THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL
It was the morning of the trial, and the Assize Court was crowded.
Before daylight a number of people, hungry for excitement, had hung
round the strangers' entrance, and as soon as the doors were opened had
rushed with a kind of savage curiosity to the part of the hall where
the public was admitted. Long before the trial was opened every inch
of space was occupied by a seething, excited crowd. So great was the
interest created that many, who might not have been expected to witness
the scene, were so eager to be present that the officials were
inundated with applications for admission. Long before the court began
its sitting, the air was hot and tense with eager curiosity. Some,
indeed, talked casually and carelessly, as though a murder trial were
an everyday occurrence, but in the main the atmosphere was electric.
Men's faces were set and stern, and more than one woman showed signs of
hysteria. Outside, a great throng of people, who were unable to gain
admission, waited as if held by a spell. The ushers found difficulty
in maintaining anything like order. The hum of voices was heard
everywhere.
"I wonder how he'll look," said one. "I'll warrant he'll be as pale as
death."
"Nay," said another, "he's noan that soort. He'll look as proud as
ever. He'll mak it seem as though we were th' murderers, and he wur
innocent."
"Ay, but he must have had a terrible time!" said another. "He's been
waiting there for weeks. Just think of it! I've heerd he's given in,
too."
"Given in? What dost a' mean?"
"Ay, I've heerd as 'ow he's consented to have a counsel."
"Who has he got, then?"
"I don't know for certain, but it is said that young Mr. Springfield
hev took on th' job."
"But he can noan clear hissen."
"I'm noan so sure. He's a rare clever chap, is Paul!"
"It would be fun to see him swing, wouldn't it? It's a shame that they
hang people in private now, instead of in public like they used to."
And so on. To them it was like a scene in a theatre. Their appetites
were morbid, and they had come thither to appease their hunger.
One by one the barristers found their way to their seats. Clerks were
busy writing at their desks, while the reporters sat at the table
allotted to them, writing descriptive articles. To them the occasion
offered a fine opportunity. It was no ordinary trial. Paul Stepaside
was a young member of Parliament, and had become popular throughout the
whole county. He had been freely discussed as a coming man. What
wonder then that tongues wagged! What wonder the crowd eagerly waited
his coming!
The murdered man, too, was well known in the county. He was a big
employer of labour, and had freely moved in Lancashire society.
Sitting close to the barristers' seats, ladies belonging to some of the
best families in Lancashire had gathered. They, too, were eager,
hungry for excitement. Some of them were educated women, delicately
nurtured, and it seemed strange that they should find an interest in
such gruesome proceedings. Yet, with a kind of reversion to the savage
instincts of former days, they had gathered with the rest. After all,
civilisation is only a veneer, and the old, elementary, savage feelings
lie dormant in it all.
"Bakewell's for the prosecution, I suppose," said one young barrister
to another.
"Yes; and it couldn't be in better hands. I wish Stepaside were not
such a fool!"
"Why, would you like the job?"
"Like it! I should think I would! It's one of the finest
opportunities since I've been called."
"But he's no defence, man!"
"Oh, a defence could easily be made. It would give a fellow a splendid
chance. You see the case is the talk of the country, and the question
of motive has to figure largely. Why, the evidence could be riddled!
To say the least of it, one might get a verdict for manslaughter."
"You mean to say he won't give you the chance you want." And the other
laughed.
"Anyhow, it seems jolly mean of him not to allow one to make the most
of such an opportunity. You know Binkley, don't you? He's now making
thousands a year. For years he used to hang around the courts, unable
to get a brief, and then a case something like this turned up, and he
acted for the prisoner."
"But he didn't get him off."
"No; but, don't you see, it gave him his chance. His cross-examination
was clever, and his speech for the defence was so brilliant that it
gave him a reputation. It made him! After that, briefs came in like
mad. But I see time is up."
A minute later the clerk of the assizes came into the court. Then a
great hush fell upon all present. From a door at the back of the hall
came Mr. Justice Bolitho and took his seat. Immediately all eyes were
turned towards him.
"Handsome, isn't he?"
"Yes; a striking figure of a man."
"Isn't it strange though? Only a year or two ago he and Stepaside
fought for the Brunford seat. They ran neck and neck too, and he got
in. Of course that was before he was made a judge. Do you know what
Stepaside said when the figures were announced? He said that he and
Bolitho would meet again, and always to fight; and now it's come to
this!"
"Ay; and he appeared against him years ago, when he was up for the
riot. Then he only got him sent to gaol for six months, and now it
seems as though he'll put on the black cap and condemn him to be
hanged. My word, though, I shouldn't like to be a judge!"
Judge Bolitho was indeed a striking figure as he sat there in his
judicial robes and heavy wig. His features were large and commanding.
His eyes had the look of authority. His mouth was set and stern. He
looked every inch of what he was, a representative of the dignity of
the law, a man set apart to do justice--a cultured, able man, too, with
fine, almost classical features, even although they were somewhat
heavy. Not a cruel man--at least he did not appear so; indeed, he was
well known as one who could tell a good story and pass a timely joke.
A popular man, too, with those of his own order--one who by ability and
worth had risen to his present exalted position.
One of the ushers shouted "Silence" as he sat down; but there was no
need for him to speak. The place was as still as death. Everyone
waited for what should happen next. Then, if possible, the atmosphere
became more than ever charged with the spirit of the day's trial.
Distant footsteps were heard, and then, accompanied on either side by a
policeman, came Paul Stepaside.
Paul had scarcely slept a wink that night; not that he feared the
trial--that seemed to be in the background of his life now. Everything
else was swallowed up in the interview which he had had with Mary
Bolitho. Throughout the long night he had been fighting a great
battle. What should he do? If he were to tell the whole truth----
But he would not think of it. Still, all the old questions recurred to
him again with weary reiteration, the old battle had to be fought and
re-fought. Love for his mother, love for the woman who was to him a
thousand times more than his mother yet in a different way, struggling
for ascendancy. What should he do? What should he do?
The chaplain came to him again that morning--as he had done once or
twice before--to offer him his ministrations, but Paul was still as
hard as adamant. The chaplain was an earnest, good man, narrow in his
faith, but deeply in earnest. He believed in Paul's guilt, and would
have given a great deal to have brought him to a state of repentance.
"If you'd only accept the consolations, the help of religion!" he had
said to him.
"What consolations?" asked Paul.
"Do you not realise the need of pardon?" asked the clergyman. "Do you
not need to feel the atonement made for sin?"
"I only want justice. Look, sir," said Paul. "What is the practical
result of religion? Does it make men do justice and love
righteousness? I will tell you something. There was once a man who
betrayed a woman. He was a religious man. He partook of the
sacraments. But all his religion did not keep him from forsaking the
woman he betrayed and allowing her to spend her life in disgrace and
misery. If religion could cause that man to come forward, confess his
wrong, and atone for his guilt by doing justice to her, perhaps I could
believe. But all these little theories of yours are so many parrot
cries."
It was in this state of mind that Paul was led from his cell to the
dock. He was still wearing his own clothes, for although he was an
accused man, he was not yet proved to be guilty; and with that innate
pride and that care for personal appearance which was natural to him,
he had carefully dressed himself. His garments were well cut, and
fitted his figure perfectly. His linen was spotless, and he stood
upright, with a proud look on his face.
There was a kind of gasp when he entered the dock. He was not the kind
of man whom many had expected to see. Tall, erect, muscular, pale
cheeks, clear-cut features, well-shaped head, dark flashing eyes,
sensitive lips and nostrils, he was a direct contrast to those who are
usually associated with the crime of which he was accused. Even the
judge, who looked at him with keen, penetrating eyes, could not help
being impressed by the fact. He was a man capable of controlling other
men, a man who could deal with large affairs. Passionate, perhaps, and
vengeful, but not likely to wreak his passion like a brute.
"Handsome, isn't he?" said one lady to another. "I'd no idea!"
"Yes, terrible pity, isn't it? But still, I suppose he's had a grudge
against Mr. Wilson for years. He belongs to the working classes, too,
although by his cleverness he's risen above them. But it's always the
same, my dear--common people are common people."
Paul looked steadily round the court. His eyes did not rest long on
the judge, although he gave him a keen, searching glance. Even then he
felt that the circumstances were far out of the ordinary. Only the
previous evening this man's daughter had confessed her love to him.
She had defied all conventions, defied the possibility of malign
gossip, but of course Judge Bolitho did not know that. They met there
as judge and accused, and such were the relations that they must
maintain. A few weeks before, this man had written a letter to him--an
insulting letter--forbidding him to approach his daughter; and now he,
the judge, sat in his seat of authority, while Paul was in the dock.
His gaze swept round the room. He recognised many faces. He saw
Edward Wilson, father of the murdered man, pale as ashes, and with set,
stern face. He saw the Mayor of Brunford and some of the councillors.
He saw men who had fought for him at the last election--men with whom
he had done business. He saw people of the common orders--some of them
were his own employees--who a week or two before had paid him homage in
so far as any Lancashire man pays homage to his employer.
No; it was not like an ordinary trial at all, and yet the issues were
tragic. The air seemed to pulsate with doom. No word had yet been
spoken, and yet men's hearts were beating wildly. Even the barristers,
who sat looking at the prisoner, seemed strangely moved.
The clerk of the assizes rose, arranged his wig, settled his gown.
"Order! Order!" shouted the ushers.
The clerk read the indictment in solemn and impressive tones. Few
remembered the words he said, but all realised their purport. Paul
Stepaside, standing there in the prisoner's dock, was indicted for the
murder of Edward Wilson.
"Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," replied the prisoner. There was not a tremor in his
voice, and many thought, as they looked at him, that he seemed to
regard the question as an insult.
The jury had been sworn. This was a somewhat tedious proceeding, the
swearing of the jury, and on Paul's face passed a look of contempt. It
seemed so tiresome, this reading of a formula to twelve men, making
them promise that they would consider the case "without fear or favour,
upon the evidence given," and so on and so on. Still it was necessary,
even although in many cases it might have become a mere matter of form.
Certainly, too, each juryman seemed to realise the importance of his
position and the seriousness of what he had to do. They were not men
of great intellectual acumen, these jurymen--just kind-hearted,
commonplace men who had been selected for the purpose. Still, they
would do as well as others who might be got. They would hear the
evidence given. They would listen attentively to the counsel's words
and to the judge's summing up.
At length all was ready, and the jurymen settled in their seats, each
with his note-book, and each prepared to listen attentively. No sooner
had they sat down than the counsel for the prosecution rose. Mr.
Bakewell was a man well known on the Northern Circuit. He had for many
years appeared in the Assize Courts of Manchester, and had been spoken
of as an able man. It had even been said of him that he cared more for
verdicts than for justice. But this did not seem to annoy him. After
all, the verdict is what a barrister has to think of. He had his
reputation to maintain, his case to win, and he was the counsel for the
prosecution. He had studied the case thoroughly, point by point. In
this instance, too, he was more than ordinarily interested. He had met
Paul Stepaside. On one occasion there had been a slight passage of
arms between them, and Paul had come off best in the encounter; and
ever since, Mr. Bakewell, while bearing no grudge against him, had been
somewhat chagrined that this young man, who had never been trained in
the law, should have got the better in their encounter.
"I am for the prosecution, my lord," he said, and sat down.
"Who is for the defence?" asked the judge.
This question was met by deathly silence.
"Have you no one to defend you?" asked the judge, turning towards Paul.
And even then both of them felt the incongruity of the situation.
"No," replied Paul.
"But I advise you very seriously to accept counsel for defence."
"No," replied Paul. "I wish no one." His voice rang out clearly in
the hall, even although he spoke in low tones. No one seemed to
breathe. What could be the meaning of such an attitude?
Again Judge Bolitho spoke:
"I repeat," he said, and his voice was very solemn, "that you will be
wise if you accept someone for defence. Mr. Langefield, now?" and he
nodded towards the man who had that same morning regretted Paul's
obstinacy in not securing his services.
"No," said Paul. "I must decline your lordship's suggestion. What
defence is offered I will offer myself."
"Of course this is not usual," said the judge. "And I think it my duty
to tell you that you will have a perfect right to cross-examine any
witness who may be called."
"Thank you, my lord."
The counsel for the prosecution here rose to address the jury and to
give a statement of the case. This he did in a lengthy speech, a
speech which showed that he had not only thoroughly studied the facts,
but had gone to some trouble to trace Paul's history.
"My lord and gentlemen," said Mr. Bakewell, "this is no common case,
and the prisoner is no ordinary man. Although he came to Brunford as a
poor lad, he soon rose to a distinguished position. So much ability
did he show, and such was his influence in the town of his adoption,
that he was at length invited to stand for Parliament in the interests
of the working classes of the town. I would not mention this but for
the fact that it bears upon the case we are now considering. It was
during this contest that the prisoner accused the murdered man of
acting against his, the prisoner's, interests, and of doing his best to
ruin him. I shall also bring evidence to show that during this part of
his history he repeatedly swore to be revenged on the deceased. By and
by he was elected as Member of Parliament for Brunford, and immediately
after that election, as I shall prove to you, a quarrel took place
between him and the murdered man, during which the prisoner struck him
a murderous blow, and was only kept back from a renewal of the attack
by those who were standing round."
He then went on to describe the scenes immediately associated with the
murder, and told in minutest detail the happenings which we have
recorded in these pages.
As he went from point to point, all present could see, as if in the eye
of imagination, link fastened to link, and every one was riveted with
care and precision. The whole chain of evidence seemed perfect. Even
Paul himself, as he listened, could not help feeling that, as far as
circumstantial evidence was concerned, no stronger case could be
brought to prove a man's guilt. Indeed, had a vote been taken at that
moment, not only among the jury, but among all present, there would
have been a general admission that Paul was guilty of the murder of
Edward Wilson.
"It remains now, my lord and gentlemen, for me to call witnesses to
prove the facts which I have laid before you. And it is for you,
gentlemen, to judge whether those facts are not sufficient to pronounce
the verdict of guilty upon the prisoner who now stands before you."
There was a rustle in the court as he sat down. It seemed as though
everyone wanted to find relief from the tense excitement which had been
created by his words. The judge shuffled in his chair and looked at
his notes. The barristers who sat round nodded to each other and
seemed to say that undoubtedly Bakewell had made a very fine speech.
Many eyes were turned towards Paul, who remained perfectly calm. His
face was hard and stony. Not a tremor was to be seen. He seemed to
have no nerves. Then, before the first witness was called, he looked
round the court and saw, for the first time, the face of Mary Bolitho.
He had no idea that she would be present, and for a moment his heart
became cold and heavy. Their eyes met, and she smiled. It is true her
face was deadly pale, but there was no lack of confidence in the look
she gave him. As plainly as words could say them she said: "Do not
fear, Paul. I love you. I know you're innocent, and I will save you."
In spite of all that had taken place, his heart became light again. He
still adhered to his resolution to keep his secret in his heart, but
that one look changed the whole atmosphere of the place. He knew that
the one, and the only one, for whom he cared, believed in his innocence
and looked upon him with eyes of love.
The counsel was about to call the first witness when there was a sound
of confusion. Through the crowded court a woman was making her way,
and Paul, looking, saw his mother. How she got there he did not know,
but got there she had. He saw how pale and haggard her face was, saw,
too, that her eyes gleamed with the old light which had shone from them
on the night of the murder. He thought she seemed to be making
straight for him, but she presently stopped. The judge was at that
moment busily making notes. Presently, however, he lifted his head as
if in wonder at the counsel's delay. She looked at Paul, but only for
a moment. Her eyes were fixed upon Judge Bolitho.
"It's Stepaside's mother," whispered someone to Mr. Bakewell, and many
eyes were turned towards her.
Then a scream rent the air--a scream of agony, of madness, and the
woman fell down in the court insensible.