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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




Mary looked greatly grieved, but said nothing, only following her
father to take his last words and directions. 'Keep her as quiet as
you can. Do not worry her, but get out this root of bitterness if
you can. Poor, poor things!'

'That little Minna is a dear child!' said Mary. 'She is grown so
much older than Ella, or than she was last year. She seems to
understand and feel like a grown-up person. I do think she may
soften poor Ave more than I can; but, papa, there is excuse. Mr.
Ward must have made them more miserable than we guessed.'

'The more reason she must forgive him. O, Mary, I fear a grievous
lesson is coming to them; but I must do all I can. Good-bye, my
dear; do the best you can for them;' and he set forth again with a
bleeding heart.

At the attorney's office, he found the principal from home, but the
partner, Edward Anderson, on the qui vive for a summons to attend on
behalf of his fellow-townsman, and confident that however bad were
the present aspect of affairs, his professional eye would instantly
find a clue.

Aubrey was in an agony of excitement, but unable to endure the notion
of approaching the scene of action; and his half-choked surly 'Don't'
was sufficient to deter his brother Thomas, who had never shown
himself so kind, considerate, and free from sneer or assumption. In
'hours of ease' he might seem selfish and exacting, but a crisis
evoked the latent good in him, and drew him out of himself.

Nor would Henry return to Bankside. After many vacillations, the
moment for starting found him in a fit of despair about the family
disgrace, only able to beg that 'the unhappy boy' should be assured
that no expense should be spared in his defence; or else, that if he
were cleared and returned home, his welcome should be most joyful.
But there Henry broke off, groaned, said they should never look up
again, and must leave the place.

Except for Averil's own sake, Dr. May would almost have regretted his
exhortations in favour of her eldest brother.

In due time the Doctor arrived at the mill, where the inquest was to
take place, as the public-house was small, and inconveniently
distant; and there was ample accommodation in the large rambling
building. So crowded was the court-yard, that the Doctor did not
easily make his way to the steps of the hall door; but there, after
one brief question to the policeman in charge, he waited, though
several times invited in.

Before long, all eyes turned one way, as a closed fly, with a
policeman on the box, drove in at the gateway, stopped, and between
the two men on guard appeared a tall young figure.

The Doctor's first glance showed him a flushed and weary set of
features, shocked and appalled; but the eyes, looking straight up in
their anxiety, encountered his with an earnest grateful appeal for
sympathy, answered at once by a step forward with outstretched hand.
The grip of the fingers was heated, agitated, convulsive, but not
tremulous; and there was feeling, not fear, in the low husky voice
that said, 'Thank you. Is Henry here?'

'No, he is too--too much overcome; but he hopes to see you at home
to-night; and here is Edward Anderson, whom he has sent to watch the
proceedings for you.'

'Thank you,' said Leonard, acknowledging Edward's greeting. 'As far
as I am concerned, I can explain all in a minute; but my poor uncle--
I little thought--'

There was no opportunity for further speech in private, for the
coroner had already arrived, and the inquiry had been only deferred
until Leonard should have come. The jury had been viewing the body,
and the proceedings were to take place in the large low dining-room,
where the southern windows poured in a flood of light on the faces of
the persons crowded together, and the reflections from the rippling
water danced on the ceiling. Dr. May had a chair given him near the
coroner, and keenly watched the two nephews--one seated next to him,
the other at some distance, nearly opposite. Both young men looked
haggard, shocked, and oppressed: the eye of Axworthy was unceasingly
fixed on an inkstand upon the table, and never lifted, his expression
never varied; and Leonard's glance flashed inquiringly from one
speaker to another, and his countenance altered with every phase of
the evidence.

The first witness was Anne Ellis, the young maid-servant, who told of
her coming down at ten minutes after five that morning, the 6th of
July, and on going in to clean the rooms, finding her master sunk
forward on the table. Supposing him to have had a fit, she had run
to the window and screamed for help, when Master Hardy, the foreman,
and Mrs. Giles, the housekeeper, had come in.

James Hardy deposed to having heard the girl's cry while he was
unlocking the mill door. Coming in by the low sash-window, which
stood open, he had gone up to his master, and had seen the wound on
the head, and found the body quite cold, Mrs. Giles coming in, they
had carried it to the bed in the next room; and he had gone to call
the young gentlemen, but neither was in his room. He knew that it
had been left uncertain whether Mr. Samuel would return to sleep at
home between the two days of the county races, but he did not expect
Mr. Ward to be out; and had then observed that his bed had not been
slept in, and that the passage window outside his room was partly
open. He had then thought it best to go into Stoneborough to inform
the family.

Rebecca Giles, the housekeeper, an elderly woman, crying violently,
repeated the evidence as to the discovery of the body. The last time
she had seen her master alive, was when she had carried in his supper
at nine o'clock, when he had desired her to send Mr. Ward to him; and
had seemed much vexed to hear that the young man had not returned
from rifle practice, little thinking, poor old gentleman!--but here
the housekeeper was recalled to her subject. The window was then
open, as it was a sultry night, but the blind down. Her master was a
good deal crippled by gout, and could not at that time move actively
nor write, but could dress himself, and close a window. He disliked
being assisted; and the servants were not in the habit of seeing him
from the time his supper was brought in till breakfast next morning.
She had seen Mr. Ward come home at twenty minutes or half after nine,
in uniform, carrying his rifle; she had given the message, and he had
gone into the sitting-room without putting down the rifle. She
believed it to be the one on the table, but could not say so on oath;
he never let any one touch it; and she never looked at such horrid
murderous things. And some remarks highly adverse to the volunteer
movement were cut short.

William Andrews, groom, had been called by Anne Ellis, had seen the
wound, and the blood on the desk, and had gone to fetch a surgeon and
the police from Whitford. On his return, saw the rifle leaning
against the shutter; believed it to be Mr. Ward's rifle.

Charles Rankin, surgeon, had been called in to see Mr. Axworthy, and
arrived at seven o'clock A. M. Found him dead, from a fracture of
the skull over the left temple, he should imagine, from a blow from a
heavy blunt instrument, such as the stock of a gun. Death must have
been instantaneous, and had probably taken place seven or eight hours
before he was called in. The marks upon the rifle before him were
probably blood; but he could not say so upon oath, till he had
subjected them to microscopic examination. The hair was human, and
corresponded with that of the deceased.

Samuel Axworthy had slept at the Three Goblets, in consequence of
finding himself too late for admission at home. He had been wakened
at half-past five, and found all as had been stated by the previous
witnesses; and he corroborated the housekeeper's account of his
uncle's habits. The rifle he believed to belong to his cousin,
Leonard Ward. He could not account for Leonard Ward's absence on
that morning. No permission, as far as he was aware, had been given
him to leave home; and he had never known his uncle give him any
commission at that hour.

The different policemen gave their narrations of the state of things
--the open window, the position of the boat, &c. And the ticket-clerk
at the small Blewer Station stated that at about 12.15 at night, Mr.
Ward had walked in without baggage, and asked for a second-class
ticket to London.

Leonard here interposed an inquiry whether he had not said a day
ticket, and the clerk recollected that he had done so, and had spoken
of returning by four o'clock; but the train, being reckoned as
belonging to the previous day, no return tickets were issued for it,
and he had therefore taken an ordinary one, and started by the mail
train.

The London policeman, who had come down with Leonard, stated that, in
consequence of a telegraphic message, he had been at the Paddington
Station at 6.30 that morning; had seen a young gentleman answering to
the description sent to him, asked if his name were Leonard Ward, and
receiving a reply in the affirmative, had informed him of the charge,
and taken him into custody. The bag that he placed on the table he
had found on the young man's person.

Every one was startled at this unexpected corroboration of the
suspicion. It was a heavy-looking bag, of reddish canvas, marked
with a black circle, containing the letters F. A. Gold; the neck tied
with a string; the contents were sovereigns, and a note or two.

Dr. May looked piteously, despairingly, at Leonard; but the brow was
still open and unclouded, the eye glanced back reassurance and
confidence.

The policeman added that he had cautioned the young man to take care
what he said, but that he had declared at once that his uncle had
sent him to lodge the sum in Drummond's Bank, and that he would show
a receipt for it on his return.

The coroner then proceeded to examine Leonard, but still as a
witness. Edward Anderson spoke to him in an undertone, advising him
to be cautious, and not commit himself, but Leonard, rather
impatiently thanking him, shook him off, and spoke with freedom and
openness.

'I have nothing to keep back,' he said. 'Of course I know nothing of
this frightful murder, nor what villain could have got hold of the
rifle, which, I am sorry to say, is really mine. Last evening I used
it at drill and practice on Blewer Heath, and came home when it grew
dusk, getting in at about half-past nine. I was then told by Mrs.
Giles that my uncle wished to speak to me, and was displeased at my
staying out so late. I went into his room as I was, and put my rifle
down in a corner by the window, when he desired me to sit down and
listen to him. He then told me that he wished to send me to town by
the mail train, to take some cash to Drummond's Bank, and to return
by to-day's four o'clock train. He said he had reasons for wishing
no one to be aware of his opening an account there, and he undertook
to explain my absence. He took the sum from the private drawer of
his desk, and made me count it before him, £124 12s. in sovereigns
and bank-notes. The odd money he gave me for my expenses, the rest I
put in the bag that I fetched out of the office. He could not hold a
pen, and could therefore give me no letter to Messrs. Drummond, but
he made me write a receipt for the amount in his memorandum book. I
wished him good night, and left him still sitting in his easy-chair,
with the window open and the blind down. I found that I had forgotten
my rifle, but I did not go back for it, because he disliked the
disturbance of opening and shutting doors. While I was changing my
dress, I saw from the window that some one was still about in the
court, and knowing that my uncle wished me to avoid notice, I thought
it best to let myself out by the passage window, as I had sometimes
done in early mornings to bathe or fish, and go across the fields to
Blewer Station. I got down into the garden, crossed in the punt, and
went slowly by Barnard's hatch; I believe I stopped a good many
times, as it was too soon, and a beautiful moonlight night, but I
came to Blewer soon after twelve, and took my ticket. At Paddington
I met this terrible news.'

As the boy spoke, his bright eyes turned from one listener to
another, as though expecting to read satisfaction on their faces; but
as doubt and disbelief clouded all, his looks became almost
constantly directed to Dr. May, and his voice unconsciously passed
from a sound of justification to one of pleading. When he ceased, he
glanced round as if feeling his innocence established.

'You gave a receipt, Mr. Ward,' said the coroner. 'Will you tell us
where it is likely to be?'

'It must be either on or in my uncle's desk, or in his pocket. Will
some one look for it? I wrote it in his memorandum book--a curious
old black shagreen book, with a silver clasp. I left it open on the
desk to dry.'

A policeman went to search for it; and the coroner asked what the
entry had been.

'July 5th, 1860. Received, £120. L. A. Ward,'--was the answer.
'You will find it about the middle of the book, or rather past it.'

'At what time did this take place?'

'It must have been towards ten. I cannot tell exactly, but it was
later than half-past nine when I came in, and he was a good while
bringing out the money.'

The policeman returned, saying he could not find the book; and
Leonard begging to show where he had left it, the coroner and jury
accompanied him to the room. At the sight of the red stain on the
desk, a shuddering came over the boy, and a whiteness on his heated
brow, nor could he at once recover himself so as to proceed with the
search, which was still in vain; though with a voice lowered by the
sickness of horror, he pointed out the place where he had laid it,
and the pen he had used; and desk, table, drawer, and the dead man's
dress were carefully examined.

'You must know it, Sam,' said Leonard. 'Don't you remember his
putting in the cheque--old Bilson's cheque for his year's rent--
twenty-five pounds? I brought it in, and he put it away one day last
week. You were sitting there.'

Sam stammered something of 'Yes, he did recollect something of it.'

Inquiries were made of the other persons concerned with Mr. Axworthy.
Hardy thought his master used such a book, but had never seen it
near; Mrs. Giles altogether disbelieved its existence; and Sam could
not be positive--his uncle never allowed any one to touch his private
memorandums.

As, with deepened anxiety, Dr. May returned to the dining-room, he
caught a glimpse of Henry Ward's desponding face, but received a sign
not to disclose his presence. Edward Anderson wrote, and considered;
and the coroner, looking at his notes again, recurred to Leonard's
statement that he had seen some one in the yard.

'I thought it was one of the men waiting to take my cousin Axworthy's
horse. I did not know whether he had ridden or gone by train; and I
supposed that some one would be looking out for him.'

Questions were asked whether any of the servants had been in the
yard, but it was denied by all; and on a more particular description
of the person being demanded, Leonard replied that the figure had
been in the dark shade of the stables, and that he only knew that it
was a young man--whether a stranger or not he did not know; he
supposed now that it must have been the--the murderer, but at the
time he had thought it one of the stable-men; and as his uncle had
particularly wished that his journey should be a secret, the sight
had only made him hasten to put out his light, and depart unseen. It
was most unfortunate that he had done so.

Others ironically whispered, 'Most unfortunate.'

The coroner asked Mr. Anderson whether he had anything to ask or
observe, and on his reply in the negative, proceeded to sum up the
evidence for the consideration of the jury.

It seemed as if it were only here that Leonard perceived the real
gist of the evidence. His brow grew hotter, his eyes indignant, his
hands clenched, as if he with difficulty restrained himself from
breaking in on the coroner's speech; and when at length the question
was put to the jury, he stood, the colour fading from his cheek, his
eyes set and glassy, his lip fallen, the dew breaking out on his
brow, every limb as it were petrified by the shock of what was thus
first fully revealed to him.

So he stood, while the jury deliberated in low gruff sorrowful
murmurs, and after a few minutes, turned round to announce with much
sadness that they could do no otherwise than return a verdict of
wilful murder against Leonard Ward.

'Mr. Leonard Ward,' said the coroner, a gentleman who had well known
his father, and who spoke with scarcely concealed emotion, 'it
becomes my painful duty to commit you to Whitford Gaol for trial at
the next assizes.'

Dr. May eagerly offered bail, rather as the readiest form of kindness
than in the hope of its acceptance, and it was of course refused; but
he made his way to the prisoner, and wrung his chill hand with all
his might. The pressure seemed to waken the poor lad from his frozen
rigidity; the warmth came flowing back into his fingers as his friend
held them; he raised his head, shut and re-opened his eyes, and
pushed back his hair, as though trying to shake himself loose from a
too horrible dream. His face softened and quivered as he met the
Doctor's kind eyes; but bracing himself again, he looked up, answered
the coroner's question--that his Christian name was Leonard Axworthy,
his age within a few weeks of eighteen; and asked permission to fetch
what he should want from his room.

The policeman, in whose charge he was, consented both to this, and to
Dr. May being there alone with him for a short time.

Then it was that the boy relaxed the strain on his features, and said
in a low and strangled voice, 'O, Dr. May, if you had only let me die
with them last year!'

'It was not I who saved you. He who sent that ordeal, will bring you
through--this,' said Dr. May, with a great sob in his throat that
belied his words of cheer.

'I thank Him at least for having taken her,' said Leonard, resting
his head on the mantel-shelf beneath his mother's picture, while his
little dog sat at his foot, looking up at him, cowed and wistful.

Dr. May strove for words of comfort, but broke utterly down; and
could only cover his face with his hands, and struggle with his
emotion, unable to utter a word.

Yet perhaps none would have been so comforting as his genuine
sympathy, although it was in a voice of extreme distress that Leonard
exclaimed, 'Dr. May, Dr. May, pray don't! you ought not to grieve for
me!'

'I'm a fool,' said Dr. May, after some space, fighting hard with
himself. 'Nonsense! we shall see you out of this! We have only to
keep up a good heart, and we shall see it explained.'

'I don't know; I can't understand,' said Leonard, passing his hand
over his weary forehead. 'Why could they not believe when I told
them just how it was?'

At that moment the policeman opened the door, saying, 'Here, sir;'
and Henry hurried in, pale and breathless, not looking in his
brother's face, as he spoke fast and low.

'Ned Anderson says there's nothing at all to be made of this defence
of yours; it is of no use to try it. The only thing is to own that
he found fault with you, and in one of your rages--you know--'

'You too, Henry!' said Leonard, in dejected reproach.

'Why--why, it is impossible it could have been otherwise--open
window, absconding, and all. We all know you never meant it; but
your story won't stand; and the only chance, Anderson says, is to go
in for manslaughter. If you could only tell anything that would give
him a clue to pick up evidence while the people are on the spot.'

Leonard's face was convulsed for a moment while his brother was
speaking; but he recovered calmness of voice, as he mournfully
answered, 'I have no right to wonder at your suspicion of me.'

Henry for the first time really looked at him, and instinctively
faltered, 'I beg your pardon.'

'Indeed,' said Leonard, with the same subdued manner, 'I cannot
believe that any provocation could make me strike a person like that
old man; and here there was none at all. Except that he was vexed at
first at my being late, he had never been so near kindness.'

'Then is this extraordinary story the truth?'

'Why should I not tell the truth?' was the answer, too mournful for
indignation.

Henry again cast down his eyes, Leonard moved about making
preparations, Dr. May leant against the wall--all too much oppressed
for speech; till, as Leonard stooped, poor little Mab, thrusting her
black head into his hand, drew from him the words, 'My doggie, what
is to become of you?'

A sort of hoarse explosion of 'Ave' from Henry was simultaneous with
the Doctor's 'I tried to get her home with me in the morning, but she
waited your orders.'

'Miss May would not have her now. After all, prussic acid would be
the truest mercy' said Leonard, holding the little creature up to his
face, and laying his cheek against her silken coat with almost
passionate affection.

'Not while there are those who trust your word, Leonard; as Ethel
said this morning.'

He raised the face which he had hidden against the dog, and looked
earnestly at the Doctor as if hardly venturing to understand him;
then a ray of real gladness and comfort darted into his eyes, which
so enlivened Dr. May, that he was able to say cheerfully, 'We will
take good care of her till you come for her.'

'Then, Henry,' said Leonard, 'it is not unkindness, nor that I
remember things, but indeed I think it will be better for you all,
since Dr. May is so--so--' The word kind was so inadequate, that it
stuck in his throat. 'Take this to Ave,' putting his mother's
likeness in his hand, 'and tell her I will write,'

'Poor Ave!'

Leonard imploringly shook his head; the mention of his sister shook
him more than he could bear; and he asked the time.

'Nearly six.'

'Only six! What an endless day! There, I am ready. There is no use
in delaying. I suppose I must show what I am taking with me.'

'Wait,' said his brother. 'Cannot you say anything to put us on the
track of the man in the yard?'

'I did not see him plain.'

'You've no notion?' said Henry, with a movement of annoyance.

'No. I only looked for a moment; for I was much more anxious to get
off quietly, than to make any one out. If I had only waited ten
minutes, it might have been the saving of his life, but my commission
was so like fun, and so important too, that I thought of nothing
else. Can it be not twenty-four hours ago?'

'And why don't you explain why he sent you?'

'I cannot say it so certainly as to be of the slightest use,' said
Leonard.

'He never expressed it either; and I have no right to talk of my
suspicions.'

'Eh! was it to put it out of Sam's way?'

'So I suppose. Sam used to get all he chose out of the poor old man;
and I believe he thought this the only chance of keeping anything for
himself, but he never told me so. Stay! Bilson's cheque might be
tracked. I took it myself, and gave the receipt; you will find it
entered in the books--paid on either the twenty-third or fourth.'

'Then there's something to do, at any rate,' cried Henry,
invigorated. 'Anderson shall hunt out the balance and Sam's draughts
on it. I'll spare no expense, Leonard, if it is to my last farthing;
and you shall have the best counsel that can be retained.'

Leonard signed thanks with some heartiness, and was going to the
door, when Henry detained him. 'Tell me, Leonard, have you no
suspicion?'

'It must have been the person I saw in the court, and, like a fool,
did not watch. The window was open, and he could have easily got in
and come out. Can't they see that if it had been me, I should have
made off at once that way?'

'If you could only tell what the fellow was like!'

'I told you he was in the dark,' said Leonard, and without giving
time for more, he called in the man outside, showed the clothes and,
books he had selected, put them into his bag, and declared himself
ready, giving his hand to the Doctor, who drew him near and kissed
his brow, as if he had been Harry setting forth on a voyage.

'Good-bye, my dear fellow; God bless you; I'll soon come to see you.'

'And I,' said Henry, 'will bring Bramshaw to see what is to be done.'

Leonard wrung his brother's hand, murmuring something of love to his
sisters; then put Mab into Dr. May's arms, with injunctions that the
little creature understood and obeyed, for though trembling and
whining under her breath, she was not resisting.

It might be to shorten her distress as well as his own that Leonard
passed quickly down-stairs, and entered the carriage that was to take
him to the county gaol.




CHAPTER XIII



Tears are not always fruitful; their hot drops
Sometimes but scorch the cheek and dim the eye;
Despairing murmurs over blackened hopes,
Not the meek spirit's calm and chastened cry.
Oh, better not to weep, than weep amiss!
For hard it is to learn to weep aright;
To weep wise tears, the tears that heal and bless,
The tears which their own bitterness requite.--H. BONAR

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