FOR THE DEFENSE.
When Mr. Balais rose again it was to speak for the defense, and he
addressed the jury amidst an unbroken silence. So rapt, indeed, was the
attention of his audience that the smack of a carter's whip, as he went
by in the street below, was resented by many a frown as an impertinent
intrusion; and even the quarters of the church clock were listened to
with impatience, lest its iron tongue should drown a single sentence.
This latter interruption did not, however, often take place, for Mr.
Balais was as brief in speech as he was energetic in action. He began by
at once allowing the main facts which the prosecution had proved--that
the notes had been taken from Trevethick's box, and found in the
prisoner's possession, who had been detected in the very act of
endeavoring to change them for notes of another banking company. But
what he maintained was, that this exchange was not, as Mr. Smoothbore
had suggested, effected for the purpose of realizing the money, but
simply of throwing dust in the prosecutor's eyes. He had changed the
notes only with the intention of returning his own money to Trevethick
under another form. Even so young a man, and one so thoroughly ignorant
of the ways of the world and of business matters as was his client, must
surely have been aware, if using the money for himself had been his
object, that it could be traced in notes of the Mining Company as easily
as in notes of the Bank of England; nay, by this very proceeding of his,
he had even given them a _double_ chance of being traced. He (Mr.
Balais) was not there, of course, to justify the conduct of the prisoner
at the bar. It was unjustifiable, it was reprehensible in a very high
degree; but what he did maintain was that, even taking for granted all
that had been put in evidence, this young man's conduct was not
criminal; it was not that of a thief. He had never had the least
intention of stealing this money; his scheme had been merely a stratagem
to obtain the object of his affections for his wife. This Trevethick was
a hard and grasping man, and it was necessary for the young fellow to
satisfy him that he was possessed of certain property before he would
listen to any proposition for his daughter's hand. His idea--a wrong and
foolish one, indeed, but then look at his youth and inexperience--was to
impose upon this old miser, by showing him his own money in another
form, and then, when he had gained his object, to return it to him. Mr.
Balais was, for his own part, as certain of such being the fact as that
he was standing in that court-house. Let them turn their eyes on the
unhappy prisoner in the dock, and judge for themselves whether he looked
like the mere felon which his learned friend had painted him, or the
romantic, self-deceiving, thoughtless lad, such as he (Mr. Balais) felt
convinced he was. They had all heard of the proverb that all things were
fair in love as in war. When the jury had been young themselves perhaps
some of them had acted upon that theory; at all events, it was not an
unnatural idea for young people to act upon. Proverbs had always a
certain weight and authority of their own. They were not necessarily
Holy Writ (Mr. Balais was not quite certain whether the proverb in
question was one of Solomon's own or not, so he put it in this cautious
manner), but they smacked of it. This Richard Yorke, perhaps, had
thought it no great harm to win his love by a false representation of
the state of his finances. He could not see his way how otherwise
to melt the stony heart of this old curmudgeon, who had
doubtless--notwithstanding the evidence they had heard from him that
day--encouraged the young man's addresses so long as he believed him to
be Mr. Carew's lawful heir. The whole question, in fact, resolved itself
into one of _motive_; and if there was not a word of evidence
forthcoming upon the prisoner's part, he (Mr. Balais) would have left
the case in the jury's hands, with the confident conviction that they
would never impute to that unhappy boy--who had already suffered such
tortures of mind and body as were more than a sufficient punishment for
his offense--the deliberate and shameful crime of which he stood
accused. He had lost his position in the world already; he had lost his
sweetheart, for they had all heard that day that she was about to be
driven into wedlock with his rival, a man twice his age and hers; he had
lost the protection of his father--his own flesh and blood--for since
this miserable occurrence he had chosen to disown him; and yet here was
the prosecutor, who had lost nothing (except his own self-respect, and
the respect of all who had listened to his audacious testimony that
morning), pressing for a conviction, for more punishment; in a word, for
the gratification of a mean revenge. If he (Mr. Balais) had nothing
more, therefore, to urge in his client's defense, he would have been
content to leave the jury to deal with this case--Englishmen, who
detested oppression, and loved that justice only which is tempered with
mercy. But as it so happened, there was no need thus to leave it; no
necessity to appeal to mercy at all. He had only to ask them for the
barest justice. He was happily in a position to prove that the prisoner
at the bar had no more stolen this two thousand pounds than their own
upright and sagacious foreman.
A sigh of relief was uttered from a hundred gentle breasts. "We are
coming to something at last," it seemed to say. A hundred fair faces
looked at Mr. Balais--who was growing gray and wrinkled, and found every
new performance of his pantomime harder and harder--as though they could
have kissed him, nevertheless. "Yes, gentlemen of the jury, that money
was given to him by the prosecutor's daughter with her own hand."
A murmur of satisfaction ran round the court-house.
There _was_ a romance--a love-story--in the case, then, after all.
Mr. Balais concluded a most energetic speech with a peroration of great
brilliancy, in which Richard and Harry were exhibited like a
transparency in the bright colors of Youth, and Hope, and Passion, and
finally sat down amidst what would have been a burst of applause but for
the harsh voice of the usher nipping it in the bud by proclaiming
silence.
There was no need for his doing that when Mr. Balais jumped up to his
feet again, as though he were on springs, and called for Harry
Trevethick. The judge was taking snuff at the time; and such was the
stillness that you could hear the overplus falling on the paper before
him on which he wrote down his notes. There was a minute's delay, during
which every eye was fixed upon the witness-box, and then Harry appeared.
She was very pale, and wore a look of anxious timidity; but a bright
spot came into her cheeks as she turned her face to the prisoner in the
dock, and smiled upon him. From that moment Richard felt that he was
safe. Guarded as he was, and still in peril, he forgot his danger, and
once more resolved that he would cleave to this tender creature, to whom
he was about to owe his safety, to his life's end.
Harry was simply yet attractively attired in a pale violet silk dress,
with a straw bonnet trimmed with the same modest color. It was observed,
with reference to this and to the innocence and gentleness of her
expression, that she looked like a dove; and a dove she seemed to
Richard, bringing him the signal that the flood was abating, the deep
waters of which had so nearly overwhelmed both soul and body. Even the
judge, as Mr. Weasel had foretold, regarded her through his double
glasses with critical approval; for a most excellent judge he was--of
female attractions.
Mr. Balais smiled triumphantly at the jury. "Did I not tell you," he
seemed to say, "that my client is guiltless in this matter? Here is
Truth herself come to witness in his favor. Bless her!" Richard's
feverish eyes were fixed upon her; he knew no God, but here was his
spring in the wilderness, his shadow of the great rock in a weary land.
As for her, she looked only at the judge, expecting--poor little
ignoramus--that it was he who would question her.
"You are the daughter of John Trevethick, of Gethin?" said Mr. Balais.
This interrogatory, simple as it was, made her color rise, coming from
that unexpected quarter.
"Yes, Sir."
"He keeps an inn, does he not; the"--here Mr. Balais affected to consult
his brief, to give her time to recover herself from her modest
confusion--"the _Gethin Castle_, I believe?"
"Yes, Sir."
"The prisoner at the bar has been staying there for some months, has he
not?"
She stole another look at Richard: it spoke as plainly as looks could
speak, "Oh yes; that is how I came to know and love him." But she only
murmured, "Yes, Sir."
"Speak up, Miss Trevethick," said the counsel, encouragingly; "these
twelve gentlemen are all very anxious to hear what you have to say." The
judge nodded and smiled, as though in corroboration, as well as to add,
upon his own account, that it would give _him_ also much pleasure to
hear her.
"Was the prisoner staying in the inn as an ordinary guest, or did he mix
with the family?"
"He was in the bar parlor most nights, Sir, along with father and me and
Solomon."
"He was in the bar parlor most nights," repeated Mr. Balais,
significantly, for he was anxious that the jury should catch that
answer--"'With father and me and Solomon.' And who introduced him into
the parlor?"
"Father brought him first, Sir, on the second day after he came to
Gethin."
"Father brought him in, did he? Now, that is rather an unusual thing for
the landlord of an inn to do, is it not? To introduce a young man whom
he had known but twenty-four hours to his family circle, and to the
society of his daughter, eh?"
"Please, Sir, I don't know, Sir."
"No, of course you don't, Miss Trevethick; how should you? But I think
the jury know. You have no idea, then, yourself, why your father
introduced this young gentleman to you so early?"
"Father said he was a friend of Mr. Carew's, of Crompton, who is
father's landlord."
"Just so," said Mr. Balais, with another significant glance at the
attentive twelve. "Mr. Trevethick had already discovered that this youth
was of a good social position, and likely to prove an excellent match.
'Will you walk into my parlor?' said the spider to the fly; 'I have the
prettiest daughter that ever you did spy.'"
Every body tittered at this except Mr. Smoothbore and his solicitor;
even the judge blew his nose.
"Now, not only did the prisoner at the bar spend most nights in the bar
parlor, but, as I am given to understand, he spent most days there, or,
at all events, in your society, did he not?"
"Father and Solomon were away most days, Sir, and so we were left a good
deal together."
"Just so. Your father took care to be away most days, did he, in order
that you should be left a good deal together?"
Mr. Smoothbore started to his feet. "My lud, I submit," etc.; meaning
that this was a mode of interrogating the witness that he could _not_
submit to for an instant.
"Very good," said Mr. Balais, smiling. "I will not put the question in
that form, then. The form is of very little consequence. You were left
together, however, and the consequence was that you two young people
fell in love with one another, eh?"
Harry was crimson. "I--he--we;" and there she stuck.
"I am very sorry to embarrass you, my dear young lady, but I am
necessitated to press this question. Did you fall in love with one
another or not?"
No answer. Harry was thinking of Solomon, to whom she was to be married
within ten days, and hung her head.
"Come, did he fall in love with _you_, then? There was ample apology for
it, I am sure, and he ought to have been ashamed of himself if he
hadn't. Now, did he 'court' you? I think you must know what that means."
No answer. Every eye was upon her, the judge's double glasses included.
They might have been burning-glasses, she felt so hot and frightened.
"Come, did this young gentleman ever give you a kiss?"
"Yes, Sir," murmured poor Harry, almost under her breath.
"Did you say 'Yes' or 'No?'" inquired the judge, dipping his pen in the
ink.
"I said 'Yes,' my lord," said the unhappy Harry.
"There were more kisses than one, now, I dare say," said Mr. Balais,
with a wink at the jury; "and they were not all on one side, eh?"
No answer.
"Some of them were on the other side, were they not? I don't mean on the
other cheek, for I have no doubt he was perfectly indifferent as to
that."
Again there was a little titter.
"She is your own witness, Brother Balais," observed his lordship, "but
it seems to me you are giving her unnecessary pain."
He had a very tender heart, had the old judge, where a young and pretty
woman was concerned--otherwise he was a Tartar.
"My lud, it is absolutely necessary to prove that my client's passion
was reciprocated. Did you ever return one of these many kisses, Miss
Trevethick?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Did you ever meet him alone at night in a place, I believe, called the
Fairies' Bower?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Yes," repeated Mr. Balais, recapitulating these facts upon his fingers;
"you were left alone with him all day; you met him alone at night, away
from your father's roof; you returned his kisses; and all this without
the slightest suspicion--if we are to believe his evidence--being
aroused upon the part of your parent. Now, Miss Trevethick, you were
aware that your father kept a large sum of money--these two thousand
pounds--in his strong-box, were you not?"
"I was, Sir."
"Did you ever speak to the prisoner at the bar about it?"
"I think--yes, I did, Sir, on one occasion," and here Harry's voice
fluttered and faltered. No one noticed it, however, except the prisoner;
if any neighbor eyes had watched him narrowly--but they were all fixed
upon the witness--they would have seen his face whiten, and his brow
grow damp. Why should she have laid that stress upon "on one occasion?"
"You told him that the two thousand pounds were in the box in the
cupboard in your bedroom?"
"I did, Sir."
"The fastening of the box was not an ordinary lock, I believe. It was
what is called a letter padlock?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Did you ever open it?"
"No, Sir."
A great bell seemed to be suddenly set tolling in Richard's brain--it
was the knell of all his hopes.
"You had never opened it at that time, eh?" continued Mr. Balais,
cheerfully. "But you learned the secret afterward?"
"I--yes--I did."
"Do you remember the letters that did open it?"
"Yes, Sir."
"What were they?"
"B, N, Z."
"Very good. We have heard from the counsel for the prosecution that they
were so; and that Mr. Trevethick kept a memorandum of them on a piece of
paper that fitted into his watch-case. Did he always carry that watch
about with him?"
"Not always. When he went out to market, and was likely to be late, he
sometimes left it at home."
"In his own room, I suppose, where you or any body else could get at
it?"
"I suppose so, Sir."
"You _suppose_? You know he did, do you not? Did you not open the
watch-case yourself, and so discover the means of unlocking the box?"
"No, Sir," said Harry, faintly; and once more she turned her eyes to
Richard. It was a true and tender glance, one would have said, and
accompanied by an attempt at a smile of encouragement. But if it had
been a glance of a gorgon, it could not have had a more appalling
effect; it literally seemed to turn him into stone.
[Illustration: "COME, DID THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN EVER GIVE YOU A KISS?"]
"Recollect yourself, Miss Trevethick," said Mr. Balais, earnestly; "you
are getting confused, I fear. Now please to give me your attention. You
say that you knew that the letters B, N, Z were those which formed the
key of the letter padlock, and yet that you did not open your father's
watch-case. How, then, did you become possessed of the secret?"
No answer. Harry caught her breath convulsively, and turned deadly pale.
She could never tell how Mrs. Yorke had endeavored to suborn her.
"Well, well, this is a matter of very little consequence--though I see
my learned friend is making a copious note of it," said Mr. Balais,
gayly. "The main point is what, as you have told us, did occur--that you
found out the secret somehow. When you got it, I suppose you opened the
box?"
No answer, save from Mr. Smoothbore, who observed, tartly: "You have no
right to assume that, Sergeant."
"Let the young woman have a glass of water," suggested the kindly judge.
"My lord, my lord!" cried Harry, with sudden passion, "he is not guilty.
Richard did not mean to steal the money; indeed he did not. He only
wished to get possession of it that my father might believe him to be a
man of wealth. He did but--"
"Endeavor to compose yourself, young woman," interposed the judge. "The
learned counsel will only ask what is necessary."
"Take your time. Miss Trevethick, take your time," pursued Mr. Balais,
in his blandest tones. "The question is, how the prisoner became
possessed of this money. Now, tell us, did you not give it him with your
own hands?"
The bell was still tolling in Richard's brain, and yet he could hear the
buzzing of a fly against a window of the court-house, and the careless
whistle of some lad in the street without. It was the same tune that the
keeper at Crompton had been wont to whistle in his leisure moments at
home; and his mind reverted with a flash to the glades of the stately
park, the herds of deer, the high-mossed gate, which he had shut in the
face of the hounds when they were chasing Carew's carriage. Was it the
bang of the gate, or had Harry really answered in a firm voice, that
resounded through the silent court-house, "No, Sir?"
"What!" said Mr. Balais, raising his voice a little. "Do you mean to
say, then--and recollect that the fate of the prisoner at the bar may
depend upon your reply to this question--that Richard Yorke did not
become possessed of these notes by your connivance, through your means,
at all?"
"No, Sir, no," answered Harry, passionately; "I can't say that; indeed,
Sir, I can not. But he is innocent--Richard is innocent--he never meant
to steal them. O God, help me!" In her excitement, and not because she
wished to do so, she had turned about, and once more caught sight of the
prisoner at the bar. It was her turn now to shrink appalled and
petrified. It was not reproach that she saw pictured in that well-loved
face, but downright hate and loathing. "He will never, never forgive
me!" cried she, with a piteous wail; and then scream followed scream,
and she was borne out in haste, and a doctor sent for.
Cross-examination was, of course, quite out of the question; and,
indeed, Mr. Smoothbore was much too sagacious a man to wish to exercise
that privilege. The failure of the witness for the defense had proved
the case of the prosecution.
It was Mr. Smoothbore who could now best afford to praise the innocence
and candor of the unhappy Harry. Was it not evident that that tender
creature had been tampered with, and almost persuaded to perjure
herself, for the sake of the prisoner at the bar--almost, but, happily
for the ends of justice, not quite persuaded! Her natural love of right
had conquered the ignoble passion with which she had been inspired by
this unscrupulous man. What words could sufficiently paint the baseness
of the conduct of the accused! Was it not clear that he had endeavored
to escape scot-free, at the sacrifice of this poor girl's good name?
_She_, forsooth, was to proclaim herself thief, to save his worthless
self! It was not for Mr. Smoothbore--Heaven forbid!--to exaggerate such
wickedness, but was it possible that the phrase, "Young in years, but
old in vice," had ever had a more appropriate application than in the
present case! For the credit of human nature, he trusted not. The point
upon which his learned friend had mainly relied having been thus proved
wholly untenable--the fact of Richard's taking the money having been
incontestably brought home to him--it only remained for him (Mr.
Smoothbore) to notice what had been said with respect to motive. If the
prisoner at the bar had even had the intention, which had been so
gratuitously imputed to him, of returning this money to the prosecutor,
when once the object of his supposed scheme had been effected, he would
be no less guilty of the crime that was laid to his charge. It was
possible, indeed, in such a case, that there might be extenuating
circumstances, but those would not affect the verdict of the jury,
however they might influence his lordship's sentence after that verdict
had been truly given. And this he would say, after what had just
occurred in that court--after the painful scene they had just
witnessed--the breaking down of that innocent girl in an act of
self-sacrifice, culpable in itself, but infinitely more culpable in him
who had incited her to do it--for he could not for an instant suppose
that the prisoner's legal advisers could have suggested such a line of
defense: taking all this into consideration, he, Mr. Smoothbore, would
confidently ask the jury whether the prisoner at the bar was to be
credited with merely a romantic stratagem, or with a crime the
heinousness of which was only exceeded by the means by which he had
striven to exculpate himself from it, and to evade the ends of justice.
When Mr. Smoothbore had thus concluded a lengthened and impassioned
harangue, he sat down, wiping his hands upon his handkerchief, as though
implying that he had washed them of the prisoner for good and all, and
that a very dirty job it had been; while the judge rose and left the
court, it being the hour appointed to his system, by nature, for the
reception of lunch.