THE VERDICT.
On the Wednesday morning Phineas Finn was again brought into the
Court, and again placed in the dock. There was a general feeling
that he should not again have been so disgraced; but he was still a
prisoner under a charge of murder, and it was explained to him that
the circumstances of the case and the stringency of the law did not
admit of his being seated elsewhere during his trial. He treated the
apology with courteous scorn. He should not have chosen, he said,
to have made any change till after the trial was over, even had any
change been permitted. When he was brought up the steps into the dock
after the judges had taken their seats there was almost a shout of
applause. The crier was very angry, and gave it to be understood that
everybody would be arrested unless everybody was silent; but the
Chief Justice said not a word, nor did those great men the Attorney
and Solicitor-General express any displeasure. The bench was again
crowded with Members of Parliament from both Houses, and on this
occasion Mr. Gresham himself had accompanied Lord Cantrip. The two
Dukes were there, and men no bigger than Laurence Fitzgibbon were
forced to subject themselves to the benevolence of the Under-Sheriff.
Phineas himself was pale and haggard. It was observed that he leaned
forward on the rail of the dock all the day, not standing upright
as he had done before; and they who watched him closely said that
he never once raised his eyes on this day to meet those of the men
opposite to him on the bench, although heretofore throughout the
trial he had stood with his face raised so as to look directly at
those who were there seated. On this occasion he kept his eyes fixed
upon the speaker. But the whole bearing of the man, his gestures, his
gait, and his countenance were changed. During the first long week
of his trial, his uprightness, the manly beauty of his countenance,
and the general courage and tranquillity of his deportment had been
conspicuous. Whatever had been his fatigue, he had managed not to
show the outward signs of weariness. Whatever had been his fears,
no mark of fear had disfigured his countenance. He had never once
condescended to the exhibition of any outward show of effrontery.
Through six weary days he had stood there, supported by a manhood
sufficient for the terrible emergency. But now it seemed that at any
rate the outward grace of his demeanour had deserted him. But it
was known that he had been ill during the last few days, and it had
been whispered through the Court that he had not slept at nights.
Since the adjournment of the Court there had been bulletins as to his
health, and everybody knew that the confinement was beginning to tell
upon him.
On the present occasion the proceedings of the day were opened by the
Attorney-General, who began by apologising to the jury. Apologies to
the jury had been very frequent during the trial, and each apology
had called forth fresh grumbling. On this occasion the foreman
expressed a hope that the Legislature would consider the condition
of things which made it possible that twelve gentlemen all concerned
extensively in business should be confined for fourteen days because
a mistake had been made in the evidence as to a murder. Then the
Chief Justice, bowing down his head and looking at them over the rim
of his spectacles with an expression of wisdom that almost convinced
them, told them that he was aware of no mistake in the evidence. It
might become their duty, on the evidence which they had heard and the
further evidence which they would hear, to acquit the prisoner at the
bar; but not on that account would there have been any mistake or
erroneous procedure in the Court, other than such error on the part
of the prosecution in regard to the alleged guilt of the prisoner
as it was the general and special duty of jurors to remedy. Then he
endeavoured to reconcile them to their sacrifice by describing the
importance and glorious British nature of their position. "My lord,"
said one of the jurors, "if you was a salesman, and hadn't got no
partner, only a very young 'un, you'd know what it was to be kept
out of your business for a fortnight." Then that salesman wagged his
head, and put his handkerchief up to his eyes, and there was pity
also for him in the Court.
After that the Attorney-General went on. His learned friend on
the other side,--and he nodded to Mr. Chaffanbrass,--had got some
further evidence to submit to them on behalf of the prisoner who was
still on his trial before them. He now addressed them with the view
of explaining to them that if that evidence should be such as he
believed, it would become his duty on behalf of the Crown to join
with his learned friend in requesting the Court to direct the jury
to acquit the prisoner. Not the less on that account would it be the
duty of the jury to form their own opinion as to the credibility of
the fresh evidence which would be brought before them.
"There won't be much doubt about the credibility," said Mr.
Chaffanbrass, rising in his place. "I am not a bit afraid about the
credibility, gentlemen; and I don't think that you need be afraid
either. You must understand, gentlemen, that I am now going on
calling evidence for the defence. My last witness was the Right
Honourable Mr. Monk, who spoke as to character. My next will be a
Bohemian blacksmith named Praska,--Peter Praska,--who naturally can't
speak a word of English, and unfortunately can't speak a word of
German either. But we have got an interpreter, and I daresay we shall
find out without much delay what Peter Praska has to tell us." Then
Peter Praska was handed up to the rostrum for the witnesses, and the
man learned in Czech and also in English was placed close to him, and
sworn to give a true interpretation.
Mealyus the unfortunate one was also in Court, brought in between
two policemen, and the Bohemian blacksmith swore that he had made a
certain key on the instructions of the man he now saw. The reader
need not be further troubled with all the details of the evidence
about the key. It was clearly proved that in a village near to
Prague a key had been made such as would open Mr. Meager's door in
Northumberland Street, and it was also proved that it was made from
a mould supplied by Mealyus. This was done by the joint evidence of
Mr. Meager and of the blacksmith. "And if I lose my key," said the
reverend gentleman, "why should I not have another made? Did I ever
deny it? This, I think, is very strange." But Mr. Emilius was very
quickly walked back out of the Court between the two policemen, as
his presence would not be required in regard to the further evidence
regarding the bludgeon.
Mr. Chaffanbrass, having finished his business with the key, at once
began with the bludgeon. The bludgeon was produced, and was handed
up to the bench, and inspected by the Chief Justice. The instrument
excited great interest. Men rose on tiptoe to look at it even from a
distance, and the Prime Minister was envied because for a moment it
was placed in his hands. As the large-eyed little boy who had found
it was not yet six years old, there was a difficulty in perfecting
the thread of the evidence. It was not held to be proper to
administer an oath to an infant. But in a roundabout way it was
proved that the identical bludgeon had been picked up in the garden.
There was an elaborate surveyor's plan produced of the passage, the
garden, and the wall,--with the steps on which it was supposed that
the blow had been struck; and the spot was indicated on which the
child had said that he had found the weapon. Then certain workers
in leather were questioned, who agreed in asserting that no such
instrument as that handed to them had ever been made in England.
After that, two scientific chemists told the jury that they had
minutely examined the knob of the instrument with reference to the
discovery of human blood,--but in vain. They were, however, of
opinion that the man might very readily have been killed by the
instrument without any effusion of blood at the moment of the blows.
This seemed to the jury to be the less necessary, as three or four
surgeons who had examined the murdered man's head had already told
them that in all probability there had been no such effusion. When
the judges went out to lunch at two o'clock the jury were trembling
as to their fate for another night.
The fresh evidence, however, had been completed, and on the return of
the Court Mr. Chaffanbrass said that he should only speak a very few
words. For a few words he must ask indulgence, though he knew them to
be irregular. But it was the speciality of this trial that everything
in it was irregular, and he did not think that his learned friend the
Attorney-General would dispute the privilege. The Attorney-General
said nothing, and Mr. Chaffanbrass went on with his little
speech,--with which he took up the greatest part of an hour. It was
thought to have been unnecessary, as nearly all that he said was said
again--and was sure to have been so said,--by the judge. It was not
his business,--the business of him, Mr. Chaffanbrass,--to accuse
another man of the murder of Mr. Bonteen. It was not for him to tell
the jury whether there was or was not evidence on which any other man
should be sent to trial. But it was his bounden duty in defence of
his client to explain to them that a collection of facts tending
to criminate another man,--which when taken together made a fair
probability that another man had committed the crime,--rendered it
quite out of the question that they should declare his client to be
guilty. He did not believe that there was a single person in the
Court who was not now convinced of the innocence of his client;--but
it was not permitted to him to trust himself solely to that belief.
It was his duty to show them that, of necessity, they must acquit his
client. When Mr. Chaffanbrass sat down, the Attorney-General waived
any right he might have of further reply.
It was half-past three when the judge began his charge. He would, he
said, do his best to enable the jury to complete their tedious duty,
so as to return to their families on that night. Indeed he would
certainly finish his charge before he rose from the seat, let the
hour be what it might; and though time must be occupied by him in
going through the evidence and explaining the circumstances of
this very singular trial, it might not be improbable that the jury
would be able to find their verdict without any great delay among
themselves. "There won't be any delay at all, my lord," said the
suffering and very irrational salesman. The poor man was again
rebuked, mildly, and the Chief Justice continued his charge.
As it occupied four hours in the delivery, of which by far the
greater part was taken up in recapitulating and sifting evidence
with which the careful reader, if such there be, has already been
made too intimately acquainted, the account of it here shall be
very short. The nature of circumstantial evidence was explained,
and the truth of much that had been said in regard to such evidence
by Mr. Chaffanbrass admitted;--but, nevertheless, it would be
impossible,--so said his lordship,--to administer justice if guilt
could never be held to have been proved by circumstantial evidence
alone. In this case it might not improbably seem to them that the
gentleman who had so long stood before them as a prisoner at the
bar had been the victim of a most singularly untoward chain of
circumstances, from which he would have to be liberated, should he
be at last liberated, by another chain of circumstances as singular;
but it was his duty to inform them now, after they had heard what he
might call the double evidence, that he could not have given it to
them as his opinion that the charge had been brought home against the
prisoner, even had those circumstances of the Bohemian key and of the
foreign bludgeon never been brought to light. He did not mean to say
that the evidence had not justified the trial. He thought that the
trial had been fully justified. Nevertheless, had nothing arisen to
point to the possibility of guilt in another man, he should not the
less have found himself bound in duty to explain to them that the
thread of the evidence against Mr. Finn had been incomplete,--or,
he would rather say, the weight of it had been, to his judgment,
insufficient. He was the more intent on saying so much, as he was
desirous of making it understood that, even had the bludgeon still
remained buried beneath the leaves, had the manufacturer of that
key never been discovered, the great evil would not, he thought,
have fallen upon them of punishing the innocent instead of the
guilty,--that most awful evil of taking innocent blood in their just
attempt to punish murder by death. As far as he knew, to the best of
his belief, that calamity had never fallen upon the country in his
time. The administration of the law was so careful of life that the
opposite evil was fortunately more common. He said so much because he
would not wish that this case should be quoted hereafter as showing
the possible danger of circumstantial evidence. It had been a case in
which the evidence given as to character alone had been sufficient
to make him feel that the circumstances which seemed to affect the
prisoner injuriously could not be taken as establishing his guilt.
But now other and imposing circumstances had been brought to light,
and he was sure that the jury would have no difficulty with their
verdict. A most frightful murder had no doubt been committed in the
dead of the night. A gentleman coming home from his club had been
killed,--probably by the hand of one who had himself moved in the
company of gentlemen. A plot had been made,--had probably been
thought of for days and weeks before,--and had been executed with
extreme audacity, in order that an enemy might be removed. There
could, he thought, be but little doubt that Mr. Bonteen had been
killed by the instrument found in the garden, and if so, he certainly
had not been killed by the prisoner, who could not be supposed
to have carried two bludgeons in his pocket, and whose quarrel
with the murdered man had been so recent as to have admitted of no
preparation. They had heard the story of Mr. Meager's grey coat, and
of the construction of the duplicate key for Mr. Meager's house-door.
It was not for him to tell them on the present occasion whether these
stories, and the evidence by which they had been supported, tended
to affix guilt elsewhere. It was beyond his province to advert to
such probability or possibility; but undoubtedly the circumstances
might be taken by them as an assistance, if assistance were needed,
in coming to a conclusion on the charge against the prisoner.
"Gentlemen," he said at last, "I think you will find no difficulty in
acquitting the prisoner of the murder laid to his charge," whereupon
the jurymen put their heads together; and the foreman, without half
a minute's delay, declared that they were unanimous, and that they
found the prisoner Not Guilty. "And we are of opinion," said the
foreman, "that Mr. Finn should not have been put upon his trial on
such evidence as has been brought before us."
The necessity of liberating poor Phineas from the horrors of his
position was too urgent to allow of much attention being given at
the moment to this protest. "Mr. Finn," said the judge, addressing
the poor broken wretch, "you have been acquitted of the odious and
abominable charge brought against you, with the concurrence, I am
sure, not only of those who have heard this trial, but of all your
countrymen and countrywomen. I need not say that you will leave that
dock with no stain on your character. It has, I hope, been some
consolation to you in your misfortune to hear the terms in which
you have been spoken of by such friends as they who came here to
give their testimony on your behalf. It is, and it has been, a great
sorrow to me to see such a one as you subjected to so unmerited an
ignominy; but a man educated in the laws of his country, as you
have been, and understanding its constitution fundamentally, as you
do, will probably have acknowledged that, great as has been the
misfortune to you personally, nothing more than a proper attempt has
been made to execute justice. I trust that you may speedily find
yourself able to resume your place among the legislators of the
country." Thus Phineas Finn was acquitted, and the judges, collecting
up their robes, trooped off from the bench, following the long line
of their assessors who had remained even to that hour to hear the
last word of the trial. Mr. Chaffanbrass collected his papers, with
the assistance of Mr. Wickerby,--totally disregardful of his junior
counsel, and the Attorney and Solicitor-General congratulated each
other on the successful termination of a very disagreeable piece of
business.
And Phineas was discharged. According to the ordinary meaning of the
words he was now to go about his business as he pleased, the law
having no further need of his person. We can understand how in common
cases the prisoner discharged on his acquittal,--who probably in
nine cases out of ten is conscious of his own guilt,--may feel the
sweetness of his freedom and enjoy his immunity from danger with a
light heart. He is received probably by his wife or young woman,--or
perhaps, having no wife or young woman to receive him, betakes
himself to his usual haunts. The interest which has been felt in his
career is over, and he is no longer the hero of an hour;--but he is a
free man, and may drink his gin-and-water where he pleases. Perhaps
a small admiring crowd may welcome him as he passes out into the
street, but he has become nobody before he reaches the corner. But it
could not be so with this discharged prisoner,--either as regarded
himself and his own feelings, or as regarded his friends. When
the moment came he had hardly as yet thought about the immediate
future,--had not considered how he would live, or where, during
the next few months. The sensations of the moment had been so full,
sometimes of agony and at others of anticipated triumph, that he had
not attempted as yet to make for himself any schemes. The Duchess
of Omnium had suggested that he would be received back into society
with an elaborate course of fashionable dinners; but that view of his
return to the world had certainly not occurred to him. When he was
led down from the dock he hardly knew whither he was being taken, and
when he found himself in a small room attached to the Court, clasped
on one arm by Mr. Low and on the other by Lord Chiltern, he did not
know what they would propose to him,--nor had he considered what
answer he would make to any proposition. "At last you are safe," said
Mr. Low.
"But think what he has suffered," said Lord Chiltern.
Phineas looked round to see if there was any other friend present.
Certainly among all his friends he had thought most of her who had
travelled half across Europe for evidence to save him. He had seen
Madame Goesler last on the evening preceding the night of the murder,
and had not even heard from her since. But he had been told what she
had done for him, and now he had almost fancied that he would have
found her waiting for him. He smiled first at the one man and then
at the other, and made an effort to carry himself with his ordinary
tranquillity. "It will be all right now, I dare say," he said. "I
wonder whether I could have a glass of water."
He sat down while the water was brought to him, and his two friends
stood over him, hardly knowing how to do more than support him by
their presence.
Then Lord Cantrip made his way into the room. He had sat on the bench
to the last, whereas the other two had gone down to receive the
prisoner when acquitted;--and with him came Sir Harry Coldfoot, the
Home Secretary. "My friend," said the former, "the bitter day has
passed over you, and I hope that the bitterness will soon pass away
also." Phineas again attempted to smile as he held the hand of the
man with whom he had formerly been associated in office.
"I should not intrude, Mr. Finn," said Sir Harry, "did I not feel
myself bound in a special manner to express my regret at the great
trouble to which you have been subjected." Phineas rose, and
bowed stiffly. He had conceived that every one connected with the
administration of the law had believed him to be guilty, and none in
his present mood could be dear to him but they who from the beginning
trusted in his innocence. "I am requested by Mr. Gresham," continued
Sir Harry, "to express to you his entire sympathy, and his joy that
all this is at last over." Phineas tried to make some little speech,
but utterly failed. Then Sir Harry left them, and he burst out into
tears.
"Who can be surprised?" said Lord Cantrip. "The marvel is that he
should have been able to bear it so long."
"It would have crushed me utterly, long since," said the other lord.
Then there was a question asked as to what he would do, and Mr. Low
proposed that he should be allowed to take Phineas to his own house
for a few days. His wife, he said, had known their friend so long and
so intimately that she might perhaps be able to make herself more
serviceable than any other lady, and at their house Phineas could
receive his sisters just as he would at his own. His sisters had been
lodging near the prison almost ever since the committal, and it had
been thought well to remove them to Mr. Low's house in order that
they might meet their brother there.
"I think I'll go to my--own room--in Marlborough Street." These were
the first intelligible words he had uttered since he had been led out
of the dock, and to that resolution he adhered. Lord Cantrip offered
the retirements of a country house belonging to himself within an
hour's journey of London, and Lord Chiltern declared that Harrington
Hall, which Phineas knew, was altogether at his service,--but Phineas
decided in favour of Mrs. Bunce, and to Great Marlborough Street he
was taken by Mr. Low.
"I'll come to you to-morrow,--with my wife,"--said Lord Chiltern, as
he was going.
"Not to-morrow, Chiltern. But tell your wife how deeply I value her
friendship." Lord Cantrip also offered to come, but was asked to
wait awhile. "I am afraid I am hardly fit for visitors yet. All the
strength seems to have been knocked out of me this last week."
Mr. Low accompanied him to his lodgings, and then handed him over to
Mrs. Bunce, promising that his two sisters should come to him early
on the following morning. On that evening he would prefer to be quite
alone. He would not allow the barrister even to go upstairs with him;
and when he had entered his room, almost rudely begged his weeping
landlady to leave him.
"Oh, Mr. Phineas, let me do something for you," said the poor woman.
"You have not had a bit of anything all day. Let me get you just a
cup of tea and a chop."
In truth he had dined when the judges went out to their lunch,--dined
as he had been wont to dine since the trial had been commenced,--and
wanted nothing. She might bring him tea, he said, if she would leave
him for an hour. And then at last he was alone. He stood up in the
middle of the room, stretching forth his hands, and putting one
first to his breast and then to his brow, feeling himself as though
doubting his own identity. Could it be that the last week had been
real,--that everything had not been a dream? Had he in truth been
suspected of a murder and tried for his life? And then he thought of
him who had been murdered, of Mr. Bonteen, his enemy. Was he really
gone,--the man who the other day was to have been Chancellor of
the Exchequer,--the scornful, arrogant, loud, boastful man? He had
hardly thought of Mr. Bonteen before, during these weeks of his own
incarceration. He had heard all the details of the murder with a
fulness that had been at last complete. The man who had oppressed
him, and whom he had at times almost envied, was indeed gone, and the
world for awhile had believed that he, Phineas Finn, had been the
man's murderer!
And now what should be his own future life? One thing seemed certain
to him. He could never again go into the House of Commons, and sit
there, an ordinary man of business, with other ordinary men. He had
been so hacked and hewed about, so exposed to the gaze of the vulgar,
so mauled by the public, that he could never more be anything but the
wretched being who had been tried for the murder of his enemy. The
pith had been taken out of him, and he was no longer a man fit for
use. He could never more enjoy that freedom from self-consciousness,
that inner tranquillity of spirit, which are essential to public
utility. Then he remembered certain lines which had long been
familiar to him, and he repeated them aloud, with some conceit that
they were apposite to him:--
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,--
For the reed that grows never more again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
He sat drinking his tea, still thinking of himself,--knowing how
infinitely better it would be for him that he should indulge in no
such thought, till an idea struck him, and he got up, and, drawing
back the blinds from the open window, looked out into the night. It
was the last day of June, and the weather was very sultry; but the
night was dark, and it was now near midnight. On a sudden he took
his hat, and feeling with a smile for the latch-key which he always
carried in his pocket,--thinking of the latch-key which had been made
at Prague for the lock of a house in Northumberland Street, New Road,
he went down to the front door. "You'll be back soon, Mr. Finn, won't
you now?" said Mrs. Bunce, who had heard his step, and had remained
up, thinking it better this, the first night of his return, not to
rest till he had gone to his bed.
"Why should I be back soon?" he said, turning upon her. But then
he remembered that she had been one of those who were true to him,
and he took her hand and was gracious to her. "I will be back soon,
Mrs. Bunce, and you need fear nothing. But recollect how little
I have had of liberty lately. I have not even had a walk for six
weeks. You cannot wonder that I should wish to roam about a little."
Nevertheless she would have preferred that he should not have gone
out all alone on that night.
He had taken off the black morning coat which he had worn during the
trial, and had put on that very grey garment by which it had been
sought to identify him with the murderer. So clad he crossed Regent
Street into Hanover Square, and from thence went a short way down
Bond Street, and by Bruton Street into Berkeley Square. He took
exactly the reverse of the route by which he had returned home
from the club on the night of the murder. Every now and then he
trembled as he passed some figure which might be that of a man who
would recognise him. But he walked fast, and went on till he came
to the spot at which the steps descend from the street into the
passage,--the very spot at which the murder had been committed. He
looked down it with an awful dread, and stood there as though he were
fascinated, thinking of all the details which he had heard throughout
the trial. Then he looked around him, and listened whether there were
any step approaching through the passage. Hearing none and seeing no
one he at last descended, and for the first time in his life passed
through that way into Bolton Row. Here it was that the wretch of whom
he had now heard so much had waited for his enemy,--the wretch for
whom during the last six weeks he had been mistaken. Heavens!--that
men who had known him should have believed him to have done such a
deed as that! He remembered well having shown the life-preserver to
Erle and Fitzgibbon at the door of the club; and it had been thought
that after having so shown it he had used it for the purpose to which
in his joke he had alluded! Were men so blind, so ignorant of nature,
so little capable of discerning the truth as this? Then he went on
till he came to the end of Clarges Street, and looked up the mews
opposite to it,--the mews from which the man had been seen to hurry.
The place was altogether unknown to him. He had never thought whither
it had led when passing it on his way up from Piccadilly to the club.
But now he entered the mews so as to test the evidence that had been
given, and found that it brought him by a turn close up to the spot
at which he had been described as having been last seen by Erle
and Fitzgibbon. When there he went on, and crossed the street, and
looking back saw the club was lighted up. Then it struck him for the
first time that it was the night of the week on which the members
were wont to assemble. Should he pluck up courage, and walk in among
them? He had not lost his right of entry there because he had been
accused of murder. He was the same now as heretofore,--if he could
only fancy himself to be the same. Why not go in, and have done with
all this? He would be the wonder of the club for twenty minutes, and
then it would all be over. He stood close under the shade of a heavy
building as he thought of this, but he found that he could not do it.
He had known from the beginning that he could not do it. How callous,
how hard, how heartless, must he have been, had such a course been
possible to him! He again repeated the lines to himself--
The reed that grows never more again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
He felt sure that never again would he enter that room, in which no
doubt all those assembled were now talking about him.
As he returned home he tried to make out for himself some plan for
his future life,--but, interspersed with any idea that he could weave
were the figures of two women, Lady Laura Kennedy and Madame Max
Goesler. The former could be nothing to him but a friend; and though
no other friend would love him as she loved him, yet she could not
influence his life. She was very wealthy, but her wealth could be
nothing to him. She would heap it all upon him if he would take
it. He understood and knew that. Taking no pride to himself that
it was so, feeling no conceit in her love, he was conscious of her
devotion to him. He was poor, broken in spirit, and almost without a
future;--and yet could her devotion avail him nothing!
But how might it be with that other woman? Were she, after all that
had passed between them, to consent to be his wife,--and it might be
that she would consent,--how would the world be with him then? He
would be known as Madame Goesler's husband, and have to sit at the
bottom of her table,--and be talked of as the man who had been tried
for the murder of Mr. Bonteen. Look at it in which way he might, he
thought that no life could any longer be possible to him in London.