A SILENT WELCOME
If a man is unfortunate enough to find himself in the clutches of what
is euphemistically called "the law," the sooner and the more completely
he can school himself to patience the better for his peace of mind.
Lawyers and legislators do not appear generally to be of a mechanical
turn, and the huge machine which they have constructed for the purpose
of discovering and punishing criminals is apparently without any
reversing gear. The machine will go forward ponderously and cumbrously,
but it will not go backward without an infinite amount of toil and
trouble. Hence, if a man is once caught in its toils, even though he is
innocent, he will, generally speaking, have to go through the mill and
come out at the far end. For such a small and remote contingency as a
miscarriage of justice there is apparently no provision. If the wronged
and deluded man will only have patience, he will come out of the mill in
due course; and if he is but civil, he will be rewarded with a free
pardon and told not to do it again.
The generosity of the State in compensating those who have been
wrongfully convicted and punished has grown into a proverb. In some
instances they have been actually released before their time has
expired--which, of course, has meant a considerable amount of work for
those who had control of the mill; and work to the highly paid officials
of the State is little less to be dreaded than the plague.
The whole country had been ringing with Jim Brewer's story for more than
a week before the law officers of the Crown condescended to look at the
matter at all, and when they did look at it they saw so many
technicalities in the way, and so much red tape to be unwound, that
their hearts failed them. It seemed very inconsiderate of this Jim
Brewer to speak at all after he had kept silent so long, particularly as
the Grand Jury would so soon have the case before them.
Meanwhile Ralph was waiting with as much patience as he could command
for the day of the trial. That he would be found guilty he could not
bring himself to believe. The more he reviewed the case, the more angry
and disgusted he felt with the local Solomons who had sat in judgment on
him. He was disposed almost to blame them more than he blamed the
squire. Sir John might have some grounds for supposing that he (Ralph)
had deliberately fired at him. But that the great unpaid of St. Goram
and neighbouring parishes could be so blind and stupid filled him with
disgust.
For himself, he did not mind the long delay so much; but as the days
grew into weeks, his anxiety respecting his mother and Ruth grew into
torment. He knew that their little spare cash could not possibly hold
out many weeks, and then what would happen?
He had heard nothing from them for a long time, and Bodmin was so far
away from St. Goram that they could not visit him. He wondered if they
had reached such straits that they could not afford a postage stamp. The
more he speculated on the matter the more alarmed he got. The letters he
had been allowed to send had received no answer. And it seemed so unlike
his mother and Ruth to remain silent if they were able to write.
Of Jim Brewer's story he knew nothing, for newspapers did not come his
way, and none of the prison officials had the kindness to tell him. So
he waited and wondered as the slow days crept painfully past, and grew
thin and hollow-eyed, and wished that he had never been born.
The end came nearly a month after Jim Brewer had told his story. He was
condescendingly informed one morning that his innocence having been
clearly established, the Crown would offer no evidence in support of the
charge, and the Grand Jury had therefore thrown out the bill of
indictment. This would mean his immediate liberation.
For several moments he felt unable to speak, and he sat down and hid his
face in his hands. Then slowly the meaning of the words he had listened
to began to take shape in his mind.
"You say my innocence has been established?" he questioned at length.
"That is so."
"By what means?"
The governor told him without unnecessary words.
"How long ago was this?"
"I do not quite know. Not many weeks I think."
"Not many weeks! Good heavens! You mean that I have been allowed to
suffer in this inferno after my innocence was established?"
"With that I have nothing to do. Better quietly and thankfully take your
departure."
Ralph raised a pair of blazing eyes, then turned on his heel. He felt as
though insult had been heaped upon insult.
His brain seemed almost on fire when at length he stepped through the
heavy portal and found himself face to face with William Menire.
Ralph stared at him for several moments in astonishment. Why, of all the
people in the world, should William Menire come to meet him? They had
never been friends--they could scarcely be called acquaintances.
William, however, did not allow him to pursue this train of thought.
Springing forward at once, he grasped Ralph by the hand.
"I made inquiries," he said, speaking rapidly, "and I couldn't find out
that anybody was coming to meet you. And I thought you might feel a bit
lonely and cheerless, for the weather is nipping cold. So I brought a
warm rug with me, and I've ordered breakfast at the King's Arms; for
there ain't no train till a quarter-past ten, and we'll be home by----"
Then he stopped suddenly, for Ralph had burst into tears.
The prison fare, the iron hand of the law, the bitter injustice he had
suffered so long, had only hardened him. He had shed not a single tear
during all the months of his incarceration. But this touch of human
kindness from one who was almost a stranger broke him down completely,
and he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed outright.
William looked at him in bewilderment.
"I hope I have not said anything that's hurt you?" he questioned
anxiously.
"No, no," Ralph said chokingly. "It's your kindness that has unmanned me
for a moment. You are almost a stranger, and I have no claim upon you
whatever." And he began to sob afresh.
"Oh, well, if that's all, I don't mind," William said, with a cheerful
smile. "You see, we are neighbours--at least we were. And if a man can't
do a neighbourly deed when he has a chance, he ain't worth much."
Ralph lifted his head at length, and wiped his eyes.
"Pardon me for being so weak," he said. "But I didn't expect----"
"Of course you didn't," William interrupted. "I knew it would be a
surprise to you. But hadn't we better be going? I don't want the
breakfast at the King's Arms to get cold."
"A word first," Ralph said eagerly. "Are my mother and sister well?"
"Well, your mother is only middling--nothing serious. But the weather's
been very trying, and her appetite's nothing to speak of. And, you see,
she's worried a good deal about you."
"And my sister?" he interposed.
"She's very well, I believe. But let's get out of sight of this place,
or it'll be getting on my nerves."
A quarter of an hour later they were seated in a cosy room before an
appetising breakfast of steaming ham and eggs.
Ralph had a difficulty in keeping the tears back. The pleasant room,
hung with pictures, the cheerful fire crackling in the grate, the white
tablecloth and dainty china and polished knives and forks, the hot,
fragrant tea and the delicious ham, were such a contrast from what he
had endured so long, that he felt for a moment or two as if his emotion
would completely overcome him.
William wisely did not look at him, but gave all his attention to the
victuals, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing his guest
doing full justice to the fare.
During the journey home they talked mainly about what had happened in
St. Goram since Ralph went away, but William could not bring himself to
tell him the truth about his mother. Again and again he got to the
point, and then his courage failed him.
At St. Ivel Road, William's trap was waiting for them, and they drove
the two miles to St. Goram in silence.
Suddenly Ralph reached out his hand as if to grasp the reins.
"You are driving past our house," he said, in a tone of suppressed
excitement.
"Yes, that's all right," William answered, in a tone of apparent
unconcern. "They're not there now."
"Not there?" he questioned, with a gasp.
"No. You'll come along with me for a bit."
"But I do not understand," Ralph said, turning eager eyes on William's
face.
"Oh, I'll explain directly. But look at the crowd of folk."
William had to bring his horse to a standstill, for the road was
completely blocked. There was no shouting or hurrahing; no band to play
"See the Conquering Hero comes." But the men uncovered their heads, and
tears were running down the women's faces.
Ralph had to get out of the trap to steer his way as best he could to
William's store. It was a slow and painful process, and yet it had its
compensations. Children tugged at his coat-tails, and hard-fisted men
squeezed his hand in silence, and women held up their chubby babies to
him to be kissed, and young fellows his own age whispered a word of
welcome. It was far more impressive than a noisy demonstration or the
martial strains of a brass band. Of the sympathy of the people there
could be no doubt whatever. Everybody realised now that he had been
cruelly treated--that the suspicion that rested on him at first was base
and unworthy; that he was not the kind of man to do a mean or cowardly
deed; and that the wrong that was done was of a kind that could never be
repaired.
They wondered as they crowded round him whether he knew of the crowning
humiliation and wrong. The workhouse was a place that most of them
regarded with horror. To become a pauper was to suffer the last
indignity. There was nothing beyond it--no further reproach or shame.
It was the knowledge that Ralph's mother was in the workhouse, and that
his little home had been broken up--perhaps for ever--that checked the
shout and turned what might have been laughter into tears. Any attempt
at merriment would have been a mockery under such circumstances. They
were glad to see Ralph back again--infinitely glad; but knowing what
they did, the pathos of his coming touched them to the quick.
Very few words were spoken, but tears fell like rain. Ralph wondered, as
he pressed his way forward toward William Menire's shop, and yet he had
not the courage to ask any questions. Behind the people's silent
sympathy he felt there was something that had not yet been revealed. But
what it was he could not guess. That his mother and Ruth were alive, he
knew, for William had told him so. Perhaps something had happened in St.
Goram that William had not told him, which affected others more than it
affected him.
William went in front and elbowed a passage for Ralph.
"We be fine an' glad to see 'ee 'ome again," people whispered here and
there, and Ralph would smile and say "Thank you," and then push on
again.
William was in a perfect fever of excitement. He had been hoping almost
against hope all the day. Whether his little scheme had succeeded or
miscarried, he could not tell yet. He would know only when he crossed
his own threshold. What his little scheme was he had confided to no one.
If it failed, he could still comfort himself with the thought that he
had done his best. But he still hoped and prayed that what he had tried
so hard to accomplish had come to pass.