THE SECOND DAY.
Next day the Town Hall was more crowded than ever. The sleep of the
town--I might say of the county also--had been uneasy and broken. The
place was torn asunder by faction as it never before had been known to
be. The Longuevillists were the strongest party; the Battyists the most
virulent. The one insisted upon poor Innocent’s youth, beauty, strange
fortunes, and pitiful, appealing looks, which they said were enough to
melt the heart of a stone. The other cried out indignantly that had she
been a poor girl, and not Lady Longueville, all this pity would have
been spared, that nobody would have cared what happened to her, that she
would have been left to her fate. The first were ready to forgive her
love for Frederick, which everybody on both sides took for granted,
partly from the evidence, partly from those unspoken, unconscious
currents of rumour which come on every wind; and, indeed, many of
Innocent’s partisans held in their secret heart that it was quite
possible she might have done it, but forgave her for the sake of her
sweet face. Everybody accordingly rushed to the scene of action almost
by daylight next morning. There were people who had been sitting there
for hours before the judge made his appearance, to secure a seat. Miss
Vane, who had gained a victory over herself during the course of the
previous day, who had accepted the mortification as for her good, and
decided to her satisfaction that poor Innocent’s terrible misfortune was
“a judgment” on her own pride, took heart of grace to accompany Nelly to
her place near the bar, thus declaring openly that she too “stood by”
her cousin. Nelly, who had grown very pale and hollow-eyed, for whom
this trial had involved more than appeared, whose eyes, when she could
spare them from Innocent, cast furtive glances through the crowd,
wondering if it was possible that any one who had ever said he loved her
could keep away from her now, was very glad of Miss Vane’s support. I
doubt, however, whether Innocent was so much as conscious of it. She had
fallen into a passive state, and stood at the bar with the early morning
sunshine falling upon her girlish, pallid countenance, like an image of
silent Patience, leaning upon the rail against which she stood,
declining to take the seat they offered her. The weary strain was
becoming too much for the girl’s immature and delicate frame. She did
not look at either judge or jury that day, but fixed her eyes upon a bit
of blue sky which appeared through a window, and stood unconscious of
anything else, gazing into that--longing to be out of doors, out of this
close, crowded place, out of the surrounding walls, the throng of
people, and the solitude which alternated with that publicity. “When do
you think it will be over? When do you think they will let me go?” she
said, in the voice which had grown more plaintive and childlike than
ever, to the woman who stood by her.
“Hush, my lady! you mustn’t speak to-day, or you’ll get us all into
trouble,” the woman replied. Yet Innocent repeated the question at
intervals through the weary day. How bright it was, that gleam of
sky!--how pleasant it would be to be out, to be in the sunshine, among
the flowers at Longueville, or, sweeter still, in the Lady’s Walk, with
the history book, and the primroses making all the grass golden. These
were the thoughts that went through her mind as she stood through the
second weary day, grown too weary to attend, thinking only of the
primroses, while she was being tried for her life.
The case for the prosecution had not been closed. The remaining evidence
was trifling in substance, but horribly important in scope. It was
chiefly made up of bits of conversation in which Innocent had expressed
her love for Frederick--and her dislike of Frederick’s wife. The former
suppositious sentiment was very easy to prove, and the poor girl had
never hesitated to express the latter feeling. One of the witnesses was
a Sister from the High Lodge, who gave her evidence very reluctantly,
but with almost as damning an effect as that of Mrs. Eastwood on the
previous day, for Innocent had unfolded to this lady her conviction that
such people should not live. On the close of her evidence the counsel
for the prosecution spoke. He drew a touching picture of the poor young
wife deserted by a fickle husband, hearing his steps below as he walked
and talked with another, yet subduing her painful feeling, receiving
that other with kindness, and with touching confidence admitting her to
her sick room. Then he pictured the course of thought which might have
arisen in the mind of a girl not wholly bad, yet distracted by a lawless
love, and with the power in her hands of sweeping her rival from the
face of the earth, probably without suspicion or discovery. What so
easy? had not she the means in her hand? He represented her as stung and
roused by the reproaches which probably the young wife on suddenly
awaking might address to her, and, fired by sudden resentment, rushing
to “the fatal draught” which was before her. He commented upon her wild
flight, her confession, the remorse which had evidently seized her, the
terror, which it was evident her friends had shared. He pointed out the
strange and lurid light which the destruction of the phial, an incident
unknown to the prosecution before yesterday, threw upon the whole
question. When he ended the assembly had all decided against Innocent in
their hearts; the jurymen, pale and almost stupefied by the thought,
looked at her, wondering how they could find a Lady Longueville, a
beautiful young woman, guilty, and trying to steel their hearts to that
terrible duty. Half the women in the place (and there were a great
many) were weeping. Good heavens! was it proved, then? was she guilty,
that child? The hopes of her friends fell. Nelly sank back in her seat,
covering her white face with her trembling hands. Sir Alexis continued
to stand up with his arms folded on his breast, and a face like yellow
marble, or old ivory, so ghastly did it look, every sign of youth gone
out of it, steeling himself to bear whatever was to come.
The evidence for the defence seemed at the first glance very
insignificant. It was chiefly directed to one point. The first witnesses
called were two railway officials, who proved that the up-train passed
through Sterborne at 12.45 every night, that it was seldom more than ten
minutes late, being an express train to town with few stoppages, and
that on the night of the 20th October it had left Sterborne station at
12.50 exactly. The only other witness of any importance produced was a
London physician of eminence, who proved that no opiate, even though
administered in a very large quantity, could by any possibility produce
death within the time indicated by the evidence. The sleep which
preceded death would no doubt have set in (he said), but that was very
distinct and easy to be distinguished from any fit of fainting or
temporary unconsciousness. “The merest tyro in medicine must know as
much as this,” he added, with a contempt of the country practitioner who
had maintained an opposite opinion. This was absolutely the whole of the
case for the defence. The speech of Mr. Serjeant Ryder was equally brief
and pithy. He pointed out the vagueness of the evidence as to hour, and
the fact that by the longest computation two hours was all the time
allowed for such a sequence of events as the prosecution attempted to
set forth; for the conception and carrying out of a murder by poison,
the death of the deceased, the flight of the prisoner, all the
developments of this tragic drama. Never drama on the stage went more
quickly, he cried; and he showed how innocent fright and panic might
have quite naturally produced every sign which was put forth as a sign
of guilt. What more natural than that, seeing her charge die before her
eyes, her simple and somewhat feeble (as the court had perceived) and
undeveloped intelligence should jump at the idea that she had herself
been partially instrumental in the terrible event she had witnessed? He
pointed put that the only inference which could be drawn from the
testimony of those witnesses who had been present on the occasion was
that the death of the deceased had been instantaneous, whereas Dr.
Frankfort had proved to them beyond dispute that no death by opium could
be instantaneous, that the poison required a certain time to do its
work, a time which was not afforded by the short interval between eleven
o’clock, which the witness Johnson had heard striking while the voice of
the deceased was still loud and angry, and 12.40, when the unfortunate
prisoner left Sterborne by the train. These dates, he added, placed the
case beyond the category of possibilities. And with this brief and
unsensational address he sat down.
All this--the case for the defence altogether--did not occupy an hour.
The audience held their breath. They stared at each other like people
fallen from some sudden height. Was it possible that they had been
spending their interest and tears all for nothing?--for an untenable
case, a thing which had been from the commencement impossible, had they
taken the trouble to examine. The jurymen’s faces lighted up. After all,
it might not be necessary to convict the young creature who was called
“my lady.” They would have recommended her to mercy, no doubt, and done
everything they could to cancel their decision had they been compelled
to make one in an adverse sense. But now their relieved feelings showed
in their countenances, which brightened to the new possibilities
unfolded before them. One or two only remained cloudy. The rest prepared
with a cheerful confidence, seeing themselves almost out of the wood,
and as eager to be relieved as Innocent, to hear the judge’s summing up.
Mr. Justice Molyneux was very great in this grand point of a judge’s
duty. It was one of “the greatest intellectual treats” to hear him. But
perhaps he was not quite himself that day. He commented upon the
evidence in a style which was not marked by his usual force and freedom.
He said something civil about Mrs. Eastwood. He noticed slightly the
touching, though altogether irregular, address of the prisoner. He
pointed out to the jury that, though circumstances had at one time
seemed overwhelmingly against her, and though her own evident impression
that she was guilty, her precipitate flight, her repeated confession,
seemed in one point of view to establish her guilt, there was a more
charitable interpretation to be put on all these strange proceedings. It
was possible, as the prisoner’s counsel had suggested, that simple
fright and terror might be at the bottom of them, instead of guilt.
Other cases had occurred in which an innocent person had accused himself
of terrible crimes such as he had never committed. The jury was called
upon to weigh all these contending arguments with the most serious care,
and judge whether the panic of guilt or the panic of mere fright was at
work upon the mind of the prisoner. He need not tell them that where
there was a doubt she was entitled to the benefit of that doubt. The
conduct and avowals of the prisoner herself made the chief foundation
the prosecution had to build upon, and the destruction of the phial by
the prisoner’s family was no doubt very strongly against her. The judge
then called their attention to the only, but most important, point on
which the defence was founded. It was backed by an authority which, to
many people, would seem infallible; but yet there were minds to which no
one is infallible, and it was proverbial that doctors differed on the
most important subjects. If they believed that Dr. Frankfort was right,
and that poisoning by opium was impossible in so short a time, then
their only course would be to acquit the prisoner; but if, on the other
hand, they proposed to take the opinion of a younger disciple of
Esculapius, then the case remained as the very able and striking speech
of the counsel for the prosecution left it. Fortunately, the whole
matter lay in a nutshell. If they accepted the confessions of the
prisoner, which some minds might be inclined to do--for there could be
no doubt that an unsolicited confession of guilt was a very grave
matter, and could not be disregarded--and considered the after
circumstances as confirmatory of her guilt, they would find her guilty,
though he did not think that even in that case there was any evidence to
prove premeditation, and the offence must bear a less solemn appellation
than that of murder; but if, on the other hand, they believed the
distinct affirmation of the great physician whose evidence (delivered,
he need not say, in the clearest and most satisfactory manner) they had
just heard, they would understand that, notwithstanding her own
impression of guilt, and whatever might be the intention with which the
potion was administered, it was physically impossible that the prisoner
could have committed the crime laid to her charge.
There was a pause when the judge finished, then an attempt at applause,
suppressed by the officials, who, after their failure on the previous
day to silence Innocent, were doubly on the alert. Then the crowd grew
suddenly still, and every man looked at his neighbour. The excitement
grew intense. The next sound everybody felt must be the words of the
verdict, the “Guilty” or “Not Guilty,” which should be life or death. I
will not attempt to describe the feelings of those principally
concerned. I think they had come to that point when feeling becomes
impossible, the mind having gone through all its stages. They waited,
not daring to look up, not daring to think. The two least concerned were
the accused and her counsel. She because that gleam of sky through the
window had caught her wandering soul; he because he felt sure of his
verdict. And thus they waited in the silence, in the awful suspense
which subdues a great, rustling, restless crowd into unnatural,
many-breathing stillness, waiting for the issues of life and death.
What visions went and came in that moment! Nelly with her feverish eyes
saw--or was it a dream?--Ernest’s face look out from the depths of the
crowd and then vanish. Sir Alexis saw, not a scaffold--that was
impossible--but a gloomy array of prisons, rising one beyond another, as
the suspense continued. Death in life--would not that be worse than
death itself?