by Ellen Wood
The chief witnesses, it may be said the only ones of consequence, were Thomas Hewitt the man servant, and Miss Rose Turner. A surgeon spoke to the cause of death — a shot through the heart — and a policeman or two gave some little evidence. Altogether not much. The story that came out to the world through the speeches of counsel, including those for the defence as well as for the prosecution, may be summed up as follows:
Mr. Andinnian (now Sir Adam) had a great friendship for a young lady neighbour who lived close by, with whom he and his mother had been intimate, and for whose best interests he had a lively regard. This was a Miss Rose Turner: a young lady (the counsel emphatically said) worthy of every consideration, and against whom not a breath of slight had been, or could be whispered. Some few months ago Miss Turner was introduced at a friend’s house to a medical student (the deceased) named Martin Scott. It had been ascertained, from inquiries set on foot since Martin Scott’s death, that this man’s private pursuits and character were not at all reputable: but that was of course (the counsel candidly added) no reason why he should have been killed. In spite of Miss Turner’s strong objection, Martin Scott persisted in offering her his attentions; and two or three times, to the young lady’s great disgust, he had forcibly kissed her. These facts became known to Mr. Andinnian: and he, being of a hasty, passionate nature, unfortunately took up the matter warmly. Indignant that the young lady should have been subjected to anything so degrading, he sought an interview with the offender, and told him that if ever he dared to repeat the insult to Miss Turner, he, Mr. Andinnian, would shoot him. It appeared, the counsel added, that Mr. Andinnian avowed this in unmistakable terms; that the unfortunate deceased fully understood him to mean it, and that Mr, Andinnian would certainly do what he said if provoked. Proof of which would be given. In spite of all this, Martin Scott braved his fate the instant he had an opportunity. On the fatal evening, June the twenty-third, Miss Turner having only just returned home from an absence of some weeks, Martin Scott made his appearance at her uncle’s house, followed her into the garden, and there, within sight of Mr. Andinnian (or, rather, Sir Adam Andinnian, for he had then succeeded to his title, said the counsel, stopping to correct himself) he rudely took the young lady in his arms, and kissed her several times. Miss Turner, naturally startled and indignant, broke from him, and burst into a fit of hysterical sobs. Upon this, the prisoner caught up his loaded gun and shot him dead: the gun, unhappily, lying close to his hand, for he had been shooting birds during the day. Such was the substance of the story, as told to the court.
Thomas Hewitt, the faithful serving man, who deposed that he had lived in the Andinnian family for many years, and who could hardly speak for the grief within him, was examined. Alas! he was called for the prosecution: for all his evidence told against his master, not for him.
“That evening,” he said, “about eight o’clock, or from that to half-past, I had occasion to see my master, Sir Adam, and went across the garden and beyond the shrubbery of trees to find him. He was standing by the gate that divides his grounds from Mr. Turner’s; and all in the same moment, as I came in view, there seemed to be a scuffle going on in Mr. Turner’s wide path by the rose bushes. Just at first I did not discern who was there, for the setting sun, then going below the horizon, shone in my face like a ball of fire. I soon saw it was Miss Turner and Martin Scott. Scott seemed to be holding her against her will. She broke away from him, crying and sobbing, and ran towards my master, as if wanting him to protect her.”
“Well? — go on,” cried the examining counsel, for the witness had stopped. “What did you see next?”
“Sir Adam caught up his gun from the garden seat close by, where it was lying, presented it at Martin Scott, and fired. The young man sprang up into the air a foot or two, and then fell. It all passed in a moment. I ran to assist him, and found he was dead. That is all I know.”
But the witness was not to be released just yet, in spite of this intimation. “Wait a bit,” said the counsel for the prosecution. “You saw the prisoner take up the gun, point it at the deceased and fire. Was all this done deliberately?”
“It was not done hurriedly, sir.”
“Answer my question, witness. Was it deliberately done?”
“I think it was. His movements were slow. Perhaps,” added poor Hewitt, willing to suggest a loophole of escape for his master, “perhaps Sir Adam had forgotten the gun was loaded, and only fired it off to frighten Scott. It was in the morning he had been shooting the birds: hours before; he could easily have forgotten that it was loaded. My master is not a cruel man, but a humane one.”
“How came he to leave the gun out there for so many hours, if he had done with it?” asked the judge.
“I don’t know, my lord. I suppose he forgot to bring it in when he came in to dinner. Sir Adam is naturally very careless indeed.”
One of the jury spoke. “Witness, what was it that you wanted with your master when you went out that evening?”
“A telegram had come for him, sir, and I went to take it to him.”
“What did the telegram contain? Do you know?”
“I believe it came from Foxwood, sir.”
“From Foxwood?”
“The telegram was from my mother, Mrs. Andinnian,” spoke up the prisoner, in his rather loud, but perfectly calm voice, thereby electrifying the court. “It was to tell me she had arrived safely at Foxwood Court: and that the day for my uncle Sir Joseph’s funeral was not then fixed.”
The prisoner’s solicitor, in a great commotion, leaned over and begged him in a whisper to be silent.
“Nay,” said the prisoner aloud, “if any information, that I can give is required, why should I be silent?” Surely there had never before been a prisoner like unto this one!
The next witness was Rose Turner. She was accompanied by her uncle and a solicitor; was dressed handsomely in black, and appeared to be in a state of extreme nervous agitation. Her face was ashy pale, her manner shrinkingly reluctant, and her voice was so low that its accents could not always be caught. In the simple matter of giving her name, she had to be asked it three times.
Her evidence told little more than had been told by the opening counsel.
Mr. Scott had persecuted her with his attentions, she said. He wanted her to promise to marry him when he should be established in practice, but she wholly refused, and she begged him to go about his business and leave her alone. He would not; and her aunt had rather encouraged Mr. Scott; they did not know what kind of private character he bore, but supposed of course it was good. Martin Scott had twice kissed her against her will, very much to her own annoyance; she had told Mr. Andinnian of it — who had always been very kind to her, quite like a protector. It made Mr. Andinnian very angry; and he had then threatened Martin Scott that if he ever again attempted to molest her, he would shoot him. She was sure that Martin Scott understood that Mr. Andinnian was not joking, but meant to do what he said. So far, the witness spoke with tolerable readiness: but after this not a word would she say that was not drawn from her. Her answers were given shrinkingly, and some of them with evident reluctance.
“You went out on a visit in May: where was it to?” questioned the counsel.
“Birmingham.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“I was away from home five weeks altogether.”
“When did you return home? — You must speak a little louder, if you please.” —
“On the evening of the twenty-second of June.”
“That was the day before the murder?”
“It was not a murder,” returned the witness, with emotion. “Sir Adam Ardinnian was quite justified in what he did.”
The judge interposed. “You are not here to state opinions, young lady, but to answer questions.” The counsel resumed.
“Did the deceased, Martin Scott, come to your uncle’s residence on the evening of the twenty-third?”
“Yes. My uncle was at home ill that evening, and he kept
Mr. Scott in conversation, so that he had ho opportunity of teasing me.”
“You went later, into the garden?”
“Yes. Martin Scott must have seen me pass the window, for I found he was following me out. I saw Sir Adam standing at his gate, and went towards him.” —
“With what motive did you go?”
A pause. “I intended to tell him that Mr. Scott was there.”
“Had you seen Sir Adam at all since the previous evening?” —
Whether the young lady said Yes or No to this question could not be told. Her answer was inaudible.
“Now this won’t do,” cried the counsel losing patience. “You must speak so that the jury can hear you, witness; and you must be good enough to lift your head. What have you to be ashamed of?”
At this sting, a bright flush dyed the young lady’s pale cheeks: but she evidently did not think of resisting. Lifting her face, she spoke somewhat louder.
“I had seen Sir Adam in the morning when he was shooting the birds. I saw him again in the afternoon, and was talking with him for a few minutes. Not for long: some friends called on my aunt, and she sent for me in.”
“Was anything said about Martin Scott that day, between you and Sir Adam?”
“Not a word. We did not so much as think of him.”
“Why, then, were you hastening in the evening to tell Sir Adam that Scott was there?”
The witness hesitated and burst into tears. Her answer was impeded by sobs.
“Of course it was a dreadful thing for me to do — as things have turned out I had no ill thought in it I was only going to tell him that Scott had come and was sitting with my uncle. There was nothing in that to make Sir Adam angry.”
“You have not replied to my question. Why did you hasten to tell Sir Adam?”
“There was no very particular cause. Before I left home in May, I had hoped Mr. Scott had ceased his visits: when I found, by his coming this evening, that he had not, I thought I would tell Sir Adam. We both disliked Martin Scott from his rudeness to me. I began to feel afraid of him again.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Lest he should be rude to me as he had been before.”
“Allow me to ask — in a case of this sort, would it not have been your uncle’s place to deal with Mr. Scott, rather than Sir Adam Andinnian’s?”
The witness bent her head, and sobbed. While the prisoner, without affording her time for any answer, again spoke up. —
“When Martin Scott insulted Miss Turner before, I had particularly requested her to inform me at once if he ever attempted such a thing again. I also requested her to let me know of it if he resumed his visits at her uncle’s house. I wished to protect Miss Turner as efficiently as I would have protected a sister.”
The prisoner was ordered to be silent. Miss Turner’s examination went on.
“You went out on this evening to speak to the prisoner, and Martin Scott followed you. What next?”
“Martin Scott caught me up when I was close to the bed of rose bushes: that is, about half way between the house and the gate where Sir Adam was standing. He began reproaching me; saying I had not given him a word of welcome after my long absence, and did I think he was going to stand it. Before — before—” —
“Before what? Why do you hesitate?”
The witness’s tears burst forth afresh: her voice was pitiable in its distress. A thrill of sympathy moved the whole court; not one in it but felt for her.
“Before I was aware, Martin Scott had caught me in his arms, and was kissing my face. I struggled to get away from him, and ran towards Sir Adam Andinnian for shelter. It was then he took up his gun.”
“What did Sir Adam say?” —
“Nothing. He put me behind him with one hand, and fired. I recollect seeing Hewitt standing beside me then, and for a few moments I recollected no more. At first I did not know any harm was done: only when I saw Hewitt kneeling down in the path over Martin Scott.” —
“What did the prisoner do, then?” —
“He put the gun back on the seat again, quite quietly, and walked down the path towards where they were. My uncle and aunt came running out, and — and that ended it.”
With a burst of grief that threatened to become hysterical, she covered her face. Perhaps in compassion, only two or three further questions of unimportance were asked her. She had told all she knew of the calamity, she said; and was allowed to retire: leaving the audience most favourably impressed with the pretty looks, the innocence, and the modesty of Miss Rose Turner.
A young man named Wharton was called; an assistant to a chemist, and a friend of the late Martin Scott He deposed to hearing Scott speak in the spring — he thought it was towards the end of April — of Mr. Andinnian’s threat to shoot him. The witness added that he was sure Martin Scott took the threat as a serious one and knew that Mr. Andinnian meant it as such; though it was possible that with the lapse of weeks the impression might have worn away in Scott’s mind. He was the last witness called on either side; and the two leading counsel then addressed the jury.
The judge summed up carefully and dispassionately, but not favourably. As many said afterwards, he was “dead against the prisoner.” The jury remained in deliberation fifteen minutes only, and then came back with their verdict.
Wilful murder: but with a very strong recommendation to mercy.
The judge then asked the prisoner if he had any thing to urge against the sentence of Death that was about to be passed upon him.
Nothing but this, the prisoner replied, speaking courteously and quietly. That he believed he had done only his duty: and that Martin Scott had deliberately and defiantly rushed upon his own fate; and that if young, innocent, and refined ladies were to be insulted by reprobate men with impunity, the sooner the country went back to a state of barbarism the better. To this the judge replied, that if for trifling causes men might with impunity murder others in cold blood, the country would already be in a state of barbarism, without going back to it.
But the trial was not to conclude without one startling element of sensation. The judge had put the black cap on his head, when a tall, proud-looking, handsome lady stepped forward and demanded to say a word in stay of the sentence. It was Mrs. Andinnian. Waving the ushers away who would have removed her, she was, perhaps in very astonishment, allowed to speak.
Her son had inherited an uncontrollable temper, she said; her temper. If anything occurred greatly to exasperate him but this was very rare) his transitory, passion was akin to madness. In fact it was madness for the short time it lasted, which was never more than for a few moments. To punish him by death for any act committed by him during this irresponsible time would be, she urged, murder. Murder upon him.
Only these few words did she speak. Not passionately; calmly and respectfully; and with her dark eyes fixed on the judge. She then bowed to the judge and retired. The judge inclined his head gravely to her in return, and proceeded with his sentence.
Death. But the strong recommendation of the jury should be forwarded to the proper quarter.
The judge, as was learnt later, seconded this recommendation warmly: in fact, the words he used in passing sentence as good as conveyed an intimation that there might be no execution.
Thus ended the famous trial. Within a week afterwards the fiat was known: and the sentence was commuted into penal servitude for life!
Penal servitude for life! Think of the awful blight to a man in the flower of his age and in the position of Adam Andinnian! And all through one moment’s mad act!
CHAPTER V.
Unable to get strong. —
IN an invalid’s chair by the side of a fire, at midday, reclined Lucy Cleeve. Her face was delicate and thin; her sweet brown eyes had almost an anxious look in them; the white wrapper she wore was not whiter than her cheeks. Mrs. Cleeve was in the opposite chair reading. At the window sat Miss Blake, working some colours of bright silks on a white satin ground.
As Mrs. Clee
ve turned the page, she chanced to look up, and saw in her daughter a symptom of shivering.
“Lucy! My darling, surely you are not shivering again!”
“N — o, I think not,” was the hesitating answer, “The fire is getting dull, mamma.” —
Mrs. Cleeve stirred the fire into brightness, and then brought a warm shawl of chenille silk, and folded it over Lucy’s shoulders. And yet the August sun was shining on the world, and the blue skies were dark with heat.
The cruel pain that the separation from Karl Andinnian had brought to Lucy, was worse than any one thought for. She was perfectly silent over it, bearing all patiently, and so gave no sign of the desolation within. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve said in private how reasonable Lucy was, and how well she was forgetting the young man. Miss Blake felt sure that she had never really cared for him: that the love had been all child’s play. All through the month of June Lucy had gone about wherever they chose to take her: to flower-shows, and promenades, and dances, and picnics. She talked and laughed in society as others did; and no mortal wizard Or witch could have divined she was suffering from the effects of a love-fever, that had been too rudely checked.
Very shortly she was to suffer from a different fever: one that sometimes proves to be just as difficult of cure. In spite of the gaiety and the going-out, Lucy seemed to be somewhat ailing: her appetite failed, and she grew to feel tired at nothing. In July these symptoms had increased, and she was palpably ill. The medical man called in, pronounced Miss Cleeve to be suffering from a slight fever, combined with threatenings of ague. The slight fever grew into a greater one, and then became intermittent. Intervals of shivering coldness would be succeeded by intervals of burning heat; and they in their turn by intense prostration. The doctor said Miss Cleeve must have taken cold; probably, he thought, had sat on damp grass at some picnic. Lucy was very obedient. She lay in bed when they told her to lie, and got up when they told her to get up, and took all the medicine ordered without a word, and tried to take the food. The doctor, at length, with much self-gratulation, declared the fever at an end; and that Miss Cleeve might come out of her bed-room for some hours in the day. Miss Cleeve did so come: but somehow she did not gain strength, or improve as she ought to have done. Seasons of chilling coldness would be upon her still, the white cheeks would sometimes be bright with a very suspicious-looking dash of hectic. It would take time to re-establish her, said the doctor with a sigh: and that was the best he could make of it.