THE MATERIALS IN THE DEFENSE.
ON our way to the chairs allotted to us in the magistrate’s court, we
passed the platform on which the prisoners were standing together.
Silas took no notice of us. Ambrose made a friendly sign of
recognition, and then rested his hand on the “bar” in front of him. As
she passed beneath him, Naomi was just tall enough to reach his hand on
tiptoe. She took it. “I know you are innocent,” she whispered, and gave
him one look of loving encouragement as she followed me to her place.
Ambrose never lost his self-control. I may have been wrong; but I
thought this a bad sign.
The case, as stated for the prosecution, told strongly against the
suspected men.
Ambrose and Silas Meadowcroft were charged with the murder of John Jago
(by means of the stick or by use of some other weapon), and with the
deliberate destruction of the body by throwing it into the quicklime.
In proof of this latter assertion, the knife which the deceased
habitually carried about him, and the metal buttons which were known to
belong to his coat, were produced. It was argued that these
indestructible substances, and some fragments of the larger bones had
alone escaped the action of the burning lime. Having produced medical
witnesses to support this theory by declaring the bones to be human,
and having thus circumstantially asserted the discovery of the remains
in the kiln, the prosecution next proceeded to prove that the missing
man had been murdered by the two brothers, and had been by them thrown
into the quicklime as a means of concealing their guilt.
Witness after witness deposed to the inveterate enmity against the
deceased displayed by Ambrose and Silas. The threatening language they
habitually used toward him; their violent quarrels with him, which had
become a public scandal throughout the neighborhood, and which had
ended (on one occasion at least) in a blow; the disgraceful scene which
had taken place under my window; and the restoration to Ambrose, on the
morning of the fatal quarrel, of the very stick which had been found
among the remains of the dead man--these facts and events, and a host
of minor circumstances besides, sworn to by witnesses whose credit was
unimpeachable, pointed with terrible directness to the conclusion at
which the prosecution had arrived.
I looked at the brothers as the weight of the evidence pressed more and
more heavily against them. To outward view at least, Ambrose still
maintained his self-possession. It was far otherwise with Silas. Abject
terror showed itself in his ghastly face; in his great knotty hands,
clinging convulsively to the bar at which he stood; in his staring
eyes, fixed in vacant horror on each witness who appeared. Public
feeling judged him on the spot. There he stood, self-betrayed already,
in the popular opinion, as a guilty man!
The one point gained in cross-examination by the defense related to the
charred bones.
Pressed on this point, a majority of the medical witnesses admitted
that their examination had been a hurried one; and that it was just
possible that the bones might yet prove to be the remains of an animal,
and not of a man. The presiding magistrate decided upon this that a
second examination should be made, and that the member of the medical
experts should be increased.
Here the preliminary proceedings ended. The prisoners were remanded for
three days.
The prostration of Silas, at the close of the inquiry, was so complete,
that it was found necessary to have two men to support him on his
leaving the court. Ambrose leaned over the bar to speak to Naomi before
he followed the jailer out. “Wait,” he whispered, confidently, “till
they hear what I have to say!” Naomi kissed her hand to him
affectionately, and turned to me with the bright tears in her eyes.
“Why don’t they hear what he has to say at once?” she asked. “Anybody
can see that Ambrose is innocent. It’s a crying shame, sir, to send him
back to prison. Don’t you think so yourself?”
If I had confessed what I really thought, I should have said that
Ambrose had proved nothing to my mind, except that he possessed rare
powers of self-control. It was impossible to acknowledge this to my
little friend. I diverted her mind from the question of her lover’s
innocence by proposing that we should get the necessary order, and
visit him in his prison on the next day. Naomi dried her tears, and
gave me a little grateful squeeze of the hand.
“Oh my! what a good fellow you are!” cried the outspoken American girl.
“When your time comes to be married, sir, I guess the woman won’t
repent saying yes to _you!_”
Mr. Meadowcroft preserved unbroken silence as we walked back to the
farm on either side of his invalid-chair. His last reserves of
resolution seemed to have given way under the overwhelming strain laid
on them by the proceedings in court. His daughter, in stern indulgence
to Naomi, mercifully permitted her opinion to glimmer on us only
through the medium of quotation from Scripture texts. If the texts
meant anything, they meant that she had foreseen all that had happened;
and that the one sad aspect of the case, to her mind, was the death of
John Jago, unprepared to meet his end.
I obtained the order of admission to the prison the next morning.
We found Ambrose still confident of the favorable result, for his
brother and for himself, of the inquiry before the magistrate. He
seemed to be almost as eager to tell, as Naomi was to hear, the true
story of what had happened at the lime-kiln. The authorities of the
prison--present, of course, at the interview--warned him to remember
that what he said might be taken down in writing, and produced against
him in court.
“Take it down, gentlemen, and welcome,” Ambrose replied. “I have
nothing to fear; I am only telling the truth.”
With that he turned to Naomi, and began his narrative, as nearly as I
can remember, in these words:
“I may as well make a clean breast of it at starting, my girl. After
Mr. Lefrank left us that morning, I asked Silas how he came by my
stick. In telling me how, Silas also told me of the words that had
passed between him and John Jago under Mr. Lefrank’s window. I was
angry and jealous; and I own it freely, Naomi, I thought the worst that
could be thought about you and John.”
Here Naomi stopped him without ceremony.
“Was that what made you speak to me as you spoke when we found you at
the wood?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And was that what made you leave me, when you went away to Narrabee,
without giving me a kiss at parting?”
“It was.”
“Beg my pardon for it before you say a word more.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Say you are ashamed of yourself.”
“I am ashamed of myself,” Ambrose answered penitently.
“Now you may go on,” said Naomi. “Now I’m satisfied.”
Ambrose went on.
“We were on our way to the clearing at the other side of the wood while
Silas was talking to me; and, as ill luck would have it, we took the
path that led by the lime-kiln. Turning the corner, we met John Jago on
his way to Narrabee. I was too angry, I tell you, to let him pass
quietly. I gave him a bit of my mind. His blood was up too, I suppose;
and he spoke out, on his side, as freely as I did. I own I threatened
him with the stick; but I’ll swear to it I meant him no harm. You
know--after dressing Silas’s hand--that John Jago is ready with his
knife. He comes from out West, where they are always ready with one
weapon or another handy in their pockets. It’s likely enough he didn’t
mean to harm me, either; but how could I be sure of that? When he
stepped up to me, and showed his weapon, I dropped the stick, and
closed with him. With one hand I wrenched the knife away from him; and
with the other I caught him by the collar of his rotten old coat, and
gave him a shaking that made his bones rattle in his skin. A big piece
of the cloth came away in my hand. I shied it into the quicklime close
by us, and I pitched the knife after the cloth; and, if Silas hadn’t
stopped me, I think it’s likely I might have shied John Jago himself
into the lime next. As it was, Silas kept hold of me. Silas shouted out
to him, ‘Be off with you! and don’t come back again, if you don’t want
to be burned in the kiln!’ He stood looking at us for a minute,
fetching his breath, and holding his torn coat round him. Then he spoke
with a deadly-quiet voice and a deadly-quiet look: ‘Many a true word,
Mr. Silas,’ he says, ‘is spoken in jest. _I shall not come back
again_.’ He turned about, and left us. We stood staring at each other
like a couple of fools. ‘You don’t think he means it?’ I says. ‘Bosh!’
says Silas. ‘He’s too sweet on Naomi not to come back.’ What’s the
matter now, Naomi?”
I had noticed it too. She started and turned pale, when Ambrose
repeated to her what Silas had said to him.
“Nothing is the matter,” Naomi answered. “Your brother has no right to
take liberties with my name. Go on. Did Silas say any more while he was
about it?”
“Yes; he looked into the kiln; and he says, ‘What made you throw away
the knife, Ambrose?’--‘How does a man know why he does anything,’ I
says, ‘when he does it in a passion?’--‘It’s a ripping good knife,’
says Silas; ‘in your place, I should have kept it.’ I picked up the
stick off the ground. ‘Who says I’ve lost it yet?’ I answered him; and
with that I got up on the side of the kiln, and began sounding for the
knife, to bring it, you know, by means of the stick, within easy reach
of a shovel, or some such thing. ‘Give us your hand,’ I says to Silas.
‘Let me stretch out a bit and I’ll have it in no time.’ Instead of
finding the knife, I came nigh to falling myself into the burning lime.
The vapor overpowered me, I suppose. All I know is, I turned giddy, and
dropped the stick in the kiln. I should have followed the stick to a
dead certainty, but for Silas pulling me back by the hand. ‘Let it be,’
says Silas. ‘If I hadn’t had hold of you, John Jago’s knife would have
been the death of you, after all!’ He led me away by the arm, and we
went on together on the road to the wood. We stopped where you found
us, and sat down on the felled tree. We had a little more talk about
John Jago. It ended in our agreeing to wait and see what happened, and
to keep our own counsel in the meantime. You and Mr. Lefrank came upon
us, Naomi, while we were still talking; and you guessed right when you
guessed that we had a secret from you. You know the secret now.”
There he stopped. I put a question to him--the first that I had asked
yet.
“Had you or your brother any fear at that time of the charge which has
since been brought against you?” I said.
“No such thought entered our heads, sir,” Ambrose answered. “How could
_we_ foresee that the neighbors would search the kiln, and say what
they have said of us? All we feared was, that the old man might hear of
the quarrel, and be bitterer against us than ever. I was the more
anxious of the two to keep things secret, because I had Naomi to
consider as well as the old man. Put yourself in my place, and you will
own, sir, that the prospect at home was not a pleasant one for _me_, if
John Jago really kept away from the farm, and if it came out that it
was all my doing.”
(This was certainly an explanation of his conduct; but it was not
satisfactory to my mind.)
“As _you_ believe, then,” I went on, “John Jago has carried out his
threat of not returning to the farm? According to you, he is now alive,
and in hiding somewhere?”
“Certainly!” said Ambrose.
“Certainly!” repeated Naomi.
“Do you believe the report that he was seen traveling on the railway to
New York?”
“I believe it firmly, sir; and, what is more, I believe I was on his
track. I was only too anxious to find him; and I say I could have found
him if they would have let me stay in New York.”
I looked at Naomi.
“I believe it too,” she said. “John Jago is keeping away.”
“Do you suppose he is afraid of Ambrose and Silas?”
She hesitated.
“He _may_ be afraid of them,” she replied, with a strong emphasis on
the word “may.”
“But you don’t think it likely?”
She hesitated again. I pressed her again.
“Do you think there is any other motive for his absence?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor. She answered obstinately, almost
doggedly,
“I can’t say.”
I addressed myself to Ambrose.
“Have you anything more to tell us?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I have told you all I know about it.”
I rose to speak to the lawyer whose services I had retained. He had
helped us to get the order of admission, and he had accompanied us to
the prison. Seated apart he had kept silence throughout, attentively
watching the effect of Ambrose Meadowcroft’s narrative on the officers
of the prison and on me.
“Is this the defense?” I inquired, in a whisper.
“This is the defense, Mr. Lefrank. What do you think, between
ourselves?”
“Between ourselves, I think the magistrate will commit them for trial.”
“On the charge of murder?”
“Yes, on the charge of murder.”