A large table was set in a rich and costly room, and round it were
seated a number of persons very dignified in station, but certainly
not at that moment very dignified in demeanor. At the head of the
table was an elderly gentleman, well fattened and of rubicund face,
which had evidently lost none of its roses by the accessories of the
meal. This was Mr. Mayor, entertaining the judges at supper. On his
right hand sat Lord Chief-justice Jeffries, with his wig a good deal
on one side, a curious sort of tightness about one corner of his mouth
and a depression of the other corner, as if he had been slightly
affected by palsy. There was a merry leer in his eyes, however, and a
robustious jollity about his whole appearance, which contrasted
strangely with his savage and ferocious look upon the bench. Yes, it
did afford a strange contrast; but yet it was nothing, compared with
the harsh, jarring discord of his light, licentious levity at the
table, when closely opposed to the savage cruelty which occupied the
morning. There he was, laughing, and drinking, and jesting, and
singing, immediately after having condemned half a score of innocent
men to death.
Judges, like undertakers, I believe, get hardened to the idea of
death.
"How many are you going to pardon, my lord?" asked the worthy mayor,
with a half-suppressed hiccough.
"That depends upon their circumstances, Master Mayor," replied
Jeffries, with a broad laugh.
"That young man, I hope," said the good-natured magistrate; "I mean
the Mr. Woodhall who was convicted of seeing Monmouth before the
rebellion broke out. His case was not half as bad as the rest, and he
seemed a fine young fellow."
"His case will be worse before Saturday night," said Jeffries. "A
knave--an arrant knave, sir! Why, they tell me his father is not worth
five hundred a year. Was there ever such a knave? By God's wounds! the
son of such a knave ought to hang for having such a father, and the
father ought to hang for having such a son. Ha! what is this? Say I am
supping; I will not be disturbed. I have done work enough for one day,
and cut out work enough for a few others."
"The lady says she must and will see you, my lord," replied the
servant to whom his last words were addressed, and who the moment
before had slipped a note into his hand.
"Ha, ha! a lady!" cried Jeffries, with a leer round the table; "we
must see the lady. Is she young, fellow? Is she pretty?"
"Quite beautiful, sir," replied the man; "and such a dress!"
"'Twill do--'twill do!" cried the judge; "show her into a private
room--quite private, and I will come to her anon. I must steady
myself, gentlemen--I must steady myself. I'll even drink a cup of
water--that is the most steadying thing I know;" and, after a moment's
thought, Jeffries rose and walked out of the room coolly and
straightly enough, for it required an infinite quantity of strong
drink to produce any thing more in him than a sort of boisterous
merriment, in which he strangely forgot all dignity and propriety.
As the reader has probably by this time supposed, the person whom he
found waiting for him was Lady Danvers. She was accompanied by her
maid, however, and two of her men were stationed at the door of the
room.
"My lord," she said, as soon as she entered, "I am glad to see you.
You have condemned my young friend, Ralph Woodhall, this day: I come
to intercede for him."
"All in vain, my lady--all in vain!" said Jeffries, glancing his eye
at the maid-servant. "Found guilty by a jury, he can expect no mercy."
Hortensia had spoken very calmly, and she knew the man too well to let
him see any agitation. "Why not?" she asked, in the same quiet tone.
"If his guilt were proved, which you, my lord, know quite well it is
not, and which I deny, still he would be very much less culpable than
any of the others whom you have condemned. You must, and of course
will, pardon some, in mere compassion to the executioner. Is it not
right, then, to choose the least guilty? Alice, go to the door and
stay with the two men; shut the door, remember."
Jeffries grinned; for he saw that Lady Danvers was now coming to the
point.
"I do not mean to say," he answered, "that this young man's guilt is
quite as atrocious as that of some others, but--"
"The levying of a severe fine," replied Hortensia, "will meet the
justice of the case better than execution."
"That may be, ma'am," said Jeffries; "but the law says death."
"One is bound and justified to evade the law in the cause of mercy
where law is too severe," replied Hortensia. "You have, my lord, I
understand, received from the king, with a view to such very cases as
these, a number of pardons signed in blank, in order to prevent a
waste of time in referring to him. Now I can see, by what you admit,
that you judge this young man is worthy of one of these pardons, and
the only question is, what is the fine you think sufficient? If the
strict letter of the law prevents you from commuting the sentence
openly to a fine, the money can be paid quite privately, justice be
satisfied, and yet no deviation from the law appear."
"Madam, they should send you ambassador to the hardest-headed court in
Europe," said Jeffries, with a laugh. "The worst feature, however, of
this case is, the young man is too poor to pay a fine. There is
nothing to levy upon."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," replied Hortensia, "there are the purses of
his friends; and let me tell you, my lord, he has many not only rich,
but powerful friends. The Duke of Norfolk crossed the whole country
four days ago, to give evidence on the trial for murder, and remained
in Dorchester till that part of the matter was settled."
"Ay, that's the worst of the whole business," said Jeffries. "Were it
not for that, we might content ourselves with levying a fine of ten or
twenty thousand pounds--"
"Nay, nay!" exclaimed Hortensia, "say five."
"Ten at the least," said the judge, "ten at the least;" and he shook
his head decidedly.
"Well, ten be it," replied the lady. "Do we understand each other?"
"Not quite," replied Jeffries; "for what's the use of saving his head
from treason if it is to be touched for murder? Besides, it's only
fair to tell you, putting all roundabouts aside, that the king will
have Lord Woodhall satisfied in this matter. His son has been killed
in a duel of a very irregular kind, and the old man is furious."
"Not so furious as he was," answered Hortensia. "His son has been
killed, but not by Ralph Woodhall. The case would have failed against
him, my lord, for there is evidence in this town to show that it was
impossible he could have been on the spot where the duel took place
for at least two hours after the occurrence."
"Ay, I thought there was something of that sort at the bottom of it,"
said Jeffries; "but what then? He will have to be tried for that, and
these things are uncertain, my lady."
"If such evidence is laid before Lord Woodhall as to make him see
clearly that the young gentleman is innocent, and he desires to desist
from the prosecution, and even joins in our application for pardon in
this other case, and if the same evidence convinces the attorney
general that there is really no case to go to the jury, is there no
means--"
"Oh yes," replied Jeffries, "Mr. Attorney can enter a nolle prosequi
at any stage of the proceedings; but do you think that the old lord
will really sue for his pardon? I saw him last night, and he was as
fierce as ever."
"He did not know any thing of what he now knows, or will know in a few
hours," replied Hortensia. "His heart is already melted, and if it is
clearly proved to him that Ralph is in truth innocent, he will be the
first to apply to the crown himself for a pardon."
A change came over Jeffries's face, and he muttered between his teeth,
"We must stop that--that would never do."
Hortensia saw how her words affected him, and she hastened to take
advantage of the impression. Leaning a little forward, she spoke a few
words to Jeffries in a whisper, to which he replied in the same tone.
Then she put some question to him again, and he answered aloud, "Oh,
to my man Silas Jones. He was once a Presbyterian knave, but I have
converted him into an honest Churchman. He dare not finger any thing
that belongs to me; so pay it to him."
"And he will have the pardon ready?" said Hortensia.
"Ay, ay," answered the judge, "by half past nine of the morning; but
remember, my lady, I must have Lord Woodhall's approval."
"That shall be done," answered Hortensia; for she had good hope that,
even if the old lord remained obdurate, the judge, having been brought
thus far, might, by the same means, be brought one step further.
"Farewell, my good lord," she added, when about to retire; but
Jeffries extended his hand, saying, "Let me kiss that lovely hand,
divine Lady Danvers."
She repressed the inclination to shudder, and gave him her hand, over
which he bent his head with a look of maudlin admiration.
"That is a lovely ring," said Jeffries, pointing to a remarkably large
diamond which she wore upon her middle finger. Hortensia immediately
took it off and presented it to him, saying, "Take it, my lord, and
wear it in remembrance of this interview, in which you have been
induced to show mercy; and whenever you look upon it, let the
remembrance produce the same result."
Jeffries took it reverently, and placed it on his fat little finger;
but I very much fear that it never reminded him of mercy with any
result.
When Hortensia was gone, he returned to the table, and, sitting down
by the mayor, soon turned the conversation with the good-natured
magistrate to the subject of Ralph Woodhall; for I must pass over all
the jests that took place with regard to his interview with a lady,
and the allusions to the diamond ring upon his finger, which he rather
encouraged than otherwise. Mr. Mayor again urged his remonstrances in
regard to Ralph Woodhall, saying, "I do really, my lord, wish you
would think of that case."
"Well, well, I will," replied Jeffries, "at your request, Mr. Mayor;
but, if you get me to take compassion upon him, your worship will be
the first mayor that ever moved George Jeffries."
"Had you not better respite him, my lord?" said the mayor.
"Ay, that can be done to-morrow," said Jeffries, "according as I
determine. It won't do him any harm to have one day of hanging,
drawing, and quartering. My life for it, he'll be seeing his bowels in
the hands of the hangman all night long. But I'll think of it--I'll
think of it, Mr. Mayor, for your sake. Now another glass, if you
please, and that shall be the last, upon my honor--the last but four.
Armitage, you dog, you are as dull as a swine to-night; there's a
pardon for you, for that fat Presbyterian knave whom you convicted
this morning of buying arms to supply the rebels. The fellow is an
armorer by trade; but that makes no difference: he had no business to
buy arms when there was rebellion in the land. He's rich, man, he's
rich; and, if you understand coining, you may know him into five
hundred or a thousand gold pieces, with the effigy of his blessed
majesty upon them."
The servant again came in, and whispered something over the back of
the lord chief justice's chair. "Who? who?" exclaimed Jeffries, with a
scowl.
"Lord Woodhall, my lord," replied the servant, aloud.
"Oh, ask him in, by all means," said the mayor.
"On no account whatever," said Jeffries, rising at once; "this is
private business; and I fear me much that it is to move me against
your request concerning that young man Ralph. God help me! how we poor
sinners are torn to pieces by opposite applications!"
"Attend to mercy, my lord, attend to mercy," said the mayor; but the
judge was half way down the room by this time.
Jeffries was learned in the art, in which statesmen of our own day are
not unlearned, of making one favor serve three or four applicants.
When Lord Woodhall, therefore, urged his request that Ralph might be
pardoned, Jeffries made innumerable difficulties, and seemed, at
length, to yield only at the old nobleman's most pressing entreaties.
He insisted, at the same time, that Lord Woodhall should undertake to
express to the attorney general his full conviction that Ralph had no
share in causing the death of his son, and request that he would enter
a nolle prosequi when the case came again for trial. "There would be
no pretense for pardoning him in this case," said Jeffries, "if we
were to have another trial next day, and hang him for murder--waste of
parchment, my lord, waste of parchment."
Lord Woodhall agreed to all that he demanded, and obtained, in return,
a respite for Ralph before he left this admirable lord chief justice.
He went away with a heart wonderfully eased. Four-and-twenty hours
before, he could not have imagined that he should have felt any thing
like satisfaction at saving the life of Ralph Woodhall; but now his
feelings had taken a very different turn. "Every body says he did not
do it," he thought; "the Duke of Norfolk says it was impossible. This
Lady Danvers too--and the parson--all of them. I do not want to wrong
an innocent man; but I will find out the murderer yet, and have
vengeance upon him. Well, well, if Ralph is innocent--and I begin to
fancy it may be so--he'll marry Lady Danvers, and Margaret will marry
Robert, and we might all be happy again--but for the want of poor
Henry!"
Poor old man, how completely he had forgotten, or how little must he
have ever known of the feelings and passions of youth! The
indifference of old age to those things of the heart which make the
brightness of active existence, is one of age's greatest evils,
considered as a stage of mere mortal life, but is, perhaps, a good
preparation for parting with mortal things to enter upon life eternal.
Thus musing, as I have shown, Lord Woodhall approached the door of the
inn, over which a great lantern was burning. When his foot was upon
the step, a man came out and was passing; but he suddenly stopped,
gazed at the old lord, and exclaimed, "Ah, persecutor of my unhappy
boy, is that you?"
"Hush, man, hush!" cried Lord Woodhall, grasping old Mr. Woodhall's
hand; "I have been in error--you are in error now. I am not
persecuting your son--I have a respite for him in my pocket now, and
the promise of a pardon."
Old Mr. Woodhall staggered back and would have fallen; but one of Lord
Woodhall's servants caught him, and took him into the inn. An
agitating scene followed, and Lord Woodhall, who was by nature a
good-hearted and kindly man, rejoiced greatly that the life of his own
cousin's son was not to be sacrificed. A short time passed in loose
and rambling questions and answers; and at length Mr. Woodhall rose to
go, saying, "I must see him, my lord, I must see him at once; for he
must think that his father has forgotten him, and left him to his
fate. I was detained upon the road by accident. But now, my lord, I
may carry him good news. Is it not so?"
"You may assure him that he is safe," said the old nobleman. "Here,
take the respite with you, man. That will be the best comfort you can
give the boy;" and, taking it from his pocket, he put it in Mr.
Woodhall's hands.
Engaging one of the horse-boys of the inn to guide him through the
streets of a strange town, Ralph Woodhall's father found his way to
the jail, and rang the great bell which hung at the gate. A moment
after, a little panel, just large enough to frame a man's head, was
drawn back, and the face of a jailer appeared behind an iron grating.
"What do you want?" said the man.
Mr. Woodhall explained his business, and demanded to see his son. A
rude and abrupt refusal was his only answer. He insisted, and
demanded, at all events, to see the governor of the prison. The
jailer, however, said sullenly that the governor was absent, that the
visiter was behind the hours, and that he should not have admission.
Mr. Woodhall then tried money; but, strange to say, even this proved
in vain. The man refused it with real or affected indignation, and
seemed about to close the wicket, when Ralph's father announced that
he had a respite with him for the prisoner.
"Then hand it in here," said the jailer; "I suppose this means that he
will be pardoned."
"Undoubtedly," returned Mr. Woodhall; "therefore there can be no
objection to my seeing him."
"I won't break through the rules for any one," said the jailer,
doggedly. "The jail is crammed full, and our orders are strict."
Sad and disappointed, Mr. Woodhall handed in the respite, calling up
the boy who had accompanied him to witness its delivery, and desiring
the jailer to announce the good tidings he bore at once to his son.
The man promised to do so; but, the moment he had retired into his
lodge near the gate, he threw the paper upon a shelf with a laugh,
saying, "Well, lay thou there. Thou sha'n't stop me getting my fifty
pounds. Devil take the judges, they won't let a poor man earn any
thing; they pocket it all themselves! I wonder how much this cost. A
great deal more than I get, I dare say."
His words may seem somewhat mysterious without explanation, which only
can be given by entering one of the prison cells, and displaying what
had been passing within about half an hour before.
Ralph Woodhall was sitting alone, about an hour after the judge had
passed sentence upon him, with his limbs heavily fettered, and a still
heavier weight upon his heart. Strong resolution had borne him up
through the terrible scenes which had lately passed; but all the
bitterness of parting with life, at the very period of early joy, had
been tasted in that last solitary hour. Suddenly the door opened, and
a turnkey came in. He carried in his hand a small instrument; and
closing the door carefully behind him, he put it in Ralph's hands,
saying, in a low tone, and pointing to the fetters, "Work away and get
them off. Leave them and the saw behind you."
Ralph gazed at him with astonishment, saying, "What do you mean?"
"Haven't I told you?" said the turnkey. "Hark ye! at one in the
morning, be dressed and ready. However hard I lock that door just now,
you will find it open then. Walk out. Turn to the right along the
passage. You will come to a door; it will be open too. You will find a
man beyond it who won't see you. Don't you see him. Walk straight on
till you find another man, who'll go on before you. Follow him as far
as he goes. There you'll find a horse and your people, and when
they've paid the other two hundred, you can ride away."
He waited for no reply, but, turning away from the prisoner, quitted
the cell, taking more than ordinary care in locking the door behind
him, and making a good deal of noise about it.
On the following day, at about ten minutes before ten o'clock--when a
good deal of bustle and excitement was visible in the prison, in
consequence of the preparations for bringing the prisoners for trial
rapidly into the court--the deputy sheriff presented himself at the
gate and demanded to see Mr. Ralph Woodhall, announcing, with an
important air, that a free pardon under the broad seal had been
received by the high sheriff, and was then in his possession.
"Quick work, Master Deputy," said the turnkey, who was standing beside
the porter; "condemned yesterday at seven, sentenced at nine, and
pardoned this morning before ten. But come along; you'll like to give
him the news yourself, I dare say, for you may get something for your
pains. He doesn't want the stuff, and has paid well enough
considering. We haven't been in this morning yet, for he said he'd
like to sleep till twelve, seeing he'd a hard day's work of it
yesterday."
Thus saying, he led him away along the passages of the prison to one
of the condemned cells. When he put the key in the door, however, it
would not turn, and he exclaimed, with a great oath, "Why, it's
unlocked!"
So it proved, and the cell empty.
Nothing could exceed the horror and consternation expressed by the
turnkey. He called the watchman who sat in the passage, and insinuated
that he had unlocked the door and let the prisoner escape. The
watchman repelled the charge with every appearance of indignation,
asked how he could unlock the door when he hadn't the keys, and vowed
he hadn't left the passage a minute except when he went to call the
doctor for John Philips, who had fallen into a fit, and was screaming
like a madman.
"Ay, he must have got out just then," said the turnkey. "How he picked
the lock I don't know. I locked it fast enough last night, I'm sure."
"I saw and heard you," said the watchman.
"Ay, he's been well supplied from outside," said the turnkey, pointing
to the fetters which lay upon the floor of the cell; "you see he has
filed the irons right through."
The sheriff's deputy was not altogether satisfied, however. The
governor was called; a search was instituted, and a rope-ladder was
found thrown over the wall of the prison yard. As a pardon, however,
had been received, the governor wisely thought that the less said
about the matter the better; and the sheriff's deputy, who was his
friend, agreed to take the same view of the case. Their plans were
somewhat deranged, indeed, by the arrival of old Mr. Woodhall in the
midst of their consultations; but, with great presence of mind, the
deputy sheriff asserted boldly that the prisoner he inquired for had
been set free upon pardon, and had departed more than an hour ago.