THE CRIMINAL COURT.
We reached Charing Cross at four o’clock on the morning of September
20th. The first train by which we could get to Tewnham was timed to
leave Liverpool Street at seven, so that we had an hour or two to spare
for such refreshment as we cared to take, such rest as we dared to
allow ourselves. What with the fatigue of continuous travel, and the
dread of what this day was to bring forth, it may be easily believed
that we were thoroughly worn out. We were, indeed, more fitted to go to
bed and sleep for a week, than to proceed upon the last stage of our
dismal journey.
But there was no help for it. If we meant to be in time, we must go on
by the early morning train. I begged my wife to lie down, and endeavor
to snatch an hour’s sleep. She refused firmly. Much of that calm
which had characterized her since the moment when I broke the fatal
news to her had vanished. Its place was now taken by an excitement,
suppressed, but nevertheless clearly manifest to my eyes. The fear that
we should not reach Tewnham in time for the trial seemed to haunt her
unceasingly. It was for this reason she so peremptorily refused to lie
down and court sleep. She feared lest, our eyes once closed, we should,
from sheer exhaustion, sleep for hours, and so miss the morning train.
She was ever picturing the horror of that poor unknown man’s being led
from the dock, with the death sentence ringing in his ears.
So the time which elapsed before we started for Tewnham we spent in the
hotel. I bespoke rooms by telegram, sent when we reached Folkestone. We
made an apology for a meal; in fact, what we could get at that time of
night was of itself little more than apology. We sat all but silent,
watching the hands of the clock, which told us how fast the precious
moments were passing away. We saw the gray morning struggle with, and
at last conquer, the yellow gas-light. We heard the hum of traffic
growing louder and louder in the streets below us. Then we turned to
make what may be rightly called our last adieus. Who could say that
to-day my wife and I might not be parted forever?
While at the hotel I tried to obtain the file of the _Times_. I wanted
to look back and see if I could find the account of magisterial
proceedings against this unlucky William Evans. He must, of course,
have appeared before the lesser tribunal, and could I see the account
of his appearance, I should be able to judge as to the strength of the
case against him. But the file was not forthcoming. Perhaps it did not
exist; perhaps the sleepy-eyed Teutonic waiter did not understand what
I wanted; so, still in the dark as to why suspicion should have fallen
upon this innocent man, we left the hotel and drove to Liverpool Street
Station.
At nine o’clock our journey was ended. We stood on the platform of
Tewnham railway-station. My poor wife wore a thick black veil, so her
face I could not see; but I knew it was as pale as death. Now and again
her hand, which rested on my arm, pressed it convulsively. I think we
were the most unhappy pair on the earth!
We were even denied the time for any more farewells or expressed
regrets. The hour was chiming from the old cathedral tower. The
business of the Courts, I knew, always began at ten o’clock, and
considering the crowd which would most surely be attracted by so
interesting a case as this trial for murder committed so many months
ago, I felt sure that unless we proceeded at once to the Shirehall, our
chance of gaining entrance would be but a small one. I hailed one of
the close cabs which were waiting outside the station.
As I did so I felt a heavy hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a
rich, pleasant-sounding, and not unfamiliar voice exclaim, “Basil
North, as I’m a sinner!”
That any one should at this moment address Basil North in a merry way
seemed a positive incongruity. I turned round almost angrily, and
found myself face to face with an old friend. He was a barrister named
Grant; a man four or five years my senior, but one with whom, before I
forswore the society of my fellow-men, I had been on intimate terms. I
had not seen him for a considerable time; but had heard, casually, that
he was making great strides in his forensic career.
In spite of my distress, I returned his greeting, and grasped his hand
warmly. After all it seemed a relief to find that I had a friend left
in the world.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“The only thing that could bring me to such a place--circuit work. I
have an important case on to-day. That’s the worst of a place so near
London as this one. One is tempted to spend the nights in town, which
means getting up at an unholy hour in the morning. But you! Why are you
here? I heard you were as rich as Midas, and living abroad in luxury.”
“I have been abroad for some time. I hope to go back again very soon.”
“Happy man!” he ejaculated. I could scarcely keep the bitter smile from
my lips, as I thought how ill applied were his words.
As he spoke he glanced at Philippa, whose grace and beauty of form
defied the concealment attempted by thick veil and sombre garments.
“But what brings you to this sleepy old town?” continued Grant.
I hesitated for a moment. Then, thinking that truth, or at least half
truth, was the best, told him I had come down to witness the trial for
murder.
“I should doubt your getting into court,” he said. “The morbid interest
excited around about here is, I am told, very great. The sheriff is
besieged by applications for tickets.”
“Couldn’t you help me? The fact is, I have a particular reason, not
mere curiosity, for wishing to be present at this trial.”
“I don’t think I can,” said Grant. “Does your--the lady wish to go with
you?”
“My cousin--yes,” I said, seeing that he expected an introduction. He
raised his hat, and made some courteous and pleasant remark, to which
Philippa, to my surprise, replied in a calm and fitting way.
Grant knew I had no sister. I called her cousin because I had a wild
hope that, if the worst happened, I might be able to conceal the true
relationship in which we stood, and so be permitted to give evidence on
her behalf. I trusted my wife would guess that I had a good reason for
this deception.
“Try and manage this for me, Grant,” I said so earnestly that my friend
made no further demur.
“Take me in your cab, and I will see what I can do.”
During our drive to the Shirehall I asked Grant what he knew about the
impending trial.
“Nothing,” he said frankly. “I hate murder cases--hate even to read
about them. Of course I know that Sir Mervyn Ferrand was killed, and
hidden in the snow for days and days. But I know no more.”
“Who is the accused?”
“I don’t know. I thought, from your anxiety, you must know him.”
“Will he be found guilty?”
“I don’t know. Stay, I heard some one who ought to be well informed say
yesterday that the case for the prosecution was most feeble. He seemed
to doubt if the grand jury would return a true bill.”
As I heard this I pressed Philippa’s hand secretly. I felt that she was
trembling.
The drive to the Shirehall occupied only a few minutes. We did not go
to the public entrance, in front of which I could see a crowd of people
nearly blocking up the street. We stopped at another door, and Grant,
after looking round, caught sight of what appeared to be an inspector
of police. He entered into a little conversation with him, the result
of which was that we were given into his care.
“This is a breach of the law,” whispered my friend as he bade me
good-by. “You will have to atone for it by a handsome gratuity.”
We followed our guide. Philippa, although walking with a firm step,
leaned heavily upon my arm. I scarcely know by what door we entered
that palace of justice. The stalwart policeman led us through stone
corridors and passages, which re-echoed with the tread of our feet, and
at last we found ourselves before a double swinging plain oak door,
over which in old English letters was written “Criminal Court.”
I felt Philippa shudder, and knew that the sight of those words brought
the horror of the situation fully home to her. Mechanically I pressed
a sovereign in the hand of the venial inspector, or whatever he was;
then, holding my wife’s hand, I passed through the noiseless swinging
door into the all but empty court.
A few policemen and other officials were lounging about. Two or three
people, who had no doubt gained admittance in the same way as we had
done, were seated in various coigns of vantage. I led Philippa up the
broad steps, and pointed to one of the hard wooden benches provided
for the accommodation of the general public. These benches were raised
step by step, one above another. We chose our position about half-way
up, on the right-hand side of the court. Philippa, with her thick veil
falling down to her chin, and so defying recognition, sank wearily into
her seat. I placed myself beside her; my hand crept under the cloak she
wore and held her hand.
Surely it was all a dream--a dreadful, realistic dream! I should
wake and find myself under the great orange tree in that courtyard
in gay Seville, my half-smoked cigar and the book which I had been
lazily reading lying at my feet; my mother opposite me, laughing
at my somnolency, and Philippa’s grave dark eyes looking with calm
everlasting love into my own. I should wake and find the cool of the
evening had succeeded to the glare of the afternoon. We should walk
through the merry streets, lounge in the Alameda, wander through the
glowing Alcazar gardens, or drive out miles and miles over the fertile
smiling plains. Or I should even wake and find myself nodding over my
fire in my lonely cottage, the stolid William the only human creature
within hail; Philippa’s return, the snow-storm, the dreadful discovery,
the flight, Seville, the marriage--all, all a dream!
In a kind of stupor--the temporary reaction, I suppose, consequent upon
such fatigue and trouble--I gazed round me, and wondered where I was.
What is this great empty building, lit from one side by large
clerestory windows of ecclesiastical design? What are these dull
gray vacant walls; that lofty ceiling crossed and cut into small
squares by dark rafters; this leaded floor, on which feet fall all
but noiselessly? What are those raised boxes on either side of the
building--those small railed platforms all but adjoining them, and all
but adjoining that panelled oak structure at the end facing me? What is
that rectangular box-shaped erection with overhanging carved cornice?
Let us away from this dismal, colorless place! Let me wake and find
myself amid the flowers, orange trees, the fair sights and surroundings
of our Spanish home.
No! I have but to turn my dazed eyes to the centre of space in which
we sat, to know that I am dreaming no dream; that we must wait here
and learn our fates. That oblong wooden enclosure with high sides,
topped by a light iron railing, brings reality back to me. It is the
prisoner’s dock. In an hour’s time a man will stand there. He will be
brought up those stone steps which lead to it from below, the topmost
flag of which I can just see. He will stand there for hours. As he
leaves the dock, declared innocent or guilty, so will our lives be
declared happy or miserable.
My hand holds my wife’s yet closer; for the last minutes which may be
ours to spend together are slipping by so fast, so very fast!
See, the clock under the balcony marks half-past nine. The all but
deserted court begins to assume the appearance of preparing for
business. Policemen and other officials pass to and fro, some arranging
papers, some replenishing ink-bottles, and placing quill pens ready for
the barristers and solicitors who will soon fill those front seats.
Some one, with what seems to me bitter irony, places a magnificent
bouquet of flowers on either hand of the judge’s vacant chair. What
have flowers in common with such a scene as this? Flowers, too, which
are beautiful enough to recall to my mind the fair Spanish home, which,
maybe, we shall see no more. Flowers in this den of sorrow! Rather
should every seat, every beam be draped in black.
Now the doors on each side of the court open, and remain open. I hear
a shuffling of many feet. People, in a continuous stream, pass through
the entrance, and wend their way to the portion of the court allotted
to the general public. So fast, so thick they come, that in ten minutes
this space is thronged almost to suffocation. Philippa and I are
pressed closer and closer to each other, as every inch of the bench on
which we are seated is appropriated. The court is full.
Crowded by respectable-looking, well-dressed people, who have gained
admission, as I heard, by favor of the sheriff. Yet, respectable as
they are, each man, each woman, rushes in eagerly and strives for the
best available seat. And for what reason? To see and hear a poor
wretch tried for his life! In my bitter mood I look with hate on these
sensation-seekers. I hate them even more when I think that their morbid
craving for excitement may be satisfied with such food as they little
expect; and I clinch my teeth as I picture the scene at that moment
when Philippa, in pursuance of her immovable resolution, rises, and
makes her effort to proclaim her own guilt and the convicted man’s
innocence. Although I strive to force the picture from my mind, by
telling myself that justice cannot err, that the man will be acquitted,
yet again and again the dread of the worst seizes me, and I hate every
face in that crowd, which may, by and by, be gaping, with looks of
wonder and curiosity, at the woman I love!
As in a haze, I see some faces which are familiar to me. A number of
gentlemen enter, and seat themselves on the benches which counsel
usually occupy. Some few of these I knew by sight. They are country
gentlemen from the neighborhood of Roding, who are now called to serve
on the grand jury. I see also the thin-faced, hawkish-looking woman
who calls herself Mrs. Wilson. I am thankful that she takes a seat in
front of us and does not see us. She, like ourselves, must know that an
innocent man is this day about to be tried.
So for half an hour I sit, gazing now at the crowd of people, now at
the empty dock and vacant bench in front of me; listening to the hum of
conversation which rises from the packed court; longing for the moment
to come when this dreadful suspense may end; yet all the same dreading
and willing to put off that moment. And all the while Philippa, in her
black garb, close to me and, unseen by our neighbors, holding my hand.
Hush! The door at the back of the bench opens, and at ten o’clock to
the minute the red-robed judge appears. He bows to the court, seats
himself, and by his action signifies that he is ready to begin the
business of the day. No trembling prisoner in the dock ever scanned
a judge’s face with more anxiety than I scan his lordship’s at this
present moment.
An old man, too old, it seems to me, for such a responsible post; an
amiable, pleasant-looking man--not, I venture to think, one who can
bear the reputation of being a “hanging judge.” I breathe a prayer that
he may this day be able to direct aright the course of justice.
Hush! Hush! Silence in the court! Oh, my poor, sweet wife, let me grasp
that hand yet closer, for the moment which for days and nights has
never been absent from our minds has come! What will it bring us?