by Hugh Conway
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 today seems to be impressed for ever upon it.
A bewigged gentleman—the clerk of assize, the man next me tells his neighbour—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 everyone 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 simply to 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 favour, 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,’ answered 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—towards 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, endeavouring 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 of 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 demeanour. Although I had, as it were, torn my very heart out by the roots to ensure 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 behaviour 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, the 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 agonised 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 towards 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 cannot. 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 everyone in that court knows what the answer will be, there is a silence so profound that a pin might be heard drop. Everyone 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, dead pause. It may be that the prisoner does not understand that be 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 farther 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. Whilst 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 favours 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. Anyway, 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 towards 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!
CHAPTER XVI
‘WHERE ARE THE SNOWS THAT FELL LAST YEAR?’
ALTHOUGH, whilst engaged in the labour of writing this story, I have many times regretted that I am nothing more than a plain narrator of facts and incidents, not a master of fiction, I think I have not yet felt the regret so strongly as at the moment when I begin this chapter. The sombre acts of the life drama in which Philippa and I played parts so painful, so full of grief, and even if brightened by a ray of joy, of joy fallacious and of uncertain tenure—these acts I have found little difficulty in describing; I had simply to throw my mind back to the pictures of the past and reproduce them in words. The task, whether well or ill done, was not a hard one.
But now, when in one moment and as if by magic, everything changed; when sorrow seemed to be simply swept out of our lives; when that poor abject wretch’s confession of guilt, forced from him in some mysterious way, not only left our whole future bright and cloudless, but consigned to rest all the ghosts of the past, whose shadowy forms had hitherto dogged our steps and denied us the happiness rightly due to those who love as we loved; now it is that I feel my shortcomings acutely, and wish my pen was more powerful than it is.
And yet a word will describe the state of my own mind as, when the last solemn words were spoken by the judge—spoken in a voice which showed emotion and distress at being compelled to condemn a fellow-creature to death—I carried my fainting wife from the crowded, reeking court. The momentary sense of rapture passed away; bewilderment, sheer bewilderment, is the word for what was left. I could not think. All my reasoning faculties had left me. In fact, I believe that had Philippa not swooned, and so needed my mechanically given care, I myself should have fallen senseless on that threshold which an hour before we crossed, thinking we were going to endless misery.
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I remember this much. As I laid Philippa on one of the hard wooden benches in the stone corridor I kept repeating to myself, ‘Innocent, my love is innocent; that man is guilty.’ I suppose this continual reiteration was an endeavour to impress the tremendous fact upon my brain, which for a time was incredulous, and refused to entertain it.
I threw up my wife’s veil and bathed her face with water, which was brought me by a kindly policeman. Presently her eyes opened, and consciousness returned; she strove to speak.
My presence of mind was fast returning. ‘Dearest,’ I whispered, ‘as you love me, not a word in this place. In a minute we will leave it.’
She was obedient; but I knew from the wild look of joy in her eyes that obedience tasked her to the utmost. She was soon able to rise, and then we walked from the court, pushed our way through the crowd who waited in the street, busily discussing the sudden termination to the trial, threw ourselves into a cab, and in another moment were alternately weeping and laughing in each other’s arms.
It was, however, but for a moment. The inn to which we drove was close at hand. There we were shown into a room, and were at last free to give the fullest vent to our pent-up feelings.
It would be absurd for me to attempt to reproduce our words, our disjointed exclamations. It would be sacrilege for me to describe the tears we shed, the embraces, the loving caresses we lavished on each other. Think of us an hour, one short hour ago! Think of us now! The curse laid upon us by that awful night removed for ever! Our secret kept, or secrecy, if still advisable, no longer absolutely needful. Philippa, in spite all I had seen, in spite of all she had told me on that night when I found her, a wild distracted woman, in a storm the wildest that years have known, guiltless of her husband’s death! Innocent, not only as she had in my eyes always been, but also, what was far more, innocent in her own eyes!
Small wonder that for nearly an hour we sat with our arms twined around each other, and used few words which were more than rapturous exclamations of love and joy.