THE BLACK CAP.
There is silence, or all but silence, in the court. The buzz of
suppressed conversation sinks almost to nothing--absolutely to nothing
as the judge’s marshal rises, and after gabbling through the mysterious
proclamation which begins “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” declares the court open.
Philippa, still closely veiled, sits like a statue. Her hand, which
ever grasps mine, scarcely responds to the pressure by which again and
again I endeavor to bid her hope for the best. I would give much if
even now I could get her to consent to my leading her away. I dare not
suggest this. I know that doing so would be waste of words.
The court is open. The red judge is perusing letters and papers which
lie in front of him as calmly and unconcernedly as if the life’s
happiness of, at least, one man and woman, did not greatly depend upon
the view he takes of the case about to be tried. He raises one of his
bouquets and inhales the perfume of the flowers. How can one in his
position behave like an ordinary mortal? Were we not here, he might
condemn an innocent man to a shameful death! I wonder if, with such
horrible responsibility resting on him, a judge can ever really be a
happy man?
These thoughts seem trivial; but my mind is by now in a strange state;
it is, indeed, so sensitive that every slight incident, every small
ceremonial, of to-day seems to be impressed forever upon it.
A bewigged gentleman--the clerk of assize, the man next me tells his
neighbor--rises and calls name after name, until he has fixed upon the
twenty-three gentlemen, needed to form the grand jury. They stand up in
their places, and, in batches of four, are rapidly sworn. The absurd
proclamation against vice and immorality is read; much good may it do
every one present! Then the clerk sits down, and the judge, forsaking
his papers, begins his work.
He arranges his robes to his satisfaction, leans forward, and, placing
the tips of his long white fingers together, addresses--charges, I
am told, is the right term--the grand jury in a pleasant, colloquial
manner. I strain every aural nerve to catch the purport of his glib
words. He is sure to say something about this important murder case.
I shall, perhaps, be able to learn how it was that the man fell under
suspicion.
Alas! the judge is one who by dint of years of practice has acquired
the knack of using his voice only just so much as is absolutely
necessary. The grand jury is close to him, and can, no doubt, hear him;
but to those who, like ourselves, are far away in the background of the
court, his remarks are inaudible. All I can catch is a closing caution
to the grand jury, to bear in mind that it is not within its province
to determine the innocence or guilt of the prisoners, but to simply
decide whether there is or is not sufficient evidence for the cases to
go to trial.
The grand jury files out of court to conduct its solemn deliberations
in the place appointed. The judge addresses a few smiling words to the
sheriff and other magnates who, by right or favor, occupy seats on the
bench; then he returns to the perusal of his papers.
For the first time since we entered the court Philippa speaks to me.
“Are they trying him now?” she asks in a low awed whisper, yet in a
voice so changed that I know what the suspense is costing her. Briefly
I explain the procedure of the law, so far as I know it. She sighs, and
says no more.
More monotonous calling of many names, to which summons, however,
another class of men respond. The common jurymen are now being called.
Probably, to save time, twelve men are sent into the box, where they
sit, some appearing to enjoy the dignity of the position, some with
stolid indifference, others with acute unhappiness plainly manifested.
I look at these men with scarcely less interest than I look at the
judge. On them, or on some of them, our fate rests as much, perhaps
more, than it rests on him. Those men are trying us--not only the man
who will by and by stand in that rail-topped enclosure into which we
look down.
Twenty long weary minutes pass by. All eyes turn to a wooden gallery
in the right-hand corner of the court. A door in the wall opens. The
members of the grand jury emerge and fill the gallery. The foreman arms
himself with a gigantic fishing-rod, to which he attaches a paper,
which is conveyed by this clumsy method to that busy gentleman, the
clerk of assize. What idiotic foolery all this seems to me!
The clerk detaches the document, glances at it, and looks up at the
gallery.
“Gentlemen of the grand jury, you return a true bill against William
Evans for murder?”
“We do,” answers the foreman with shy solemnity.
I grind my teeth. Fools! If men of culture and standing err like this,
what can be expected from a common jury? It is well for me that I heard
the caution just now given by the judge. I take such comfort as I can
by thinking they have tried the evidence, not the man. What can the
evidence be? Ah! we shall soon know.
The clerk turns, and, addressing no one in particular, says, “Bring up
the prisoner.” Once more I set my teeth. I feel my wife’s arm tremble;
her hand grows cold. I hear a buzz, as of expectation, run through the
crowded court. Every eye turns in one direction--toward the empty dock.
For a moment a species of dizziness comes over me; objects swim before
my eyes. The sensation passes away. I recover myself. The dock is no
longer untenanted. In the centre, with a stalwart policeman on either
side of him, stands the accused--the man who, if needs be, must be
saved by such a sacrifice!
From my place, far back in the public gallery, I can, of course, see
nothing more of the prisoner than his back. I gaze at this with intense
curiosity, endeavoring to determine the station of the man who is now
about to be tried for his life. I can but gather this much: He is
tall and slight. His dress is of a semi-respectable nature, but seems
to have seen much service. He might be anything from a broken-down
clerk to a gentleman’s servant out at elbows. I rejoice at his
poverty-stricken appearance. Judging from it, money will be welcome to
him. Let the jury but assert his innocence, and I feel certain that the
liberal pecuniary compensation which it is my intention to mete out
will repay him a hundred times for the ordeal which he is undergoing.
Ordeal! Yes, it is the right word. It is easy to see it is a terrible
ordeal to the poor fellow. No need to look at his face to be told
that much. Even as he emerged from the cells below he seemed to quake
with fear. Now he absolutely falls forward in the dock, supporting
himself by grasping the iron railing which runs round the top. I notice
that his fingers, as they cling to the iron bars, open and close
convulsively. Every movement of his back and shoulders betrays fear and
anguish of mind. His state is pitiable, so pitiable that one of his
custodians places his hand under the wretched man’s arm, and gives him
the physical support which he so sorely needs. He bends his head as in
shame, and I know that could I see his face, it would be white as my
own or my wife’s.
In spite of the strain upon my mind, I was able to wonder at the
prisoner’s hopeless demeanor. Although I had, as it were, torn my very
heart out by the roots to insure this man’s safety in the event of
things going wrong with him; although I did not even now regret the
course I had taken, I am bound to say that his cowardly behavior took
away much of the sympathy which I should otherwise have felt for him in
his unmerited predicament. It is, of course, very easy to say what one
would do if in another’s place. I certainly felt sure that, were I in
that poor fellow’s plight, consciousness of my own innocence would give
me strength enough to raise my head, and face boldly all the judges,
juries, and prosecuting counsel in the world. I was willing to make
every allowance for the nervousness natural to such a position; but I
groaned inwardly as I gazed upon that miserable, limp, half-standing,
half-reclining form.
Why does he not stand upright? Too well I know that another is watching
that abject wretch with interest even more intense than mine. I
know that every attitude of shame or fear is understood by Philippa,
and adds to the scruples which she feels at following my advice and
awaiting the result of the trial. Every agonized movement of the
prisoner in the dock seems to be faintly reproduced by the hand within
my own. Every pang he suffers runs through the frame of the woman who
knows that he is suffering for her deed.
The clerk reads over the indictment: “That he, William Evans, did
feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought kill and murder Sir
Mervyn Ferrand, Baronet.” As the reading proceeds Philippa draws me
toward her. “Basil,” she says in a low whisper, “this is more dreadful
than I dreamed of. I cannot bear it longer. Think of that poor man’s
anguish! Basil, he also may have a wife who loves him; she may be in
the court. Think of her! Oh! what can I do? What can I do?”
“Nothing--nothing but wait and hope,” I answer.
“Could you not go down and speak to him, or send a message in some way?
Tell him not to be so wretched; that even at the last moment he will
be saved; that the real murderer will confess and free him. Basil, you
must do this.”
“I can not. I dare not. It would ruin us. Hush, dearest; be calm, and
listen.”
The reading of the indictment is now over. The clerk turns to the
prisoner. “Are you guilty or not guilty?” he asks in a clear voice.
Although every one in that court knows what the answer will be, there
is a silence so profound that a pin might be heard drop. Every one
seemed desirous of hearing the prisoner’s voice. Even I, myself, lean
forward, and strain every nerve to hear his plea.
There is a long, dread pause. It may be that the prisoner does not
understand that he is expected to reply. It may be that his collapsed
state deprives him of the power of speech. I notice that one of the
policemen touches him on the shoulder and whispers to him. Still for a
moment there is silence.
It is broken, but not by the prisoner. Philippa gives a low, soft wail,
heard only, I think, by me.
“I can bear it no longer,” she whispers. She snatches her hand from
mine. She throws back her thick, dark veil, and stands erect in the
body of the court. I cast one glance at her pale but determined-looking
face, then bow my head upon my hands, and wish that death might at that
moment smite us both. All is over! I am conquered!
Even as I hide my face I see every eye in that thronged court turning
to the tall, majestic, dark-robed figure which rises in the midst of
that motley throng. Then, clear and loud, I hear her beloved voice ring
out.
“My lord,” I hear her say. I raise my head at the sound. The eyes of
bench, bar, jury, and public are fixed upon her. The very prisoner
turns in the dock and gazes straight at her.
She gets no further than those two words. “Order in the court! Order
in the court!” is shouted so sternly and fiercely that she all but
loses her presence of mind. She falters, she hesitates, and glances
helplessly around. I seize the moment. By sheer force I drag her back
to her seat. I pray her by the love she bears me to wait in silence. I
draw the veil over her face, to hide it from the hundreds of curious
eyes which are turned upon it. While so doing, I hear the sharp
mandate, “Turn that person out of court.”
Had any serious attempt been made to put the order in force, I
believe that Philippa would have resisted, and once more attempted to
assert the prisoner’s innocence and her own guilt--if it was guilt.
Fortunately the policeman who draws near us to carry out the order is
my friend of the morning who had accepted my gold. It may be on this
account he favors us. It may be, when a momentary disturbance subsides,
and the perpetrator does not seem bent upon repeating it, that the
expulsion is not insisted upon. It may be that Philippa’s accosting the
judge was looked upon as a solecism brought about by the excitement of
a weak woman who was in some way connected with the prisoner. I suppose
such a scene does sometimes occur; and perhaps, if its repetition is
guarded against, a humanely-minded judge will not deny the offender
the sorry comfort of seeing her friend’s trial to the end. Perhaps the
judge who this day presides is unusually good-natured and easy-going.
Any way, our friendly policeman does not carry out his instructions,
and the court resumes its business.
But many curious looks are cast at the veiled woman by my side. I
notice that the hawk-faced Mrs. Wilson turns in her seat, and looks
always at us; and, strange to say, I notice that the prisoner in the
dock is still staring fixedly in our direction. The policemen take him
by the arms; face him round toward the bench. Once more the solemn
question, “Are you guilty or not guilty?” is asked.
A short excited pause. The prisoner answers. Well, I know what he says,
although he speaks so faintly that I do not hear his voice. Strange to
say, his answer seems to create considerable agitation. People who are
near to him look back and whisper to those in the rear. A barrister
turns in his seat, and stares in a dumbfounded way at a gentleman
behind him. This gentleman rises up fussily, and bustles round to the
dock, where for a minute he seems to be engaged in earnest conversation
with the prisoner. The latter shakes his head sullenly and hopelessly.
In an apparently highly-excited state, the gentleman, whom I rightly
judge to be solicitor for the defence, hurries back, whispers to the
barrister, and seems by his gesture to be washing his hands of some
responsibility.
What does it all mean? Why do they not go on with the trial? The
suspense is growing more than I can bear. Hush! The judge speaks.
The excitement is spreading through the court. In spite of the warning
looks of the authorities, people are whispering to each other. The
judge is speaking earnestly to the prisoner. He seems to be explaining
something, counselling something. Still the man shakes his head
sullenly. What does it all mean?
Mean! The next solemn action, the next solemn words of the red-robed
judge answer my question, and tell me that a thing has come to pass
which never entered within the range of probability. Or have I been
asleep? Has the trial been gone through, and the worst, the very worst,
happened? No; five minutes ago I pulled Philippa back to her seat, and
forced her to withhold her damning words. Even now my grasp is on her
to prevent her from rising.
Ha! Look! The judge places a square of black silk upon his head. The
prisoner cowers down. He would fall, were it not for the arms which
support him on either side. A rustle of intense feeling runs through
the court. Men catch their breath; women’s eyes are distended. The
sensation-seekers are rewarded. Hark! The judge speaks. I can hear him
plainly now, although there is deep emotion in his voice.
“Prisoner at the bar, you are guilty, by your own confession, of an
atrocious, cold-blooded murder, the motive for which is known but to
yourself and your God. For me only the painful duty remains--”
Guilty! On his own confession! The man guilty! The man to save whom we
have travelled night and day--he the criminal! Philippa, my peerless
Philippa! my wife! my love! Innocent! innocent! This--this revulsion of
feeling is more than human nature can bear!
“Order in the court! Order in the court!” What is it? Who is it? Only a
woman in a dead faint. She is borne out tenderly, lovingly, proudly, by
a man who clasps his precious burden to a heart full of such rapture as
few of his fellow creatures can ever have known.
But let it also be hoped that few have ever endured such grief and
anguish!