THE SAME OFFER
Thus I passed that weary and anxious imprisonment. The way of getting
through the day was always the same. Soon after daylight, I went out and
walked in the yards for half an hour. The early morning, indeed, was the
only time of the day when a man of decent manners could venture abroad
even on the State side. At that time the visitors had not yet begun to
arrive; the men were still sleeping off their carouse of the evening
before; only a few wretches to whom a dismal foreboding of the future, a
guilty conscience, an aching heart, would not allow sleep, crept
dolefully about the empty yards; restlessly sitting or standing: if they
spoke to each other, it was with distracted words showing that they knew
not what they said. Alas! The drunken orgies of the others caused them
at least some relief from the terrible sufferings of remorse and looking
forward. It is not often that one can find an excuse for drunkenness.
After this melancholy walk I returned to my cell where I played for an
hour or two, afterwards reading or meditating. But always my thoughts
turned to the impending trial. I represented myself called upon to make
my own defence: I read it aloud: I failed to impress the Jury: the Judge
summed up: the Jury retired: cold beads stood upon my forehead: I
trembled: I shook: the verdict was Guilty: the Judge assumed the black
cap--Verily I suffered, every day, despite the assurance of Jenny and
Mr. Dewberry, all the tortures of one convicted and condemned to death.
If my heart were examined after my death sure I am that a black cap
would be found engraven upon it, to show the agonies which I endured.
About one o'clock Alice arrived, sometimes with Tom, sometimes alone.
As for Tom he had quickly rallied and had now completely accepted the
assurance that an acquittal was certain: his confidence would have been
wonderful but for the consideration that it was not his own neck that
was in danger but that of his brother-in-law. The child was not allowed
to be brought into the prison for fear of the fever which always lurks
about the wards and cells and corridors. In the afternoon, while we were
talking, Jenny herself, when she was not on her mysterious journeys,
came wearing a domino. About four o'clock, Tom departed and, a little
after, Alice. Then I was left alone to sleep and reflection for twelve
hours.
This was the daily routine. On Sunday there was service, in the chapel,
made horrid by the condemned prisoners in their pew sitting round the
empty coffin: and by the ribaldry and blasphemous jests of the prisoners
themselves. Not even in the chapel could they refrain.
One afternoon there was a surprise. We were sitting in conversation
together, Alice and Jenny with my brother-in-law Tom, and myself, when
we received a visit from no less a person than Mr. Probus himself. That
Prince of villains had the audacity to call in person upon me. He stood
in the doorway, his long, lean body bent, wearing a smile that had
evidently been borrowed for the occasion. I sprang to my feet with
indignation. My arm was gently touched. Jenny sat beside me, but a
little behind.
'Hush!' she whispered. 'Let him say what he has to say. Sit down. Do not
answer by a single word.'
Mr. Probus looked disconcerted to see me resume my chair and make as if
I neither saw nor heard.
'You did not expect, Mr. Halliday, to see me here?'
I made no reply.
'I am astonished, I confess, to find myself here, after all that has
passed. Respect for the memory of my late employer and client, Sir Peter
Halliday, must be my excuse--my only excuse. Respect, and, if I may be
permitted to add, compassion--compassion, Madam'--he bowed to Alice.
'Compassion, Sir, is a Christian virtue,' she said, with such emphasis
on the adjective as to imply astonishment at finding that quality in Mr.
Probus.
'Assuredly, Madam--assuredly, which is the reason why I cultivate
it--sometimes to my own loss--my own loss.'
'Sir,' Alice went on, 'you cannot but be aware that your presence here
is distasteful. Will you be so good as to tell us what you have to say?'
'Certainly, Madam. I think I have seen you before. You are Mr. William
Halliday's wife. This gentleman I have not seen before.'
'He is my brother.'
'Your brother--And the lady who prefers to wear a domino?' For Jenny had
made haste to replace that disguise. 'No doubt it is proper in
Newgate--but is it necessary among friends?'
'This lady is my cousin,' said Alice. 'She will please herself as to
what she wears.'
'Your cousin. We are therefore, as one may say, a family party. The
defendant; his wife: his brother-in-law: his cousin. This is very good.
This is what I should have desired above all things had I prayed upon my
way hither. A family party.'
'Mr. Probus,' said Alice, 'if this discourse is to continue beware how
you speak of prayers.' Never had I seen her face so set, so full of
righteous wrath, with so much repression. The man quaked under her eyes.
'I come to business,' he said. 'I fear there is a spirit of suspicion,
even of hostility, abroad. Let that pass. I hope, indeed, to remove it.
Now, if you please, give me your attention.'
He was now the lawyer alert and watchful. 'Your trial, Mr. Halliday,
takes place in a short time--a few days. I do not know what defence you
will attempt--I hope you may be successful--I have thought upon the
subject, and, I confess--well--I can only say that I do not know what
kind of defence will be possible in a case so clear and so well
attested.'
'Hush!' Jenny laid her hand again on my arm. 'Hush!' she whispered.
I restrained myself and still sat in silence.
'Let me point out to you--in a moment you will understand why--how you
stand. You know, of course, yet it is always well to be clear in one's
mind--the principal evidence is that given by those two gentlemen from
the country, the young squire of Cumberland--or is it Westmoreland?--and
the clergyman of the Sister Kingdom. I have naturally been in frequent
communication with those two gentlemen. I find that they are both kept
in London to the detriment of their own affairs: that they would
willingly get the business despatched quickly so that they would be
free to go home again: that they bear no malice--none whatever: one
because he is a clergyman, and therefore practises forgiveness as a
Christian duty: the other because he is a gentleman who scorns revenge,
and, besides, was not the attacked, but the attacking party. "So far,"
says the noble-hearted gentleman, "from desiring to hang the poor
wretch, I would willingly suffer him to go at large." This is a
disposition of mind which promises a great deal. I have never found a
more happy disposition in any witness before. No resentment: no revenge:
no desire for a fatal termination to the trial. It is wonderful and
rare. So I came over to tell you what they say and to entreat you to
make use of this friendly temper while it lasts. They might--I do not
say they will--but they might be induced to withdraw altogether from the
trial, in which case the prosecution would fall to the ground. For the
case depends wholly upon their evidence. For myself, as you know, I
arrived by accident upon the scene, and was too late to see anything.
Mr. Merridew tells me that what he saw might have been a fight rather
than a robbery; I ought not to have revealed this weak point in the
evidence, but I am all for mercy--all for mercy. So I say, that if their
evidence is not forthcoming, the prosecution must fall through, and
then, dear Sir, liberty would be once more your happy lot.' He stopped
and folded his arms.
I had not offered him a chair partly because he was Mr. Probus and I
would not suffer him to sit in my presence: partly because there was no
chair to offer him.
'These gentlemen, Sir,' said Tom, 'are willing, we understand, to retire
from the case.'
'I would not say willing. I would rather say, not unwilling.'
'Do they,' Tom asked, 'demand money as a bribe as a price for retiring?'
'No, Sir. These gentlemen are far above any such consideration. I
believe they would be simply contented with such a sum of money as would
meet their personal expenses and their losses by this prolonged stay.'
'And to how much may these losses and expenses, taken together, amount?'
'I hear that his Reverence has lost a valuable Lectureship which has
been given to another in his absence: and that the Squire has sustained
losses among his cattle and his horses also owing to his absence.'
'And the combined figures, Sir, which would cover these losses?'
'I cannot say positively. Probably the clergyman's losses would be
represented by £400 and the Squire's by £600. There would be my own
costs in the case as well--but they are--as usual--a trifle.'
'And suppose we were to pay this money,' Tom continued, 'what should we
have to prove that they would not give their evidence?'
'Sir--There you touch me on the tenderest point--the "pundonor," as the
Spaniards say. You should lodge the money with any person in whom we
could agree as a person of honour--and after the case for the
prosecution had broken down--not before--he should give me that money.
Observe that on the part of these two simple gentlemen there is trust,
even in an attorney--in myself.'
I said nothing, for as the man knew that I could not find a tenth part
of the sum, I knew there was something behind. What it was I guessed
very well. And, in fact, Mr. Probus immediately showed what it was.
'Mr. Halliday,' he said, 'I believe that I know your circumstances. I
have on one or two occasions had to make myself acquainted with them. I
shall not give offence if I suppose that you cannot immediately raise
the sum of £1,000 even to save your life.'
He spoke to me, but he looked at Alice.
'He cannot, certainly,' said Alice, 'either immediately or in any time
proposed.'
'Quite so. Now, this is a case of life or death--life or death, Sir:
life or death, Madam: an honourable life--a long life for your husband:
or a shameful death--a shameful death: shameful to him: shameful to you:
shameful to your child or children.'
'Hush!' whispered Jenny, laying a repressive hand again upon my
shoulder, for again I was boiling over with indignation. What! The
author and contriver of this shameful death was to come and call
attention to the disgrace of which he was the sole cause! Had I been
left to myself without Alice or Jenny, I would have brained the old
villain. But I obeyed and sat in silence, answering nothing.
'Consider, Madam'--he continued to address Alice--'this is not a time
for false pride or for obstinacy, or even for standing out for better
terms. Once more I make the same offer which I made before. Let him sell
his chance of a certain succession of which he knows. Let him do that,
and all his difficulties and troubles will vanish like the smoke of a
bonfire. I tell you plainly, Madam, that I can control the appearance of
this evidence without which the prosecution can do nothing. I will
control it. If he agrees to sell, your husband shall walk out, on the
day of the trial, a free man.' He drew out of his pocket a pocket-book
and from that a document which I remembered well--the deed of sale or
transfer.
Nobody replied. Alice looked at me anxiously. I remained silent and
dogged.
'Two years ago--or somewhere about that time--I made the same proposal
to him. I offered him £3,000 down for his share of an estate which might
never be his--or only after long years--I offered him £3,000 down. It
was a large sum of money. He refused. A day or two afterwards he found
himself in the King's Bench Prison. I would recall that coincidence to
you. Four or five weeks ago I made a similar offer. This time I proposed
£4,000 down. He refused again, blind to his own interest. A few days
afterwards he found himself within these walls on a capital charge. A
third time, and the last time, I make him another offer. This time I
raise the sum to £5,000 in order to cover the losses of those two
witnesses, and in addition to the money, which is a large sum, enough to
carry you on in comfort and in credit, I offer your husband the crowning
gift of life. Life--do you hear, woman! Life: and honour: and
credit--life--life--life--I say.'
His face was troubled: his accents were eager: he was not acting: he
felt that he was offering me far more than anything he had ever offered
me before.
'Hush,' whispered Jenny, keeping me quiet again--for all the time I was
longing to spring to my feet and to let loose a tongue of fiery
eloquence. But to sit quite quiet and to say nothing was galling.
'Take it, Will, take it,' said Tom. 'If the gentleman can do what he
promises, take it. Life and liberty--I say--before all.'
'Sir,' said Alice--her voice was gentle, but it was strong: her face was
sweet, but it was firm. The man saw and listened--and misunderstood. I
know the mind of my husband in this matter. For reasons which you
understand, he will not speak to you. The money that was devised by his
father to the survivor of the two--his cousin or himself--has always
been accepted by him as a proof that at the end his father desired him
to understand that he was not wholly unforgiven: that there was a
loophole of forgiveness, but he did not explain what that was: that
should my husband, who has no desire to see the death of his cousin,
survive Mr. Matthew, he will receive the fortune as a proof that a life
of hard and honest work has been accepted by his father in full
forgiveness. Sir, my husband considers his father's wishes as sacred.
Nothing--no pressure of poverty--no danger such as the present will ever
make him consent to sign the document you have so often submitted to
him.'
'Then'--Mr. Probus put back his paper--'if this is your last
word--remember--you have but a few days left. Nothing can save
you--nothing--nothing--nothing. You have but a few days before you are
condemned--a week or two more of life. Is this your last word?'
'It is our last word, Sir,' said Alice.
'She is right--Will is right,' cried Tom. 'Hark ye--Mr. Attorney. There
is foul play here. We may find it out yet, with the help of God. Shall I
put him out of the door, Alice?'
'He will go of his own accord, Tom. Will you leave us, Sir?'
'Yes, I will leave you.' He shook his long forefinger in my face. 'Ha! I
leave you to be hanged: you shall have your miserable neck twisted like
a chicken, and your last thought shall be that you threw your life
away--no--that by dying you give your cousin all.'
So he flung out of the room and left us looking blankly at each other.
Then Jenny spoke.
'You did well, Will, to preserve silence in the presence of the wretch.
We all do well to preserve silence about your defence. You dear people.
I have counted up the cost. It will be more than at first I thought,
because the case must be made complete, so complete that there can be no
doubt I promise you.' She took off her domino: her face was very pale: I
remember now that there was on it an unaccustomed look of nobility such
as belongs to one who takes a resolution certain to involve her in
great trouble and at the expense of self-sacrifice or martyrdom. 'I
promise you,' she said, 'that, cost what it may, the CASE SHALL BE
COMPLETE.'