

that afternoon the bottom of the mere was raked; and some curious

things fished up. But no dead man.

The next clay a score of amateur drags-men were out: some throwing

their drags from the bridge; some circulating in boats, and even in

large tubs.

And, meantime, Mr. Atkins and his crew went steadily up and down,

dragging every foot of those placid waters.

They worked till dinner time, and brought up a good copper pot with two

handles, a horse's head, and several decayed trunks of trees, which had

become saturated, and sunk to the bottom.

At about three in the afternoon, two boys who, for want of a boat, were

dragging from the bridge, found something heavy but elastic at the end

of their drag: they pulled up eagerly, and a thing like a huge turnip,

half gnawed, came up, with a great bob, and blasted their sight.

They let go, drags and all, and stood shrieking, and shrieking.

Those who were nearest them called out, and asked what was the matter;

but the boys did not reply, and their faces showed so white, that a

woman, who saw them, screamed to Sir. Atkins, and said she was sure

those boys had seen something out of the common.

Mr. Atkins came up, and found the boys blubbering. He encouraged them,

and they told him a fearful thing had come up; it was like a man's head

and shoulders all scooped out and gnawed by the fishes; and had torn

the drags out of their hands.

Mr. Atkins made them tell him the exact place; and was soon upon it

with his boat.

The water here was very deep, and though the boys kept pointing to the

very spot, the drags found nothing for some time.

But at last they showed, by their resistance, that they had clawed hold

of something.

"Draw slowly," said Sir. Atkins, "and, _if it is_, be men, and hold

fast."

The men drew slowly, slowly, and presently there rose to the surface a

Thing to strike terror and loathing into the stoutest heart.

The mutilated remains of a human face and body.

The greedy pike had cleared, not the features only, but the entire

flesh off the face; but had left the hair, and the tight skin of the

forehead, though their teeth had raked this last. The remnants they had

left made what they had mutilated doubly horrible; since now it was not

a skull; not a skeleton; but a face and a man gnawed down to the bones

and hair and feet. These last were in stout shoes that resisted even

those voracious teeth; and a leathern stock had offered some little

protection to the throat.

The men groaned, and hid their faces with one hand, and pulled softly

to the shore with the other; and then, with half-averted faces, they

drew the ghastly remains and fluttering rags gently and reverently to

land.

Mr. Atkins yielded to Nature, and was violently sick at the sight he

had searched for so eagerly.

As soon as he recovered his powers, he bade the constables guard the

body (it was a body, in law), and see that no one laid so much as a

finger on it until some magistrate had taken a deposition. He also

sent a messenger to Mr. Houseman, telling him the corpus delicti was

found. He did this, partly to show that gentleman he was right in

his judgment, and partly out of common humanity; since, after this

discovery, Mr. Houseman's client was sure to be tried for her life.

A magistrate soon came, and viewed the remains, and took careful notes

of the state in which they were found.

Houseman came, and was much affected, both by the sight of his dead

friend, so mutilated, and by the probable consequences to Mrs. Gaunt.

However, as lawyers fight very hard, he recovered himself enough to

remark that there were no marks of violence before death, and insisted

on this being inserted in the magistrate's notes.

An inquest was ordered next day, and meantime Mrs. Gaunt was told she

could not quit the upper apartments of her own house. Two constables

were placed on the ground floor night and day.

Next day the remains were removed to the little inn, where Griffith had

spent so many jovial hours; laid on a table, and covered with a white

sheet.

The coroner's jury sat in the same room, as was then the custom, and

the evidence I have already noticed was gone into and the finding of

the body deposed to. The jury, without hesitation, returned a verdict

of willful murder.

Mrs. Gaunt was then brought in. She came, white as a ghost, leaning

upon Houseman's shoulder.

Upon her entering, a juryman, by a humane impulse, drew the sheet over

the remains again.

The coroner, according to the custom of the day, put a question to Mrs.

Gaunt, with the view of eliciting her guilt. If I remember right, he

asked her how she came to be out of doors so late on the night of the

murder. Mrs. Gaunt, however, was in no condition to answer queries. I

doubt if she even heard this one. Her lovely eyes, dilated with horror,

were fixed on that terrible sheet, with a stony glance. "Show me," she

gasped, "and let me die too."

The jurymen looked, with doubtful faces, at the coroner, he bowed a

grave assent.

The nearest juryman withdrew the sheet.

Now, the belief was not yet extinct that the dead body shows some signs

of its murderer's approach.

So every eye glared on her and It by turns, as she, with dilated,

horror-stricken orbs, looked on that awful Thing.

CHAPTER IX

She recoiled with a violent shudder at first; and hid her face with one

hand. Then she gradually stole a horror-stricken side glance.

She had not looked at it so a moment, when she uttered a loud cry, and

pointed at its feet with quivering hand.

"THE SHOES! THE SHOES!--IT IS NOT MY GRIFFITH."

With this she fell into violent hysterics, and was carried out of the

room at Houseman's earnest entreaty.

As soon as she was gone, Mr. Houseman, being freed from his fear that

his client would commit herself irretrievably, recovered a show of

composure, and his wits went keenly to work.

"On behalf of the accused," said he, "I admit the suicide of some

person unknown, wearing heavy hobnailed shoes; probably one of the

lower order of people."

This adroit remark produced some little effect, notwithstanding the

strong feeling against the accused.

The coroner inquired if there were any bodily marks by which the

remains could be identified.

"My master had a long black mole on his forehead," suggested Caroline

Ryder.

"'Tis here!" cried a juryman, bending over the remains.

And now they all gathered in great excitement round the corpus delicti;

and there, sure enough, was a long black mole.

Then was there a buzz of pity for Griffith Gaunt, followed by a stern

murmur of execration.

"Gentlemen," said the coroner solemnly, "behold in this the finger of

Heaven. The poor gentleman may well have put off his boots, since, it

seems, he left his horse; but he could not take from his forehead his

natal sign; and that, by God's will, hath strangely escaped mutilation,

and revealed a most foul deed. We must now do our duty, gentlemen,

without respect of persons."

A warrant was then issued for the apprehension of Thomas Leicester.

And, that same night, Mrs. Gaunt left Hernshaw in her own chariot

between two constables, and escorted by armed yeomen.

Her proud head was bowed almost to her knees, and her streaming eyes

hidden in her lovely hands. For why? A mob accompanied her for miles,

shouting, "Murderess!--Bloody Papist!--Hast done to death the kindliest

gentleman in Cumberland. We'll all come to see thee hanged.--Fair face

but foul heart!"--and groaning, hissing and cursing, and indeed only

kept from violence by the escort.

And so they took that poor proud lady and lodged her in Carlisle gaol.

She was enceinte into the bargain. By the man she was to be hanged for

murdering.

CHAPTER X

The county was against her, with some few exceptions. Sir George

Neville and Mr. Houseman stood stoutly by her.

Sir George's influence and money obtained her certain comforts in gaol;

and, in that day, the law of England was so far respected in a gaol,

that untried prisoners were not thrown into cells, nor impeded, as they

now are, in preparing their defense.

Her two staunch friends visited her every day, and tried to keep her

heart up.

But they could not do it. She was in a state of dejection bordering

upon lethargy.

"If he is dead," said she, "what matters it? If, by God's mercy, he

is alive still, he will not let me die for want of a word from him.

Impatience hath been my bane. Now, I say, God's will be done. I am

weary of the world."

Houseman tried every argument to rouse her out of this desperate frame

of mind; but in vain.

It ran its course, and then, behold, it passed away like a cloud, and

there came a keen desire to live and defeat her accusers.

She made Houseman write out all the evidence against her; and she

studied it by day, and thought of it by night; and often surprised both

her friends by the acuteness of her remarks.

Mr. Atkins discontinued his advertisements; it was Houseman who now

filled every paper with notices informing Griffith Gaunt of his

accession to fortune, and entreated him for that, and other weighty

reasons, to communicate in confidence with his old friend John

Houseman, attorney-at-law.

Houseman was too wary to invite him to appear and save his wife; for,

in that case, he feared the Crown would use his advertisements as

evidence at the trial, should Griffith not appear.

The fact is, Houseman relied more upon certain lacunæ in the evidence,

and the absence of all marks of violence, than upon any hope that

Griffith might be alive.

The assizes drew near, and no fresh light broke in upon this mysterious

case.

Mrs. Gaunt lay in her bed at night, and thought and thought.

Now the female understanding has sometimes remarkable power under such

circumstances. By degrees Truth flashes across it, like lightning in

the dark.

After many such nightly meditations, Mrs. Gaunt sent one day for Sir

George Neville and Mr. Houseman, and addressed them as follows "I

believe he is alive, and that I can guess where he is at this moment."

Both the gentlemen started, and looked amazed.

"Yes, sirs; so sure as we sit here, he is now at a little inn in

Lancashire, called the 'Packhorse,' with a woman he calls his wife."

And, with this, her face was scarlet, and her eyes flashed their old

fire.

She exacted a solemn promise of secrecy from them, and then she told

them all she had learned from Thomas Leicester.

"And so now," said she, "I believe you can save my life, if you think

it is worth saving." And with this, she began to cry bitterly.

But Houseman, the practical, had no patience with the pangs of love

betrayed, and jealousy, and such small deer, in a client whose life was

at stake.

"Great Heaven! madam," said he, roughly, "why did you not tell me this

before?"

"Because I am not a man--to go and tell everything all at once," sobbed

Mrs. Gaunt. "Besides, I wanted to shield his good name, whose dear life

they pretend I have taken."

As soon as she recovered her composure, she begged Sir George Neville

to ride to the "Packhorse" for her. Sir George assented eagerly; but

asked how he was to find it. "I have thought of that too," said she.

"His black horse has been to and fro. Ride that horse into Lancashire,

and give him his head: ten to one but he takes you to the place, or

where you may hear of it. If not, go to Lancaster, and ask about the

'Packhorse.' He wrote to me from Lancaster: see." And she showed him

the letter.

Sir George embraced with ardor this opportunity of serving her. "I'll

be at Hernshaw in one hour," said he, "and ride the black horse south

at once."

"Excuse me," said Houseman; "but would it not be better for me to go?

As a lawyer, I may be more able to cope with her."

"Nay," said Mrs. Gaunt, "Sir George is young and handsome: if he

manages well, she will tell him more than she will you. All I beg

of him is, to drop the chevalier, for this once, and see women with

a woman's eyes and not a man's; see them _as they are._ Do not go

telling a creature of this kind that she has had my money, as well as

my husband, and ought to pity me lying here in prison. Keep me out of

her sight as much as you can. Whether Griffith hath deceived her or not

you will never raise in her any feeling but love for him, and hatred

for his lawful wife. Dress like a yeoman; go quietly, and lodge in the

house a day or two; begin by flattering her; and then get from her

when she saw him last, or heard from him. But indeed I fear you will

surprise him with her."

"Fear?" exclaimed Sir George.

"Well, hope, then," said the lady; and a tear trickled down her face in

a moment. "But, if you do, promise me, on your honor as a gentleman,

not to affront him. For I know you think him a villain."

"A d----d villain! saving your presence."

"Well, sir, you have said it to me. Now promise me to say nought to

_him_, but just this: 'Rose Gaunt's mother she lies in Carlisle gaol,

to be tried for her life for murdering you. She begs of you not to let

her die publicly upon the scaffold; but quietly at home, of her broken

heart.'"

"Write it," said Sir George, with the tears in his eyes, "that I may

just put it in his hand: for I can never utter your sweet words to such

a monster as he is."

Armed with this appeal, and several minute instructions, which it

is needless to particularize here, that staunch friend rode into

Lancashire.

And next day the black horse justified his mistress's sagacity, and his

own.

He seemed all along to know where he was going, and late in the

afternoon he turned off the road on to a piece of green: and Sir

George, with beating heart, saw right before him the sign of the

"Packhorse," and, on coming nearer, the words

THOMAS LEICESTER.

He dismounted at the door, and asked if he could have a bed.

Mrs. Vint said yes; and supper into the bargain, if he liked.

He ordered a substantial supper directly.

Mrs. Vint saw at once it was a good customer, and showed him into the

parlor.

He sat down by the fire. But, the moment she retired, he got up and

made a circuit of the house, looking quietly into every window, to see

if he could catch a glance of Griffith Gaunt.

There were no signs of him; and Sir George returned to his parlor

heavy-hearted. One hope, the greatest of all, had been defeated

directly. Still, it was just possible that Griffith might be away on

temporary business.

In this faint hope, Sir George strolled about till his supper was ready

for him.

When he had eaten his supper, he rang the bell, and, taking advantage

of a common custom, insisted on the landlord, Thomas Leicester, taking

a glass with him.

"Thomas Leicester!" said the girl. "He is not at home. But I'll send

Master Vint."

Old Vint came in, and readily accepted an invitation to drink his

guest's health.

Sir George found him loquacious, and soon extracted from him that his

daughter Mercy was Leicester's wife, that Leicester was gone on a

journey, and that Mercy was in care for him. "Leastways," said he, "she

is very dull, and cries at times when her mother speaks of him; but she

is too close to say much."

All this puzzled Sir George Neville sorely.

But greater surprises were in store.

The next morning, after breakfast, the servant came and told him Dame

Leicester desired to see him.

He started at that; but put on nonchalance, and said he was at her

service.

He was ushered into another parlor, and there he found a grave, comely,

young woman, seated working, with a child on the floor beside her. She

rose quietly; he bowed low and respectfully; she blushed faintly; but,

with every appearance of self-possession, curtsied to him; then eyed

him point-blank a single moment; and requested him to be seated.

"I hear, sir," said she, "you did ask my father many questions last

night; may I ask you one?"

Sir George colored, but bowed assent.

"From whom had you the black horse you ride?"

Now, if Sir George had not been a veracious man, he would have been

caught directly. But, although he saw at once the oversight he had

committed, he replied, "I had him of a lady in Cumberland, one Mistress

Gaunt."

Mercy Vint trembled.

"No doubt," said she, softly. "Excuse my question; you shall understand

that the horse is well known here."

"Madam," said Sir George, "if you admire the horse, he is at your

service for twenty pounds, though indeed he is worth more."

"I thank you, sir," said Mercy, "I have no desire, for the horse

whatever; and be pleased to excuse my curiosity; you must think me

impertinent."

"Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I consider nothing impertinent that

hath procured me the pleasure of an interview with you."

He then, as directed by Mrs. Gaunt, proceeded to flatter the mother

and the child, and exerted those powers of pleasing which had made him

irresistible in society.

Here, however, he found they went a very little way. Mercy did not even

smile. She cast out of her dove-like eyes a gentle, humble, reproachful

glance, as much as to say, "What! do I seem so vain a creature as to

believe all this?"

Sir George himself had tact and sensibility; and, by-and-by became

discontented with the part he was playing, under those meek, honest,

eyes.

There was a pause: and, as her sex have a wonderful art of reading the

face, Mercy looked at him steadily, and said, "Yes, sir, 'tis best

to be straightforward, especially with women-folk." Before he could

recover this little facer, she said, quietly, "What is your name?"

"George Neville."

"Well, George Neville," said Mercy, very slowly and softly, "when you

have a mind to tell me what you came here for, and who sent you, you

will find me in this little room. I seldom leave it now. I beg you to

speak your errand to none but me." And she sighed deeply.

Sir George bowed low, and retired to collect his wits.

He had come here strongly prepossessed against Mercy. But, instead

of a vulgar, shallow woman, whom he was to surprise into confession,

he encountered a soft-eyed Puritan, all unpretending dignity, grace,

propriety, and sagacity.

"Flatter her!" said he, to himself, "I might as well flatter an

iceberg. Out-wit her! I feel like a child beside her."

He strolled about in a brown study, not knowing what to do.

She had given him a fair opening. She had invited him to tell the

truth. But he was afraid to take her at her word: and yet what was the

use to persist in what his own eyes told him was the wrong course?

Whilst he hesitated, and debated within himself, a trifling incident

turned the scale.

A poor woman came begging, with her child, and was received rather

roughly by Harry Vint. "Pass on, good woman," said he, "we want no

tramps here."

Then a window was opened on the ground floor, and Mercy beckoned the

woman. Sir George flattened himself against the wall, and listened to

the two talking.

Mercy examined the woman gently, but shrewdly, and elicited a tale of

genuine distress. Sir George then saw her hand out to the woman some

warm flannel for herself, a piece of stuff for the child, a large piece

of bread, and a sixpence.

He also caught sight of Mercy's dove-like eyes, as she bestowed her

alms, and they were lit with an inward lustre.

"She cannot be an ill woman," thought Sir George. "I'll e'en go by my

own eyes and judgment. After all, Mrs. Gaunt has never seen her; and I

have."

He went and knocked at Mercy's door.

"Come in," said a mild voice.

Neville entered, and said, abruptly, and with great emotion, "Madam, I

see you can feel for the unhappy; so I take my own way now, and appeal

to your pity. I _have_ come to speak to you on the saddest business."

"You come from _him_," said Mercy, closing her lips tight; but her

bosom heaved. Her heart and her judgment grappled like wrestlers that

moment.

"Nay, madam," said Sir George, "I come from _her._"

Mercy knew in a moment who "her" must be.

She looked scared, and drew back with manifest signs of repulsion.

The movement did not escape Sir George: it alarmed him: he remembered

what Mrs. Gaunt had said; that this woman would be sure to hate Gaunt's

lawful wife. But it was too late to go back. He did the next best

thing, he rushed on.

He threw himself on his knees before Mercy Vint.

"Oh, madam!" he cried, piteously, "do not set your heart against the

most unhappy lady in England. If you did but know her, her nobleness,

her misery! Before you steel yourself against me, her friend, let me

ask you one question. Do you know where Mrs. Gaunt is at this moment?"

Mercy answered, coldly, "How should I know where the lady is?"

"Well then, she lies in Carlisle gaol."

"She--lies--in Carlisle gaol?" repeated Mercy, looking all confused.

"They accuse her of murdering her husband."

Mercy uttered a scream, and catching her child up off the floor, began

to rock herself and moan over it.

"No, no, no," cried Sir George, "she is innocent, she is innocent."

"What is that to _me?_" cried Mercy, wildly, "He is murdered, he is

dead, and my child an orphan." And so she went on moaning and rocking

herself.

"But I tell you he is not dead at all," cried Sir George. "'Tis all a

mistake. When did you see him last?"

"More than six weeks ago."

"I mean, when did you hear from him last?"

"Never, since that day."

Sir George groaned aloud at this intelligence.

And Mercy, who heard him groan, was heart-broken. She accused herself

of Griffith's death. "'Twas I who drove him from me," said she. "'Twas

I who bade him go back to his lawful wife; and the wretch hated him.

I sent him to his death." Her grief was wild, and deep; she could not

hear Sir George's arguments.

But presently she said, sternly, "What does that woman say for herself?"

"Madam," said Sir George, dejectedly, "Heaven knows you are in no

condition to fathom a mystery that hath puzzled wiser heads than yours

or mine; and I am but little able to lay the tale before you fairly:

for your grief it moves me deeply, and I could curse myself for putting

the matter to you so bluntly and uncouthly. Permit me to retire a

while, and compose my own spirits for the task I have undertaken too

rashly."

"Nay, George Neville," said Mercy, "stay you there: only give me a

moment to draw my breath."

She struggled hard for a little composure, and, after a shower of

tears, she hung her head over the chair like a crushed thing, but made

him a sign of attention.

Sir George told the story as fairly as he could; only of course his

bias was in favor of Mrs. Gaunt; but as Mercy's bias was against her,

this brought the thing nearly square.

When he came to the finding of the body, Mercy was seized with a deadly

faintness; and, though she did not become insensible, yet she was in no

condition to judge or even to comprehend.

Sir George was moved with pity, and would have called for help; but she

shook her head. So then he sprinkled water on her face, and slapped her

hand: and a beautifully moulded hand it was.

When she got a little better she sobbed faintly, and sobbing thanked

him, and begged him to go on.

"My mind is stronger than my heart," she said. "I'll hear it all,

though it kill me where I sit."

Sir George went on, and, to avoid repetition, I must ask the reader to

understand that he left out nothing whatever which has been hitherto

related in these pages; and, in fact, told her one or two little things

that I have omitted.

When he had done, she sat quite still a minute or two, pale as a statue.

Then she turned to Neville, and said solemnly, "You wish to know the

truth in this dark matter: for dark it is in very sooth."

Neville was much impressed by her manner, and answered respectfully,

Yes, he desired to know--by all means.

"Then take my hand," said Mercy, "and kneel down with me."

Sir George looked surprised, but obeyed, and kneeled down beside her,

with his hand in hers.

There was a long pause, and then took place a transformation.

The dove-like eyes were lifted to Heaven, and gleamed like opals with

an inward and celestial light; the comely face shone with a higher

beauty, and the rich voice rose in ardent supplication.

"Thou God, to whom all hearts be known, and no secrets hid from thine

eye, look down now on thy servant in sore trouble, that putteth her

trust in thee. Give wisdom to the simple this day, and understanding

to the lowly. Thou that didst reveal to babes and sucklings the

great things that were hidden from the wise, oh show us the truth in

this dark matter: enlighten us by thy spirit, for his dear sake, who

suffered more sorrows than I suffer now. Amen. Amen."

Then she looked at Neville: and he said "Amen," with all his heart, and

the tears in his eyes.

He had never heard real live prayer before. Here the little hand

gripped his hard, as she wrestled, and the heart seemed to rise out of

the bosom and fly to Heaven on the sublime and thrilling voice.

They rose, and she sat down; but it seemed as if her eyes once raised

to Heaven in prayer could not come down again: they remained fixed and

angelic, and her lips still moved in supplication.

Sir George Neville, though a loose liver, was no scoffer; he was

smitten with reverence for this inspired countenance, and retired,

bowing low and obsequiously.

He took a long walk and thought it all over. One thing was clear, and

consoling. He felt sure he had done wisely to disobey Mrs. Gaunt's

instructions, and make a friend of Mercy, instead of trying to set

his wits against hers. Ere he returned to the "Packhorse," he had

determined to take another step in the right direction. He did not like

to agitate her with another interview, so soon. But he wrote her a

little letter.

"MADAM,--When I came here, I did not know you; and therefore

I feared to trust you too far. But, now I do know you for the

best woman in England, I take the open way with you.

"Know that Mrs. Gaunt said the man would be here with you; and

she charged me with a few written lines to him. She would be

angry if she knew that I had shown them to any other. Yet I

take on me to show them to you: for I believe you are wiser

than any of us, if the truth were known. I do therefore entreat

you to read these lines, and tell me whether you think the hand

that wrote them can have shed the blood of him to whom they are

writ.

"I am, Madam,

"With profound respect,

"Your grateful and very humble servant,

"GEORGE NEVILLE."

He very soon received a line in reply, written in a clear and beautiful

handwriting.

"Mercy Vint sends you her duty; and she will speak to you at nine of

the clock to-morrow morning. Pray for light."

At the appointed time Sir George found her working until her needle.

His letter lay on the table before her.

She rose and curtsied to him, and called the servant to take away the

child for a while. She went with her to the door and kissed the bairn

several times at parting, as if he was going away for good. "I'm loath

to let him go," said she to Neville: "but it weakens a mother's mind to

have her babe in the room; takes her attention off each moment. Pray

you be seated. Well, sir, I have read these lines of Mistress Gaunt,

and wept over them. Methinks I had not done so were they cunningly

devised. Also I lay all night and thought."

"That is just what she does."

"No doubt, sir; and the upshot is, I don't _feel_ as if he was dead.

Thank God."

"That is something," said Neville. But he could not help thinking it

was very little; especially to produce in a court of justice.

"And now," said she, thoughtfully, "you say that the real Thomas

Leicester was seen thereabouts as well as my Thomas Leicester. Then

answer me one little question. What had the real Thomas Leicester on

his feet that night?"

"Nay, I know not," was the half-careless reply.

"Bethink you. 'Tis a question that must have been often put in your

hearing."

"Begging your pardon, it was never put at all; nor do I see--"

"What, not at the inquest?"

"No."

"That is very strange. What, so many wise heads have bent over this

riddle, and not one to ask how was you pedlar shod!"

"Madam," said Sir George, "our minds were fixed upon the fate of Gaunt.

Many did ask how was the pedlar armed; but none how was he shod."

"Hath he been seen since?"

"Not he; and that hath an ugly look; for the constables are out after

him with hue and cry; but he is not to be found."

"Then," said Mercy, "I must e'en answer my own question. I do know how

that pedlar was shod. With hobnailed shoes."

Sir George bounded from his chair. One great ray of daylight broke in

upon him.

"Ay," said Mercy, "she was right. Women do see clearer in some things

than men. The pair went from my house to hers: he you call Griffith

Gaunt had on a new pair of boots; and by the same token 'twas I did pay

for them, and there is the receipt in that cupboard: he you call Thomas

Leicester went hence in hobnailed shoes. I think the body they found

was the body of Thomas Leicester the pedlar. May God have mercy on his

poor unprepared soul."

Sir George uttered a joyful exclamation. But the next moment he had a

doubt, "Ay, but," said he, "you forget the mole. 'Twas on that they

built."

"I forget nought," said Mercy, calmly. "The pedlar had a black mole

over his left temple, he showed it me in this very room. You have found

the body of Thomas Leicester, and Griffith Gaunt is hiding from the

law that he hath broken, he is afeared of her and her friends if he

shows his face in Cumberland; he is afeared of my folk if he be seen in

Lancashire. Ah, Thomas, as if I would let them harm thee!"

Sir George Neville walked to and fro in grand excitement.

"Oh, blessed day that I came hither. Madam you are an angel. You will

save an innocent broken-hearted lady from death and dishonor. Your good

heart and rare wit have read in a moment the dark riddle that hath

puzzled a county."

"George," said Mercy, gravely, "you have gotten the wrong end of the

stick. The wise in their own conceit are blinded; in Cumberland, where

all this befell, they went not to God for light, as you and I did,

George."

In saying this she gave him her hand to celebrate their success.

He kissed it devoutly, and owned afterward that it was the proudest

moment of his life, when that sweet Puritan gave him her neat hand so

cordially, with a pressure so gentle yet frank.

And now came the question how they were to make a Cumberland jury see

this matter as they saw it.

He asked her would she come to the trial as a witness?

At that she drew back with manifest repugnance.

"My shame would be public. I must tell who I am; and what. A ruined

woman."

"Say rather an injured saint. You have nothing to be ashamed of. All

good men would feel for you."

Mercy shook her head. "Ay, but the women; shame is shame with us; right

or wrong goes for little. Nay, I hope to do better for you than that. I

must find _him_: and send him to deliver her. 'Tis his only chance of

happiness."

She then asked him if he would draw up an advertisement of quite a

different kind from those he had described to her.

He assented, and between them they concocted the following:--

"If Thomas Leicester, who went from the "Packhorse" two months ago,

will come thither at once, Mercy will be much beholden to him, and tell

him strange things that have befallen."

Sir George then, at her request, rode over to Lancaster, and inserted

the above in the county paper, and also in a small sheet that was

issued in the city three times a week. He had also hand-bills to

the same effect printed, and sent into Cumberland and Westmoreland.

Finally, he sent a copy to his man of business in London, with orders

to insert it in all the journals.

Then he returned to the "Packhorse," and told Mercy what he had done.

The next day he bade her farewell, and away for Carlisle. It was a two

days' journey. He reached Carlisle in the evening, and went all glowing

to Mrs. Gaunt. "Madam," said he, "be of good cheer. I bless the day I

went to see her; she is an angel of wit and goodness." He then related

to her, in glowing terms, most that had passed between Mercy and him.

But to his surprise, Mrs. Gaunt wore a cold, forbidding air.

"This is all very well," said she. "But 'twill avail me little unless

_he_ comes before the judge and clears me; and she will never let him

do that."

"Ay, that she will--if she can find him."

"If she can find him? How simple you are."

"Nay, madam, not so simple but I can tell a good woman from a bad one,

and a true from a false."

"What! when you are in love with her? Not if you were the wisest of

your sex."

"In love with her?" cried Sir George; and colored high.

"Ay," said the lady. "Think you I cannot tell? Don't deceive yourself.

You have gone and fallen in love with her. At your years! Not that 'tis

any business of mine."

"Well, madam," said Sir George, stiffly, "say what you please on that

score; but, at least welcome my good news."

Mrs. Gaunt begged him to excuse her petulance, and thanked him kindly

for all he had just done. But the next moment she rose from her chair

in great agitation, and burst out, "I'd as lieve die as owe anything to

that woman."

Sir George remonstrated. "Why hate her? She does not hate you."

"Oh yes she does. Tis not in nature she should do any other."

"Her acts prove the contrary."

"Her acts! she has _done_ nothing, but make fair promises; and that has

blinded you. Women of this sort are very cunning, and never show their

real characters to a man. No more; prithee mention not her name to me.

It makes me ill. I know he is with her at this moment. Ah, let me die,

and be forgotten: since I am no more beloved."

The voice was sad and weary now, and the tears ran fast.

Poor Sir George was moved and melted, and set himself to flatter and

console this impracticable lady, who hated her best friend in this sore

strait, for being what she was herself, a woman; and was much less

annoyed at being hanged than at not being loved.

When she was a little calmer he left her, and rode off to Houseman.

That worthy was delighted. "Get her to swear to those hobnailed shoes,"

said he, "and we shall shake them." He then let Sir George know that he

had obtained private information, which he would use in cross-examining

a principal witness for the Crown. "However," he added, "do not deceive

yourself: nothing can make the prisoner really safe but the appearance

of Griffith Gaunt; he has such strong motives for coming to light;

he is heir to a fortune, and his wife is accused of murdering him.

The jury will never believe he is alive till they see him. That man's

prolonged disappearance is hideous. It turns my blood cold when I think

of it."

"Do not despair on that score," said Neville. "I believe our good angel

will produce him."

Three days only before the assizes, came the long-expected letter from

Mercy Vint. Sir George tore it open, but bitter was his disappointment.

The letter merely said that Griffith had not appeared in answer to her

advertisements, and she was sore grieved and perplexed.

There were two postscripts, each on a little piece of paper.

First postscript, in a tremulous hand, "Pray."

Second postscript, in a firm hand, "Drain that water."

Houseman shrugged his shoulders impatiently, "Drain the mere? Let the

Crown do that. We should but fish up more trouble. And prayer quo' she!

'Tis not prayers we want, but evidence."

He sent his clerk off to travel post night and day, and subpoena Mercy,

and bring her back with him to the trial. She was to have every comfort

on the road, and be treated like a duchess.

The evening before the assizes, Mrs. Gaunt's apartments were Mr.

Houseman's head-quarters, and messages were coming and going all day,

on matters connected with the defense.

Just at sunset, up rattled a post-chaise, and the clerk got out and

came haggard and bloodshot before his employer.

"The witness has disappeared, sir. Left home last Tuesday, with her

child, and has never been seen nor heard of since."

Here was a terrible blow. They all paled under it; it seriously

diminished the chances of an acquittal.

But Mrs. Gaunt bore it nobly. She seemed to rise under it.

She turned to Sir George Neville with a sweet smile. "The noble heart

sees base things noble. No wonder then an artful woman deluded _you._

He has left England with her; and condemned me to the gallows. In cold

blood. So be it. I shall defend myself."

She then sat down with Mr. Houseman, and went through the written case

he had prepared for her: and showed him notes she had taken of full a

hundred criminal trials great and small.

While they were putting their heads together, Sir George sat in a brown

study, and uttered not a word. Presently he got up a little brusquely,

and said, "I'm going to Hernshaw."

"What, at this time of night? What to do?"

"To obey my orders. To drain the mere."

"And who could have ordered you to drain my mere?"

"Mercy Vint."

Sir George uttered this in a very curious way, half ashamed half

resolute, and retired before Mrs. Gaunt could vent in speech the

surprise and indignation that fired her eye.

Houseman implored her not to heed Sir George and his vagaries, but to

bend her whole mind on those approved modes of defense with which he

had supplied her.

Being now alone with her, he no longer concealed his great anxiety.

"We have lost an invaluable witness in that woman," said he. "I was mad

to think she would come."

Mrs. Gaunt shivered with repugnance. "I would not have her come for

all the world," said she. "For Heaven's sake never mention her name to

me. I want help from none but friends. Send Mrs. Houseman to me in the

morning; and do not distress yourself so. I shall defend myself far

better than you think. I have not studied a hundred trials for nought."

Thus the prisoner cheered up her attorney, and soon after insisted on

his going home to bed, for she saw he was worn out by his exertions.

And now she was alone.

All was silent.

A few short hours, and she was to be tried for her life; tried, not

by the All-wise Judge, but by fallible men, and under a system most

unfavorable to the accused.

Worse than all this, she was a Papist: and, as ill-luck would have it,

since her imprisonment an alarm had been raised that the Pretender

meditated another invasion. This report had set juries very much

against all the Romanists in the country, and had already perverted

justice in one or two cases, especially in the North.

Mrs. Gaunt knew all this, and trembled at the peril to come.

She spent the early part of the night in studying her defense. Then she

laid it quite aside and prayed long and fervently.

Towards morning she fell asleep from exhaustion.

When she awoke, Mrs. Houseman was sitting by her bedside, looking at

her, and crying.

They were soon clasped in each other's arms, condoling.

But presently Houseman came, and took his wife away rather angrily.

Mrs. Gaunt was prevailed on to eat a little toast and drink a glass of

wine, and then she sat waiting her dreadful summons.

She waited, and waited, until she became impatient to face her danger.

But there were two petty larcenies on before her. She had to wait.

At last, about noon, came a message to say that the grand jury had

found a true bill against her.

"Then may God forgive them!" said she.

Soon afterwards she was informed her time drew very near.

She made her toilet carefully, and passed with her attendant into a

small room under the court.

Here she had to endure another chilling wait, and in a sombre room.

Presently she heard a voice above her cry out, "The King _versus_

Catherine Gaunt."

Then she was beckoned to.

She mounted some steps, badly lighted, and found herself in the glare

of day, and greedy eyes, in the felon's dock.

In a matter entirely strange, we seldom know beforehand what we can do,

and how we shall carry ourselves. Mrs. Gaunt no sooner set her foot in

that dock, and saw tiny awful front of Justice face to face, than her

tremors abated, and all her powers awoke, and she thrilled with love

of life, and bristled with all those fine arts of defense that nature

lends to superior women.

She entered on that defense before she spoke a word; for she attacked

the prejudices of the court by deportment.

She curtsied reverently to the Judge, and contrived to make her

reverence seem a wiling homage, unmixed with fear.

She cast her eyes round, and saw the court thronged with ladies and

gentlemen she knew. In a moment she read in their faces that only two

or three were on her side. She bowed to those only; and they returned

her courtesy. This gave an impression (a false one) that the gentry

sympathized with her.

After a little murmur of functionaries, the Clerk of Arraigns turned to

the prisoner, and said, in a loud voice, "Catherine Gaunt, hold up thy

hand."

She held up her hand, and he recited the indictment, which charged

that, not having the fear of God before her eyes, but being moved by

the instigation of the Devil, she had on the fifteen of October, in

the tenth year of the reign of his present Majesty, aided and abetted

one Thomas Leicester in an assault upon one Griffith Gaunt, Esq., and

him, the said Griffith Gaunt, did with force and arms assassinate and

do to death, against the peace of our said Lord the King, his crown and

dignity.

After reading the indictment, the Clerk of Arraigns turned to the

prisoner, "How sayest thou, Catherine Gaunt, art thou guilty of the

felony and murder whereof thou standest indicted--or not guilty?"

"I am not guilty."

"Culprit, how wilt thou be tried?"

"Culprit I am none, but only accused: I will be tried by God and my

country."

"God send thee a good deliverance."

Mr. Whitworth, the junior counsel for the Crown, then rose to open the

case; but the prisoner, with a pale face, but most courteous demeanor,

begged his leave to make a previous motion to the court. Mr. Whitworth

bowed, and sat down. "My Lord," said she, "I have first a favor to ask:

and that favor, methinks, you will grant, since it is but justice,

impartial justice. My accuser, I hear, has too counsel; both learned

and able. I am but a woman, and no match for their skill; therefore, I

beg your Lordship to allow me counsel on my defense, to matter of fact

as well as of law. I know this is not usual; but it is just; and I am

informed it has sometimes been granted in trials of life and death, and

that your Lordship hath the _power_, if you have the _will_, to do me

so much justice."

The Judge looked towards Mr. Sergeant Wiltshire, who was the leader on

the other side: he rose instantly and replied to this purpose: "The

prisoner is misinformed. The truth is, that from time immemorial, and

down to the other day, a person indicted for a capital offense was

never allowed counsel at all, except to matters of law, and these must

be started by himself. By recent practice, the rule hath been so far

relaxed, that counsel have sometimes been permitted to examine, and

cross-examine, witnesses for a prisoner; but never to make observations

on the evidence, nor to draw inferences from it to the point in issue."

_Mrs. Gaunt._ So, then, if I be sued for a small sum of money, I may

have skilled orators to defend me against their like. But, if I be sued

for my life and honor, I may not oppose skill to skill; but must stand

here a child against you that are masters. 'Tis a monstrous iniquity,

and you yourself, sir, will not deny it.

_Sergeant Wiltshire._ Madam, permit me: whether it be a hardship to

deny full counsel to prisoners in criminal cases, I shall not pretend

to say; but if it be, 'tis a hardship of the law's making, and not of

mine, nor of my lord's: and none have suffered by it (at least in our

day) but those who had broken the law.

The Sergeant then stopped a minute, and whispered with his junior.

After which he turned to the Judge. "My Lord, we, that are of counsel

for the Crown, desire to do nothing that is hard where a person's life

is at stake. We yield to the prisoner any indulgence for which your

Lordship can find a precedent in your reading; but no more: and so we

leave the matter to you."

_The Clerk of Arraigns._ Crier, proclaim silence.

_The Crier._ Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! His Majesty's Justices do straitly

charge all manner of persons to keep silence on pain of imprisonment.

_The Judge._ Prisoner, what my brother Wiltshire says, the law is clear

in: there is no precedent for what you ask, and the contrary practice

stares us in the face for centuries. What seems to you a partial

practice, and, to be frank, some learned persons are of your mind, must

be set against this, that in capital cases the burden of proof lies on

the Crown and not on the accused. Also it is my duty to give you all

the assistance I can, and that I shall do. Thus then it is: you can be

allowed counsel to examine your own witnesses, and cross-examine the

witnesses for the Crown, and speak to points of law, to be started by

yourself,--but no further.

He then asked her what gentleman there present he should assign to her

for counsel.

Her reply to this inquiry took the whole court by surprise, and made

her solicitor, Houseman, very miserable. "None, my Lord," said she.

"Half justice is injustice; and I will lend it no color. I will not

set able men to fight for me with their hands tied, against men as

able whose hands be free. Counsel, on terms so partial, I will have

none. My counsel shall be three, and no more. Yourself, my Lord,--my

Innocence,--and the Lord God Omniscient."

These words, grandly uttered, caused a dead silence in the court, but

only for a few moments. It was broken by the loud mechanical voice of

the crier, who proclaimed silence, and then called the names of the

jury that were to try this cause.

Mrs. Gaunt listened keenly to the names; familiar and bourgeois names,

that now seemed regal, for they who owned them held her life in their

hands.

Each juryman was sworn in the grand old form, now slightly curtailed.

"Joseph King, look upon the prisoner.--You shall well and truly try,

and true deliverance make, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the

prisoner at the bar, whom you shall have in charge, and a true verdict

give, according to the evidence. So help you God."

Mr. Whitworth, for the Crown, then opened the case, but did little more

than translate the indictment into more rational language.

He sat down, and Sergeant Wiltshire addressed the court somewhat after

this fashion:--

"May it please your Lordship, and you, gentlemen of the jury, this is

a case of great expectation and importance. The prisoner at the bar,

a gentlewoman by birth and education, and, as you must have already

perceived, by breeding also, stands indicted for no less a crime than

murder.

"I need not paint to you the heinousness of this crime: you have but to

consult your own breasts. Who ever saw the ghastly corpse of the victim

weltering in its blood, and did not feel his own blood run cold through

his veins? Has the murderer fled? with what eagerness do we pursue!

with what zeal apprehend! with what joy do we bring him to justice!

Even the dreadful sentence of death does not shock us, when pronounced

upon him; we hear it with solemn satisfaction; and acknowledge the

justice of the divine sentence, 'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man

shall his blood be shed.'

"But if this be the case in every common murder, what shall be thought

of her who has murdered her husband? the man in whose arms she has

lain and whom she has sworn at God's altar to love and cherish. Such

a murderer is a robber as well as an assassin; for she robs her own

children of their father, that tender parent, who can never be replaced

in this world.

"Gentlemen, it will, I fear, be proved that the prisoner at the bar

hath been guilty of murder in this high degree: and, though I will

endeavor rather to extenuate than to aggravate, yet I trust (sic) I

have such a history to open as will shock the ears of all who hear me.

"Mr. Griffith Gaunt, the unfortunate deceased, was a man of descent

and worship. As to his character, it was inoffensive; he was known

as a worthy kindly gentleman; deeply attached to her who now stands

accused of his murder. They lived happily together for some years; but,

unfortunately, there was a thorn in the rose of their wedded life; he

was of the Church of England; she was, and is, a Roman Catholic. This

led to disputes: and no wonder; since the same unhappy difference hath

more than once embroiled a nation, let alone a single family.

"Well, gentlemen, about a year ago there was a more violent quarrel

than usual between the deceased and the prisoner at the bar: and the

deceased left his home for several months.

"He returned upon a certain day in this year, and a reconciliation,

real or apparent, took place. He left home again soon afterwards,

but only for a short period. On the 15th of last October he suddenly

returned for good, as he intended: and here begins the tragedy, to

which what I have hitherto related was but the prologue.

"Scarce an hour before he came, one Thomas Leicester entered the house.

Now this Thomas Leicester was a creature of the prisoner's. He had been

her gamekeeper; and was now a pedlar. It was the prisoner who set him

up as a pedlar, and purchased the wares to start him in his trade.

"Gentlemen, this pedlar, as I shall prove, was concealed in the house

when the deceased arrived. One Caroline Ryder, who is the prisoner's

gentlewoman, was the person who first informed her of Leicester's

arrival, and it seems she was much moved; Mrs. Ryder will tell you

she fell into hysterics. But, soon after, her husband's arrival was

announced, and then the passion was of a very different kind. So

violent was her rage against this unhappy man that, for once, she

forgot all prudence, and threatened his life before a witness. Yes,

gentlemen, we shall prove that this gentlewoman, who in appearance

and manners might grace a court, was so transported out of her usual

self that she held up a knife--a knife, gentlemen, and vowed to put it

into her husband's heart. And this was no mere temporary ebullition of

wrath; we shall see presently that, long after she had time to cool,

she repeated this menace to the unfortunate man's face. The first

threat, however was uttered in her own bedroom, before her confidential

servant, Caroline Ryder aforesaid. But now the scene shifts. She has,

to all appearance, recovered herself, and sits smiling at the head of

her table; for, you must know, she entertained company that night,

persons of the highest standing in the county.

"Presently her husband, all unconscious of the terrible sentiments she

entertained towards him, and the fearful purpose she had announced,

enters the room, makes obeisance to his guests, and goes to take his

wife's hand.

"What does she? She draws back with so strange a look and such

forbidding words, that the company were disconcerted. Consternation

fell on all present; and, ere long, they made their excuses, and left

the house. Thus the prisoner was left alone with her husband. But,

meantime, curiosity had been excited by her strange conduct, and some

of the servants, with foreboding hearts, listened at the door of

the dining-room. What did they hear, gentlemen? A furious quarrel,

in which, however, the deceased was comparatively passive, and the

prisoner again threatened his life, with vehemence. Her passion, it is

clear, had not cooled.

"Now it may fairly be alleged, on behalf of the prisoner, that, the

witnesses for the Crown were on one side of the door, the prisoner

and the deceased on the other; and that such evidence should be

received with caution. I grant this--where it is not sustained by other

circumstances, or by direct proofs. Let us then give the prisoner the

benefit of this doubt, and let us inquire how the deceased himself

understood her; he who not only heard the words, and the accents, but

saw the looks, whatever they were, that accompanied them.

"Gentlemen, he was a man of known courage and resolution; yet he was

found after this terrible interview, much cowed and dejected. He spoke

to Mrs. Ryder of his death as an event not far distant, and so went to

his bedroom in a melancholy and foreboding state: and where was that

bedroom? He was thrust by his wife's orders into a small chamber, and

not allowed to enter hers: he, the master of the house, her husband,

and her lord.

"But his interpretation of the prisoner's words did not end there. He

left us a further comment by his actions next ensuing. He dared not (I

beg pardon, this is my inference; receive it as such), he _did_ not,

remain in that house a single night. He bolted his chamber-door inside;

and in the very dead of night, notwithstanding the fatigues of the

day's journey (for he had ridden some distance), he let himself out by

the window, and reached the ground safely, though it was a height of

fourteen feet; a leap, gentlemen, that few of us would venture to take.

But what will not men risk when destruction is at their heels? He did

not wait even to saddle his horse; but fled on foot. Unhappy man, he

fled from danger, and met his death.

"From the hour when he went up to bed none of the inmates of the house

ever saw Griffith Gaunt alive; but one Thomas Hayes, a laborer, saw him

walking in a certain direction at one o'clock that morning; and behind

him, gentlemen, there walked another man.

"Who was that other man?

"When I have told you (and this is an essential feature of the case)

how the prisoner was employed during the time that her husband lay

quaking in his little room, waiting an opportunity to escape,--when

I tell you this, I fear you will divine who it was that followed the

deceased, and for what purpose.

"Gentlemen, when the prisoner had threatened her husband in person, as

I have described, she retired to her own room, but not to sleep. She

ordered her maid, Mrs. Ryder, to bring Thomas Leicester to her chamber.

Yes, gentlemen, she received this pedlar at midnight in her bed-chamber.

"Now, an act so strange as this admits, I think, of but two

interpretations. Either she had a guilty amour with this fellow, or

she had some extraordinary need of his services. Her whole character,

by consent of the witnesses, renders it very improbable that she would

descend to a low amour. Moreover she acted too publicly in the matter.

The man, as we know, was her tool, her creature: she had bought his

wares for him, and set him up as a pedlar. She openly summoned him to

her presence, and kept him there about half-an-hour.

"He went from her, and very soon after is seen, by Thomas Hayes,

following Griffith Gaunt--at one o'clock in the morning--that Griffith

Gaunt, who, after that hour, was never seen alive.

"Gentlemen, up to this point the evidence is clear, connected, and

cogent; but it rarely happens in cases of murder that any human eye

sees the very blow struck. The penalty is too severe for such an act to

be done in the presence of an eye-witness: and not one murderer in ton

could be convicted without the help of circumstantial evidence.

"The next link, however, is taken up by an ear-witness, and, in some

cases, the ear is even better than the eye; for instance, as to the

discharge of firearms: for, by the eye alone, we could not positively

tell whether a pistol had gone off or had but flashed in the pan.

Well, then, gentlemen, a few minutes after Mr. Gaunt was last seen

alive, which was by Thomas Hayes, Mrs. Ryder, who had retired to her

bedroom, heard the said Gaunt distinctly cry for help: she also heard

a pistol-shot discharged. This took place by the side of a lake or

large pond near the house, called 'the mere.' Mrs. Ryder alarmed the

house, and she and the other servants proceeded to her master's room:

they found it bolted from the inside. They broke it open. Mr. Gaunt had

escaped by the window, as I have already told you.

"Presently in comes the prisoner from out of doors. This is at one

o'clock in the morning. How she appears to have seen at once that she

must explain her being abroad at that time, so she told Mrs. Ryder that

she had been out--praying."

(Here some people laughed harshly; but were threatened severely, and

silenced).

"Is that credible? Do people go out of doors at one o'clock in the

morning, to pray? Nay; but I fear it was to do an act, that years of

prayer and penitence cannot efface.

"From that moment Mr. Gaunt was seen no more among living men. And what

made his disappearance the more mysterious was that he had actually

at this time just inherited largely from his namesake Mr. Gaunt of

Coggleswade; and his own interest, and that of the other legatees,

required his immediate presence. Mr. Atkins, the testator's solicitor,

advertised for this unfortunate gentleman; but he did not appear to

claim his fortune. Then plain men began to put this and that together,

and cried out 'foul play!'

"Justice was set in motion at last: but embarrassed by the circumstance

that the body of the deceased could not be found.

"At last, Mr. Atkins, the solicitor, being unable to get the estate

I have mentioned administered, for want of proof of Griffith Gaunt's

decease, entered heartily into this affair, on mere civil grounds. He

asked the prisoner, before several witnesses, if she would permit him

to drag that piece of water by the side of which Mr. Gaunt was heard to

cry for help, and, after that, seen no more.

"The prisoner did not reply; but Mr. Houseman, her solicitor, a very

worthy man, who has I believe, or had, up to that moment, a sincere

conviction of her innocence, answered for her, and told Mr. Atkins he

was welcome to drag or drain it. Then the prisoner said nothing. She

fainted away.

"After this, you may imagine with what expectation the water was

dragged. Gentlemen, after hours of fruitless labour, a body was found.

"But here an unforeseen circumstance befriended the prisoner. It seems

that piece of water swarms with enormous pike and other ravenous fish.

These had so horribly mutilated the deceased, that neither form nor

feature remained to swear by: and, as the law wisely and humanely

demands that in these eases a body shall be identified beyond doubt,

justice bade fair to be baffled again. But lo! as often happens in case

of murder, Providence interposed and pointed with unerring finger to a

slight but infallible mark. The deceased gentleman was known to have a

large mole over his left temple. It had been noticed by his servants,

and his neighbors. Well, gentlemen, the greedy fish had spared this

mole; spared it perhaps by His command who bade the whale swallow

Jonah, yet not destroy him. There it was, clear and infallible. It was

examined by several witnesses; it was recognized; it completed that

chain of evidence, some of it direct, some of it circumstantial, which

I have laid before you very briefly, and every part of which I shall

now support by credible witnesses."

He called thirteen witnesses, including Mr. Atkins, Thomas Hayes, Jane

Bannister, Caroline Ryder, and others, and their evidence in chief bore

out every positive statement the counsel had made.

In cross-examining these witnesses Mrs. Gaunt took a line that

agreeably surprised the court. It was not for nothing she had studied

a hundred trials with a woman's observation and patient docility. She

had found out how badly people plead their own causes, and had noticed

the reasons; one of which is that they say too much, and stray from the

point. The line she took, with one exception, was keen brevity.

She cross-examined Thomas Hayes as follows:

CHAPTER XI

"You say the pedlar was a hundred yards behind my husband. Which of the

two men was walking fastest?"

Thomas Hayes considered a moment. "Well, I think the Squire was walking

rather the smartest of the two."

"Did the pedlar seem likely to overtake him?"

"Nay. Ye see, Dame, Squire he walked straight on; but the pedlar he

took both sides of the road at oust, as the saying is."

_The Prisoner._ Forgive me, Thomas, but I don't know what you mean.

_Hayes_ (compassionately). How should ye? You are never the worse for

liquor, the likes of you.

_The Prisoner_ (very keenly). Oh, he was in liquor, was he?

_Hayes._ Come, Dame, you do brew good ale at Hernshaw Castle. Ye

needn't go to deny that; for, Lord knows, 'tis no sin; and a poor

fellow may be jolly; yet not, to say, drunk.

_The Judge_ (sternly). Witness, attend, and answer directly.

_The Prisoner._ Nay, my lord, 'tis a plain country body, and means no

ill. Good Thomas, be so much my friend as to answer plainly. Was the

man drunk or sober?

_Hayes._ All I know is he went from one side of the road to t'other.

_The Prisoner._ Thomas Hayes, as you hope to be saved eternally, was

the pedlar drunk or sober?

_Hayes._ Well, if I must tell on my neighbor or else be damned, then

that there pedlar was as drunk as a lord.

Here, notwithstanding the nature of the trial, the laughter was

irrepressible, and Mrs. Gaunt sat quietly down (for she was allowed a

seat), and said no more.

To the surgeon, who had examined the body officially, she put this

question, "Did you find any signs of violence?"

_The Surgeon._ None whatever; but, then, there was nothing to go by,

except the head and the bones.

_The Prisoner._ Have you experience in this kind? I mean, have you

inspected murdered bodies?

_The Surgeon._ Yes.

_The Prisoner._ How many?

_The Surgeon._ Two before this.

_The Prisoner._ Oh! pray, pray, do not say "before this:" I have great

hopes no murder at all hath been committed here. Let us keep to plain

cases. Please you describe the injuries in those two undoubted cases.

_The Surgeon._ In Wellyn's the skull was fractured in two places. In

Sherrett's the right arm was broken, and there were some contusions on

the head; but the cause of death was a stab that penetrated the lungs.

_The Prisoner._ Suppose Wellyn's murderers had thrown his body into the

water, and the fishes had so mutilated it as they have this one, could

you by your art have detected the signs of violence?

_The Surgeon._ Certainly. The man's skull was fractured. Wellyn's I

mean.

_The Prisoner._ I put the same question with regard to Sherrett's.

_The Surgeon._ I cannot answer it: here the lungs were devoured by the

fishes: no signs of lesion can be detected in an organ that has ceased

to exist.

_The Prisoner._ This is too partial. Why select one injury out of

several? What I ask is this: could you have detected violence in

Sherrett's case, although the fishes had eaten the flesh of his body.

_The Surgeon._ I answer that the minor injuries of Sherrett would

have been equally perceptible; to wit, the bruises on the head, and

the broken arm; but not the perforation of the lungs; and that it was

killed the man.

_Prisoner._ Then, so far as you know, and can swear, about murder, more

blows have always been struck than one, and some of the blows struck

in Sherrett's case, and Wellyn's, would have left traces that fishes'

teeth could not efface?

_The Surgeon._ That is so, if I am to be peevishly confined to my small

and narrow experience of murdered bodies. But my general knowledge of

the many ways in which life may be taken by violence--

The Judge stopped him, and said that, in a case of Blood, that could

hardly be admitted as evidence against his actual experience.

The prisoner put a drawing of the castle, the mere, and the bridge,

into the witnesses' hands, and elicited that it was correct, and also

the distances marked on it. They had, in fact, been measured exactly

for her.

The hobnailed shoes were produced, and she made some use of them,

particularly in cross-examining Jane Bannister.

_Prisoner._ Look at those shoes. Saw you ever the like on Mr. Gaunt's

feet?

_Jane._ That I never did, Dame.

_Prisoner._ What, not when he came into the kitchen on the 15th October?

_Jane._ Nay, he was booted. By the same token I saw the boy a cleaning

of them for supper.

_Prisoner._ Those boots, when you broke into his room, did you find

them?

_Jane._ Nay, when the man went, his boots went; as reason was. We found

nought of his but a soiled glove.

_Prisoner._ Had the pedlar boots on?

_Jane._ Alas! who ever see'd a booted pedlar?

_Prisoner._ Had he these very shoes on. Look at them.

_Jane._ I couldn't say for that. He had shoon, for they did properly

clatter on my bricks.

_The Judge._ Clatter on her bricks! What does she mean?

_Prisoner._ I think she means on the floor of her kitchen. 'Tis a brick

floor, if I remember right.

_The Judge._ Good woman, say, is that what you mean?

_Jane._ Ay, an't please you, my lord.

_Prisoner._ Had the pedlar a mole on his forehead?

_Jane._ Not that I know on. I never took so much notice of the man. But

la, Dame, now I look at you, I don't believe you was ever the one to

murder our master.

_Wiltshire._ We don't want your opinion. Confine yourself to facts.

_Prisoner._ You heard me rating my husband on that night; what was it I

said about the constables--do do you remember?

_Jane._ La, Dame, I wouldn't ask that if I was in your place.

_Prisoner._ I am much obliged to you for your advice; but answer

me--truly.

_Jane._ Well, if you will have it, I think you said they should be here

in the morning. But, indeed, good gentlemen, her bark was always worse

than her bite, poor soul.

_The Judge._ Here. That meant at Hernshaw Castle, I presume.

_Jane._ Ay, my lord, an' if it please your lordship's honor's worship.

Mrs. Gaunt, husbanding the patience of the court, put no questions

at all to several witnesses; but she cross-examined Mrs. Ryder very

closely. This was necessary; for Ryder was a fatal witness. Her memory

had stored every rash and hasty word the poor lady had uttered, and,

influenced either by animosity or prejudice, she put the worst color on

every suspicious circumstance. She gave her damnatory evidence neatly,

and clearly, and with a seeming candor and regret, that disarmed

suspicion.

When her examination in chief concluded, there was but one opinion

amongst the bar, and the auditors in general, viz., that the maid had

hung the mistress.

Mrs. Gaunt herself felt she had a terrible antagonist to deal with,

and, when she rose to cross-examine her, she looked paler than she had

done all through the trial.

She rose, but seemed to ask herself how to begin: and her pallor and

her hesitation, while they excited some little sympathy, confirmed

the unfavorable impression. She fixed her eyes upon the witnesses, as

if to discover where she was most vulnerable. Mrs. Ryder returned her

gaze calmly. The court was hushed; for it was evident a duel was coming

between two women of no common ability.

The opening rather disappointed expectation. Mrs. Gaunt seemed, by her

manner, desirous to propitiate the witness.

_Prisoner_ (very civilly). You say you brought Thomas Leicester to my

bedroom on that terrible night?

_Ryder_ (civilly). Yes, madam.

_Prisoner._ And you say he stayed there half-an-hour?

_Ryder._ Yes, madam; he did.

_Prisoner._ May I inquire how you know he stayed just half-an-hour?

_Ryder._ My watch told me that, madam. I brought him to you at a

quarter past eleven: and you did not ring for me till a quarter to

twelve.

_Prisoner._ And, when I did ring for you, what then?

_Ryder._ I came and took the man away, by your orders.

_Prisoner._ At a quarter to twelve?

_Ryder._ At a quarter to twelve.

_Prisoner._ This Leicester was a lover of yours?

_Ryder._ Not he.

_Prisoner._ Oh, fie! Why he offered you marriage; it went so far as

that.

_Ryder._ Oh, that was before you set him up pedlar.

_Prisoner._ 'Twas so, but he was single for your sake, and he renewed

his offer that very night. Come, do not forswear yourself about a

trifle.

_Ryder._ Trifle, indeed! Why, if he did, what has that to do with the

murder? You'll do yourself no good, madam, by going about so.

_Wiltshire._ Really, madam, this is beside the mark.

_Prisoner._ If so, it can do your case no harm. My lord, you did twice

interrupt the learned counsel, and forebode him to lead his witnesses;

I not once, for I am for stopping no mouths, but sifting all to the

bottom. Now, I implore you to let me have fair play in my turn, and an

answer from this slippery witness.

_The Judge._ Prisoner, I do not quite see your drift; but God forbid

you should be hampered in your defense. Witness, by virtue of your

oath, reply directly. Did this pedlar offer you marriage that night

after he left the prisoner?

_Ryder._ My lord, he did.

_Prisoner._ And confided to you he had orders to kill Mr. Gaunt?

_Ryder._ Not he, madam: that was not the way to win _me._

_Prisoner._ What! did not his terrible purpose peep out all the time he

was making love to you?

No reply.

_Prisoner._ You had the kitchen to your two selves? Come, don't

hesitate.

_Ryder._ The other servants were gone to bed. You kept the man so late.

_Prisoner._ Oh, I mean no reflection on your prudence. You went out of

doors with your wooer; just to see him off?

_Ryder._ Not I. What for? I had nobody to make away with. I just opened

the door for him, bolted it after him, and went straight to my bedroom.

_Prisoner._ How long had you been there when you heard the cry for help?

_Ryder._ Scarce ten minutes. I had not taken my stays off.

_Prisoner._ If you and Thomas Hayes speak true, that gives half an hour

you were making love with the murderer after he left me. Am I correct?

The witness now saw whither she had been led, and changed her manner:

she became sullen, and watched an opportunity to stab.

_Prisoner._ Had he a mole on his brow?

_Ryder._ Not that I know of.

_Prisoner._ Why, where were your eyes, then, when the murderer saluted

you at parting?

Ryder's eyes flashed; but she felt her temper tried, and governed it

all the more severely. She treated the question with silent contempt.

_Prisoner._ But you pass for a discreet woman; perhaps you looked

modestly down when the assassin saluted you?

_Ryder._ If he saluted me, perhaps I did.

_Prisoner._ In that case you could not see his mole; but you must have

noticed his shoes. Were these the shoes he wore? Look at them well.

_Ryder_ (after inspecting them). I do not recognise them.

_Prisoner._ Will you swear these were not the shoes he had on?

_Ryder._ How can I swear that? I know nothing about the man's shoes.

If you please, my lord, am I to be kept here all day with her foolish

trifling questions?

_The Judge._ All day, and all night too, if Justice requires it. The

law is not swift to shed blood.

_Prisoner._ My lord and the gentlemen of the jury were here before you,

and will be kept here after you. Prithee attend. Look at that drawing

of Hernshaw Castle and Hernshaw Mere. Now take this pencil, and mark

your bedroom on the drawing.

The pencil was taken from the prisoner, and handed to Ryder. She waited

like a cat till it came close to her; then recoiled with an admirable

scream. "Me handle a thing hot from the hand of a murderess! It makes

me tremble all over."

This cruel stab affected the prisoner visibly. She put her hand to her

bosom, and with tears in her eyes faltered out a request to the judge

that she might sit down a minute.

_The Judge._ To be sure you may. And you, my good woman, must not run

before the court, how do you know what evidence she may have in store?

At present we have only heard one side. Be more moderate.

The prisoner rose promptly to her feet. "My lord, I welcome the insult

that has disgusted your lordship and the gentlemen of the jury, and won

me those good words of comfort." To Ryder--"What sort of a night was

it?"

_Ryder._ Very little moon, but a clear, starry night.

_Prisoner._ Could you see the Mere, and the banks?

_Ryder._ Nay, but so much of it as faced my window.

_Prisoner._ Have you marked your window?

_Ryder._ I have.

_Prisoner._ Now mark the place where you heard Mr. Gaunt cry for help.

_Ryder._ 'Twas about here; under these trees. And that is why I could

not see him: along of the shadow.

_Prisoner._ Possibly. Did you see me on that side the Mere?

_Ryder._ No.

_Prisoner._ What colored dress had I on at that time?

_Ryder._ White satin.

_Prisoner._ Then you could have seen me, even among the trees, had I

been on that side the Mere?

_Ryder._ I can't say. However, I never said you were on the very spot

where the deed was done; but you were out of doors.

_Prisoner._ How do you know that?

_Ryder._ Why, you told me so yourself.

_Prisoner._ Then that is my evidence, not yours. Swear to no more than

you know. Had my husband, to your knowledge, a reason for absconding

suddenly?

_Ryder._ Yes, he had.

_Prisoner._ What was it?

_Ryder._ Fear of you.

_Prisoner._ Nay, I mean, had he not something to fear, something quite

different from that I am charged with?

_Ryder._ You know best, madam. I would gladly serve you, but I cannot

guess what you are driving at.

The prisoner was taken aback by this impudent reply. She hesitated to

force her servant to expose a husband, whom she believed to be living:

and her hesitation looked like discomfiture; and Ryder was victorious

in that encounter.

By this time they were both thoroughly embittered, and it was war to

the knife.

_Prisoner._ You listened to our unhappy quarrel that night?

_Ryder._ Quarrel! madam, 'twas all on one side.

_Prisoner._ How did you understand what I said to him about the

constables?

_Ryder._ Constables! I never heard you say the word.

_Prisoner._ Oh!

_Ryder._ Neither when you threatened him with your knife to me; nor

when you threatened him to his face.

_Prisoner._ Take care: you forget that Jane Bannister heard me; was her

ear nearer the keyhole than yours?

_Ryder._ Jane! she is a simpleton. You could make her think she heard

anything. I noticed you put the words in her mouth.

_Prisoner._ God forgive you, you naughty woman. You had better have

spoken the truth.

_Ryder._ My lord, if you please, am I to be miscalled--by a murderess?

_The Judge._ Come, come, this is no place for recrimination.

The prisoner now stooped and examined her papers, and took a distinct

line of cross-examination.

_Prisoner_ (with apparent carelessness). At all events, you are a

virtuous woman, Mrs. Ryder?

_Ryder._ Yes, madam, as virtuous as yourself, to say the least.

_Prisoner_ (still more carelessly). Married or single?

_Ryder._ Single, and like to be.

_Prisoner._ Yes, if I remember right, I made a point of that before I

engaged you as my maid.

_Ryder._ I believe the question was put.

_Prisoner._ Here is the answer in your handwriting. Is not that your

handwriting?

_Ryder_ (after inspecting it). It is.

_Prisoner._ You came highly recommended by your last mistress, a

certain Mrs. Hamilton. Here is her letter, describing you as a model.

_Ryder._ Well, madam, hitherto I have given satisfaction to all my

mistresses, Mrs. Hamilton among the rest. My character does not rest on

her word only, I hope.

_Prisoner._ Excuse me; I engaged, you on her word alone. Now, who is

this Mrs. Hamilton?

_Ryder._ A worshipful lady I served for eight months before I came to

you. She went abroad, or I should be with her now.

_Prisoner._ Now cast your eye over this paper.

It was the copy of a marriage certificate between Thomas Edwards and

Caroline Plunkett.

"Who is this Caroline Plunkett?"

Ryder turned very pale, and made no reply.

"I ask you who is this Caroline Plunkett?"

_Ryder_ (faintly). Myself.

_The Judge._ Why, you said you were single!

_Ryder._ So I am; as good as single. My husband and me we parted eight

years ago, and I have never seen him since.

_Prisoner._ Was it quite eight years ago?

_Ryder._ Nearly, 'twas in May, 1739.

_Prisoner._ Put you have lived with him since.

_Ryder._ Never, upon my soul.

_Prisoner._ When was your child born?

_Ryder._ My child! I have none.

_Prisoner._ In January, 1743, you left a baby at Biggleswade, with a

woman called Church--did you not?

_Ryder_ (panting). Of course I did. It was my sister's.

_Prisoner._ Do you mean to call God to witness that child was not yours?

Ryder hesitated.

_Prisoner._ Will you swear Mrs. Church did not see you nurse that child

in secret, and weep over it?