THE ASSIZES.
“And still and pale and silently
The hapless lady waits her doom;
How changed since last her speaking eye
Glanced gladness round the glittering room,
When high-born men were proud to wait,
Where beauty watched to imitate
Her gentle voice, her lovely mien,
And gather from her air and gait
The graces of its queen.”—_Byron._
The next day, Monday, May 15th, the Assizes were opened with the usual
attendant ceremony and bustle. And a remarkably interessing docket had
attracted crowds to the spot.
The case of Lady Montressor was almost the last on the list, and divided
public curiosity with that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy chief.
At nine o’clock, closely vailed, and attended by the Rev. Mr. Oldfield
and her counsel, Lady Montressor left her lodgings, entered the
carriage, and was driven to the Courthouse. Upon the proclamation of the
public crier, that the courts were now open, etc., etc., etc—she was
handed from the carriage, and still closely vailed, and leaning upon the
arm of her venerable friend, entered Exeter Hall, and proceeded to the
court-room.
Estelle had never been inside a court before. At first she had traversed
the passage and staircase, blindly, behind her vail, but when she found
herself in a crowded room, impeded, and finally nearly smothered by the
pressure of the masses, she drew her vail aside for air, and saw herself
within a vast hall, with an arched roof, marble pillars, and Gothic
windows, not unlike a lecture-room or church.
Upon an elevated platform, technically called the “Bench,” placed at the
upper end of the room, and enclosed by a spacious iron-railing, sat the
Judge, Sir James Allan Parke, one of the most eminent of the judges on
the Western Circuit of England; he was a fine, hale-looking old
gentleman, arrayed in his official robes—a scarlet gown, ermine cape,
and full-bottomed wig. On the wall near his seat was blazoned forth in
large illuminated letters the king’s commission. A little below him sat
the clerk of the court. And around—sitting, standing, walking about, or
conversing,—were the officers of the crown, in their official liveries,
the counsellors-at-law in their long black robes and white wigs, and
various nondescript individuals, who seemed to hold a sort of middle
place between official and non-official life.
On the right hand, below the bench, was the prisoner’s dock, an
enclosure not unlike a pen, in which were gathered some twenty persons
of both sexes, and all ages, from twelve to seventy. Lady Montressor’s
eyes were spell-bound to that miserable place. Such a set of
wretched-looking human creatures!—men, aye, and women and children,
too!—with faces stupefied with suffering, palsied by despair, or
demoralized by guilt!
“Heaven and earth!—is my place among these?” she exclaimed, sick with
loathing and terror. But in a moment she rallied and rebuked herself.
“Down proud heart,” she said, “who hath made me to differ, and how much
at last _do_ I differ from these my poor brothers and sisters? _I_ fell
before the first temptation, though all my life was fenced about from
want, or care, or sin—while they—their lives may have been one series of
privations, trials, and irresistible temptations! Who shall judge but
God Omniscient? God comfort them, and forgive me!” she prayed meekly
folding her hands and bowing her head.
Her venerable protector, as inexperienced in these scenes as herself,
also contemplated that den of savage or brutal faces, and grew pale with
dread for his delicate charge. He did not venture to turn his eyes
toward Estelle, but instinctively drew her arm closer within his own,
and looked around in distress for Lord Dazzleright. His lordship had
left them, and might now be seen conversing with the Judge. Presently he
bowed, left his position, and with a grave, sad, almost angry
countenance, slowly made his way through the crowd, and approached his
client.
“Well, well, Lord Dazzleright, well?” eagerly inquired Mr. Oldfield,
alarmed at the ill-omened expression of the counsel’s face.
“Oh! it is nothing! it is nothing!” said his lordship, drawing his
handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his heated and perspiring brow.
“It is not precisely _nothing_, Lord Dazzleright, judging from your
countenance and manner,” said Estelle, calmly and firmly.
“Well, my child, it is nothing to alarm _you_, although it is something
to displease me.”
“Tell me the truth, Lord Dazzleright.”
“I will do so, Lady Montressor! I went up there to examine the docket. I
find our case is the last but two on the list, and may not probably come
up for a week or ten days; I did not see the necessity of your
ladyship’s presence here in the interim. I had an opportunity of
speaking to the Judge, and showed him this, and prayed that my client
might be discharged from the obligation of attending court, and suffered
to remain with her bail, here in the city, until the day upon which her
trial should come up, when she should again punctually present herself.
The Judge chose to refuse my reasonable request, and require my client’s
daily attendance here. And I am angry; that is all.”
“Except that you are also _anxious_, my lord! Is it not so? Hide nothing
from me.”
“No, no, certainly not _anxious_,” said the counsel, while his looks
belied his words,—“in no degree _anxious_, for though this may appear
unfavorable on the part of the court, yet Sir James Allan Parke, if a
stern, is a just Judge, and I rest our cause upon its integral justice,
not upon external favor.”
“Umme! Oh—hh!” groaned the good Rector—“so she is to remain here, poor
lamb! day after day a spectator of all the revolting horrors of a
criminal court—and,” sinking his voice to a whisper, “where is she to
stand?—for the love of Heaven, not there! in the dock among those
loathsome wretches?”
Lord Dazzleright looked positively shocked and enraged. “_There!_ You
astound me, Reverend sir! Those poor outcasts are in the sheriff’s
custody; daily he marshals them from their cells to the dock, and
nightly from the dock to their cells. ‘He is king of that goodly
company.’ Lady Montressor, sir, is _your_ holy charge; you only are
responsible for her appearance, and may make her position as exclusive
and as comfortable as you desire.”
“Oh, thank heaven! Since it is so then—pray let us find a secluded and—I
was going to say pleasant seat—as if such a thing could be found in this
place.”
“Doubtless, a moderately agreeable one can be found though,” said Lord
Dazzleright, cheerfully putting aside his anger, and offering his arm to
his client, to conduct her through the crowd.
But just as Estelle was about to accept the proffered assistance, she
perceived a hurried step approach from behind, and a deep voice speak,
at the sound of which, the whole tide of life turned back upon its
course, opening her heart, and whelming her senses, in a mist of mingled
rapture and anguish.
“Permit me, my lord,” the voice said, and gently putting aside the
counsel, Lord Montressor took the arm of his bride and drew it within
his own.
Estelle’s whole being was thrilled with emotion, half ecstacy, half
agony, as I said. She turned away her swiftly flushing and paling face,
bowed her head and prayed.
“Ah, my lord! my lord! is this act of yours well conceived?—is it
prudent?—is it politic?” inquired the good Rector, in distress.
“It is _right_; beyond that I have not considered whether it was
politic, or prudent, reverend sir,” replied his lordship. Then turning
his face most tenderly down toward the lady on his arm, he said in a low
voice—
“Estelle, my beloved, will you not look at me?”
She put back her vail, lifted her head, turned up to him a look of
profound, unutterable, undying love then dropped her eyes.
“Speak to me, dearest Stella.”
“Ah, my lord! my lord! what can poor Stella say, but echo what the
minister said just now—‘Was this _well_ done, Lord Montressor?’”
“Excellently well done, my Stella! You are my wife! Where should I be,
but beside my wife in her trial? Have I not said that I would stand upon
the legality of our marriage. How shall I stand by our marriage, and
desert my wife? I never contemplated such an inconsistency for a moment!
It is true—for that no one should venture to say, or hint, that selfish
or unscrupulous passion had governed my actions—I consented to forego my
rights and inclinations in favor of your delicate reserve, and yield up
to the care of Mr. Oldfield; and I forbore to intrude, either by visit
or letter, upon the sanctuary of your private life. Now, however, the
case is widely different. You are before the public, before a judge,
charged with a crime, exposed to a severe ordeal. Shall I leave you to
tread this wine-press alone? No, no, so help me Heaven at my bitterest
need—no! Before the same public, before the same judge, through all the
ordeal, will I stand by your side, and with what manhood, strength and
virtue there may be within me, assert my position and your innocence.
Nor man, nor demon—world, flesh, nor devil, shall prevent me doing thus!
And may Christ so aid me in my greatest extremity as I am true to thee!
Amen,” he said, and reverently bowed his head.
It was vain to oppose a will like that of Lord Montressor. Besides, he
was approved by Lord Dazzleright, and felt to be a tower of strength by
Mr. Oldfield.
“We were about to find a comfortable seat for her ladyship,” said the
counsel.
“I have already found one. Will you go with us, my lord?—and you,
reverend sir?” inquired Lord Montressor, bowing to his two friends, and
leading the way through the crowd that respectfully divided to let him
pass. He had provided a seat in a distant and retired part of the
court-room, out of sight of the prisoners’ dock, and nearly out of
hearing of all that was revolting in the proceedings.
Here she sat, unobserved and unmolested for a time, Lord Montressor, Mr.
Oldfield and Lord Dazzleright standing as a living shield between her
and the eyes of the crowd. There was little danger now, however, that
she should be troubled by the impertinent curiosity of others. For all
attention was now turned upon the proceedings of the court at the upper
end of the room. The jury was already empanneled, and the first case on
the docket called up. It was that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy king,
indicted for the murder of Sir George Bannerman’s gamekeeper. He was now
arraigned and standing at the bar. All eyes were fixed upon him—a little
dark, wiry figure of a man, with sharp features and deep set glittering
black eyes, thatched with a wisp of wild black hair, and looking alert,
spry and restless, as if in another instant he would break loose, pound
over intervening obstacles, clear the door or window, and be away in the
free air again!
Even Lady Montressor, notwithstanding the absorbing nature of her own
sorrow, fixed her languid eyes upon this savage child of nature, now
bound and captive, and in deadly peril of his life, and watched in hope
and fear the progress of his short trial. The forms were quickly
dispatched; the testimony on both sides heard; the exposition of the
opposite lawyers made; the charge of the judge delivered; the case given
to the jury, and their verdict returned.
“Stand up and confront the jury;” was the order given to the prisoner.
“How say you, gentlemen of the jury, is the prisoner at the bar guilty
or not guilty?”
For an instant there was a pause and silence in the court, during which
you might have heard a heart beat, broken soon by the deep voice of the
foreman pronouncing the awful word of doom,—
“GUILTY!”
He was only a Gipsy, and it had not taken the twelve long to find their
verdict.
The prisoner was then asked if he had any thing to advance as a just
reason why sentence of death should not be pronounced against him.
Dlifp Oorak laughed wildly, shook his black, elf locks, and intimated
that since the doom was to be only death, he had no objection to
make!—had it been a long imprisonment, now, that were another matter!
And the Gipsy chief impatiently stretched his limbs and looked longingly
abroad through the tall gothic windows into the free, sunny air.
His attention was gravely recalled by the judge, who donned the black
cap, arose, and proceeded to pronounce sentence.
The Gipsy heard his doom with an indifference and a wandering of the
eyes bordering on “contempt of court.”
A little delay and bustle ensued, during which the sheriff’s officers
proceeded to remove the prisoner from court. In going out, they passed
very near our group of friends.
Lady Montressor noticed his half-savage, half-child-like demeanor,
caught a glance from his wild, deer eyes, and silently offered up the
care of his untutored soul to Christ.
This prisoner had scarcely left the court before the second case upon
the docket was called. It was that of a young girl charged with the
crime of infanticide. The details of this case were so painful, so
revolting, that one by one the women in the crowd vailed themselves and
silently stole away. While Estelle, the most delicate, sensitive and
refined of women, was compelled to sit there, between her friend and her
minister, and hear the whole! The trial occupied three hours, and ended
as the preceding one had ended—in the conviction of the prisoner and
sentence of death.
“So young! merciful Saviour! so young, and so horribly lost!” cried Lady
Montressor, in a stifled voice, covering her eyes to shut out the vision
of that girl’s white, amazed, insane countenance! As the ruined one
passed out under charge of the deputy sheriff, she turned back upon our
group of friends, one wild, terrified, appealing gaze, that reminded
Estelle of the portrait of the Cenci and remained fixed in her mind
forever. She prayed for the lost fellow-creature, and while she prayed
the court adjourned.
Mr. Oldfield with a deep sigh arose and was about to offer his arm to
his charge, when Lord Montressor, who had remained standing, anticipated
him, and drew the hand of Estelle through his own arm. They made slow
progress through the crowd, and reached the portico, and went to the
street. On reaching the carriage, Lord Montrassor handed Estelle in, saw
her comfortably seated, and then said:—
“Before this tribunal and in public, dearest Stella, I must assert at
once our position—your innocence and my rights; but,—that no one shall
venture to call in question the motives of my conduct or yours,—I shall
refrain from intruding on your private life, until the decision of your
case shall have endorsed our union. Farewell, I will meet you here
to-morrow, dearest.” And pressing her hand, he bowed and gave way to Mr.
Oldfield, who immediately entered the carriage; and they drove rapidly
to their hotel.
This was the history of the first day at court; and the second and
third, and many succeeding days, were like unto it—dreary, depressing,
dreadful records of vice, crime, and suffering, of every kind and every
degree. There were ten capital cases on the docket. And in that single
session of the Assizes at Exeter, Sir James Allan Parke pronounced
sentence of death upon seven persons, including the king of the Gipsies,
all of whom were hanged within a week after their conviction.
And day after day, in this fetid atmosphere of guilt and death and
horror, Lady Montressor sat and sickened—sickened and despaired to see
these poor outcasts of Christianity—these sinning and suffering wrecks
of humanity—men, women, and even children, one after another, fall into
the horrible pit prepared by their own crimes. For the acquittals were
very few. English courts are stern and strict, almost invariably
endorsing by their action the warrants of their justice, and the true
bills of their grand jury. The numerous, seemingly merciless convictions
of the court, wrung her heart not only with the most painful pity for
other sufferers, but with despair for herself and for those deeply
interested in her fate. And as she heard one after another culprit
convicted of theft, poaching, shop-lifting, burglary, or what
not,—sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay, and saw the half-brutal,
half-demoniac faces of these wretches glare on her as they passed
out,—again the vision of the convict ship, and colony, with all their
loathsome horrors, darkened around her soul, for she remembered that the
crime of which she—even _she_—stood accused, was also a transportable
offense; and convictions seemed to be the unvarying rule of this court!
And thus, in this foul and deadly atmosphere of sin and sorrow, she sat
and sickened and despaired, until the thirteenth day, when her case was
called.
It was the first of June, when the sun smiled down in cloudless beauty
from the deep blue sky, upon a land green with luxuriant vegetation,
blooming and fragrant with flowers, and vocal with the songs of birds.
It was a bright, beautiful, and glorious day; but to Estelle and her
friends a day of darkness, gloom and terror!
The news that the trial would come on that morning had been noised
abroad, all over the city, and throughout the country, and had attracted
all Exeter to the court-house.
As on preceding days, before leaving her lodgings, for the court, Lady
Montressor prayed long and earnestly. And then deeply vailed, and
leaning on the arm of the venerable pastor, she came out, to enter the
carriage. The populace, who had at last discovered her lodgings and
identified her carriage, were now gathered in a dense crowd before the
hotel, waiting to see this interesting prisoner. Short as was the
distance from the portico to the coach, and deeply vailed as was the
lady, she shuddered in passing through this crowd, whose gaze she could
not see, but keenly, deeply, _felt_ fixed upon her form. Mr. Oldfield
quickly and nervously handed her into the coach, followed her, took his
seat, put up the blinds and let down the curtains; and having thus
carefully closed up the carriage, gave orders to the coachman to drive
on. They drove perforce slowly through the crowded streets that became
more thronged, at every square, as they approached the court-house. When
at last the coach drew up before the Hall, Mr. Oldfield alighted, and in
the same quick, nervous manner, handed her out, and attempted to hurry
her through the crowd that thronged around, and into the court-house,
and choked up its portico, entrance hall, and staircase.
Estelle looked wildly around upon this vast and curious multitude. Among
the carriages that blocked up the street before the building, she
recognized the liveries of many of her former friends, and in the crowd
that thronged into the court-house, she identified many of the guests
who had been bidden to that wedding breakfast to which she had never
returned. Since that fatal day to this—perhaps more fatal one—she had
not seen or heard from one of them! Why came they now?—to gloat over her
calamities? Who could tell? None but the Searcher of hearts; but their
presence here made _her_ heart sink; true, it was a trifle added to the
great sum of her misery; but it was only an added feather that is said
to have broken the camel’s back. These thoughts had scarcely passed
through her mind, when she saw Lord Montressor emerge from the crowd on
the portico and come down the steps to join her.
“A few hours more of fortitude, dear Stella, and you will be free!” he
said, as he drew her hand within his arm. He then bowed to Mr. Oldfield,
and called a police-officer, whom he directed to precede and clear a way
for them through the crowd. And then with his fine head erect and
uncovered, and with a mien as self-possessed and dignified as that with
which he had a month ago led his bride into the church, he now led her
through the crowded portico and passage-way, and up the staircase into
the court.