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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




Still the judge had to sum up; and all eyes turned on him, knowing
that the fate of the accused would probably depend on the colouring
that the facts adduced would assume in his hands. Flora, who met him
in society, was struck by the grave and melancholy bracing, as it
were, of the countenance, that she had seen as kindly and bright as
her father's; and the deep, full voice, sad rather than stern, the
very tone of which conveyed to every mind how heavy was the
responsibility of justice and impartiality. In effect, the very
force of the persuasions made for the defence, unanswered by the
prosecution, rendered it needful for him to give full weight to the
evidence for the other side; namely, the prisoner's evident
impatience of his position, and premeditated flight, the coincidence
of the times, the being the last person seen to enter the room, and
with the very weapon that had been the instrument of the crime; the
probability that the deceased had himself opened the drawer, the open
window, the flight, and the missing sum being found on his person,
the allegation that the receipt would be found in the pocket-book,
unsupported by any testimony as to the practice of the deceased; the
strangeness of leaving the premises so much too early for the train,
and, by his own account, leaving a person prowling in the court,
close to his uncle's window. No opinion was given; but there was
something that gave a sense that the judge felt it a crushing weight
of evidence. Yet so minutely was every point examined, so carefully
was every indication weighed which could tend to establish the
prisoner's innocence, that to those among his audience who believed
that innocence indubitable, it seemed as if his arguments proved it,
even more triumphantly than the pleading of the counsel, as,
vibrating between hope and fear, anxiety and gratitude, they followed
him from point to point of the unhappy incident, hanging upon every
word, as though each were decisive.

When at length he ceased, and the jury retired, the breathless
stillness continued. With some, indeed, there was the relaxation of
long-strained attention, eyes unbent, and heads turned, but Flora had
to pass her arm round her little sister, to steady the child's
nervous trembling; Aubrey sat rigid and upright, the throbs of his
heart well-nigh audible; and Dr. May leant forward, and covered his
eyes with his hand; Tom, who alone dared glance to the dock, saw that
Leonard too had retired. Those were the most terrible minutes they
had ever spent in their lives; but they were minutes of hope--of hope
of relief from a burthen, becoming more intolerable with every
second's delay ere the rebound.

Long as it seemed to them, it was not in reality more than a quarter
of an hour before the jury returned, and with slow grave movements,
and serious countenances, resumed their places. Leonard was already
in his; his cheek paler, his fingers locked together, and his eyes
scanning each as they came forward, and one by one their names were
called over. His head was erect, and his bearing had something
undaunted, though intensely anxious.

The question was put by the clerk of the court, 'How find you?
Guilty or Not guilty?'

Firmly, though sadly, the foreman rose, and his answer was, 'We find
the prisoner guilty; but we earnestly recommend him to mercy.'

Whether Tom felt or not that Aubrey was in a dead faint, and rested
against him as a senseless weight, he paid no visible attention to
aught but one face, on which his eyes were riveted as though nothing
would ever detach them--and that face was not the prisoner's.

Others saw Leonard's face raised upwards, and a deep red flush spread
over brow and cheek, though neither lip nor eye wavered.

Then came the question whether the prisoner had anything to say,
wherefore judgment should not be passed upon him.

Leonard made a step forward, and his clear steady tone did not shake
for a moment as he spoke. 'No. I see that appearances are so much
against me, that man can hardly decide otherwise. I have known from
the first that nothing could show my innocence but the finding of the
receipt. In the absence of that one testimony, I feel that I have
had a fair trial, and that all has been done for me that could be
done; and I thank you for it, my Lord, and you, Gentlemen,' as he
bent his head; then added, 'I should like to say one thing more. My
Lord, you would not let the question be asked, how I brought all this
upon myself. I wish to say it myself, for it is that which makes my
sentence just in the sight of God. It is true that, though I never
lifted my hand against my poor uncle, I did in a moment of passion
fling a stone at my brother, which, but for God's mercy, might indeed
have made me a murderer. It was for this, and other like outbreaks,
that I was sent to the mill; and it may be just that for it I should
die--though indeed I never hurt my uncle.'

Perhaps there was something in the tone of that one word, indeed,
which, by recalling his extreme youth, touched all hearts more than
even the manly tone of his answer, and his confession. There was a
universal weeping and sobbing throughout the court; Mrs. Pugh was on
the verge of hysterics, and obliged to be supported away; and
Gertrude was choking between the agony of contagious feeling and
dread of Flora's displeasure; and all the time Leonard stood calm,
with his brave head and lofty bearing, wound up for the awful moment
of the sentence.

The weeping was hushed, when the crier of the court made
proclamation, commanding all persons on pain of imprisonment to be
silent. Then the judge placed on his head the black cap, and it was
with trembling hands that he did so; the blood had entirely left his
face, and his lips were purple with the struggle to contend with and
suppress his emotion. He paused, as though he were girding himself
up to the most terrible of duties, and when he spoke his voice was
hollow, as he began:

'Leonard Axworthy Ward, you have been found guilty of a crime that
would have appeared impossible in one removed from temptation by
birth and education such as yours have been. What the steps may have
been that led to such guilt, must lie between your own conscience and
that God whose justice you have acknowledged. To Him you have
evidently been taught to look; and may you use the short time that
still remains to you, in seeking His forgiveness by sincere
repentance. I will forward the recommendation to mercy, but it is my
duty to warn you that there are no such palliating circumstances in
the evidence, as to warrant any expectation of a remission of the
sentence.

And therewith followed the customary form of sentence, ending with
the solemn 'And may God Almighty have mercy on your soul!'

Full and open, and never quailing, had the dark eyes been fixed upon
the judge all the time; and at those last words, the head bent low,
and the lips moved for 'Amen.'

Then Tom, relieved to find instant occupation for his father, drew
his attention to Aubrey's state; and the boy between Tom and George
Rivers was, as best they could, carried through the narrow outlets,
and laid down in a room, opened to them by the sheriff, where his
father and Flora attended him, while Tom flew for remedies; and
Gertrude sobbed and wept as she had never done in her life.

It was some time before the swoon yielded, or Dr. May could leave his
son, and then he was bent on at once going to the prisoner; but he
was so shaken and tremulous, that Tom insisted on giving him his arm,
and held an umbrella over him in the driving rain.

'Father,' he said, as soon as they were in the street, 'I can swear
who did it.'

Dr. May just hindered himself from uttering the name, but Tom
answered as if it had been spoken.

'Yes. I saw the face of fiendish barbarity that once was over me,
when I was a miserable little school-boy! He did it; and he has the
receipt.'

Dr. May squeezed his arm. 'I have not betrayed the secret, have I!'

'You knew that he knew it!'

'Not knew--suspected--generosity.'

'I saw him! I saw him cast those imploring earnest eyes of his on
the scoundrel as he spoke of the receipt--and the villain try to make
himself of stone. Well, if I have one wish in life, it is to see
that fellow come to the fate he deserves. I'll never lose sight of
him; I'll dog him like a bloodhound!'

And what good will that do, when--Tom, Tom, we must move Heaven and
earth for petitions. I'll take them up myself, and get George Rivers
to take me to the Home Secretary. Never fear, while there's justice
in Heaven.'

'Here's Henry!' exclaimed Tom, withholding his father, who had almost
ran against the brother, as they encountered round a corner.

He was pale and bewildered, and hardly seemed to hear the Doctor's
hasty asseverations that he would get a reprieve.

'He sent me to meet you,' said Henry. 'He wants you to go home--to
Ave I mean. He says that is what he wants most--for you to go to her
now, and to come to him to-morrow, or when you can; and he wants to
hear how Aubrey is,' continued Henry, as if dreamily repeating a
lesson.

'He saw then--?'

'Yes, and that seems to trouble him most.'

Dr. May was past speaking, and Tom was obliged to answer for him--
that Aubrey was pretty well again, and had desired his dearest,
dearest love; then asked how Leonard was.

'Calm and firm as ever,' said Henry, half choked. 'Nothing seems to
upset him, but speaking of--of you and Aubrey, Dr. May--and poor Ave.
Butbut they'll be together before long.'

'No such thing,' said Dr. May. 'You will see that certainty cures,
when suspense kills; and for him, I'll never believe but that all
will be right yet. Are you going home?'

'I shall try to be with--with the dear unhappy boy as long as I can,
and then I'll come home.'

Dr. May grasped Henry's hand, gave a promise of coming, and a message
of love to the prisoner, tried to say something more, but broke down,
and let Tom lead him away.




CHAPTER XV



Under the shroud
Of His thunder-cloud
Lie we still when His voice is loud,
And our hearts shall feel
The love notes steal,
As a bird sings after the thunder peal--C. F. A.


Not till dusk could Dr. May get back to Stoneborough, and then, in an
evening gleam of that stormy day, he was met at the gate of Bankside
by Richard and Ethel.

'You need not come in, papa,' said Ethel. 'She is asleep. She
knows.'

Dr. May sighed with unspeakable relief.

'Mr. Bramshaw telegraphed, and his clerk came down. It was not so
very bad! She saw it in our faces, and she was so worn out with
talking and watching, that--that the very turning her face to the
wall with hope over, became sleep almost directly.'

'That is well,' murmured the Doctor. 'And can you be spared, my
dear? If you could come I should be glad, for poor Aubrey is quite
done up.'

'I can come. Mary is with her, and Richard will stay to meet Henry,
if he is coming home, or to send up if they want you; but I think she
will not wake for many hours; and then--oh! what can any one do!'

So Richard turned back to the sorrowful house; and Dr. May, tenderly
drawing Ethel's arm into his own, told her, as they walked back, the
few incidents that she most wanted to hear, as best he could narrate
them. 'You have had a heart-rending day, my dear,' he said; 'you and
Mary, as well as the rest of us.'

'There was one comfort!' said Ethel, 'and that was his own notes.
Ave has all that he has written to her from Whitford under her
pillow, and she kept spreading them out, and making us read them,
and--oh! their braveness and cheeriness--they did quite seem to hold
one up! And then poor little Minna's constant little robin-chirp of
faith, "God will not let them hurt him." One could not bear to tell
the child, that though indeed they cannot hurt him, it may not be in
her sense! Look here! These are her slippers. She has worked on
all day to finish them, that they might be done and out of sight when
he came home this evening. The last stitch was done as Richard came
in; and now I thought I could only take them out of every one's
sight.'

'Poor things! poor things! And how was it with the child when she
heard?'

'The old sweet note,' said Ethel, less steadily than she had yet
spoken, '"nothing could hurt him for what he had not done." I don't
know whether she knows what--what is in store. At least she is not
shaken yet, dear child.'

'And Ave--how did you manage with her through all the day?'

'Oh! we did as we could. We tried reading the things Mr. Wilmot had
marked, but she was too restless; her hands would wander off to the
letters, caressing them, and she would go back to talk of him--all
his ways from a baby upwards. I hope there was no harm in letting
her do it, for if there is anything to do one good, it is his noble
spirit.'

'If you had only seen his face to-day,' exclaimed the Doctor, half
angrily, 'you would not feel much comfort in the cutting off such a
fellow. No, no, it won't be. We'll petition--petition--petition--
and save him, we will! Minna will be right yet! They shall not hurt
him!'

'Is there really hope in that way?' said Ethel, and a quiver of
relief agitated her whole frame.

'Every hope! Every one I have seen, or Tom either, says so. We have
only to draw up a strong enough representation of the facts, his
character, and all that; and there's his whole conduct before and
since to speak for itself. Why, when it was all over, George heard
every one saying, either he was a consummate hypocrite, or he must be
innocent. Harvey Anderson declares the press will take it up. We
shall certainly get him off.'

'You don't mean pardoned!'

'Commutation of the penalty. Come on,' said the Doctor, hurrying at
his headlong pace, 'there's no time to be lost in getting it drawn
up.'

Ethel was dragged on so fast, that she could not speak; but it was
with willing haste, for this was the sort of suspense in which motion
and purpose were a great relief after the day's weary waiting.
Gertrude, quite spent with excitement and tears, had wisely betaken
herself to bed; and it would have been well had Aubrey followed her
example, instead of wandering up and down the room in his misery,
flushed though wan, impetuously talking treason against trial by
jury, and abusing dignitaries. They let him have it out, in all its
fury and violence, till he had tired out his first vehemence, and
could be persuaded to lie on the sofa while the rough draught of the
petition was drawn up, Tom writing, and every one suggesting or
discussing, till the Doctor, getting thorough mastery over the
subject, dictated so fluently and admirably, that even Tom had not a
word to gainsay, but observed to Ethel, when his father had gone up
to bed, and carried Aubrey off, 'What an exceedingly able man my
father is!'

'Is this the first time you have found that out?' said Ethel.

'Why, you know it is not his nature to make the most of himself! But
studying under him brings it out more; and there's a readiness about
him that I wish was catching. But I say, Ethel, what's this? I no
more doubt who did the deed, than I do who killed Abel; but I had
once seen Cain's face, and I knew it again. Is it true that the boy
was aware, and told my father?'

'Did he tell you so?'

'Only asked if he had betrayed the secret. If they both know it--
why, if it be Leonard's taste, I suppose I must say nothing to the
contrary, but he might as well consider his sister.'

'What do you know, Tom?' said she, perplexed.

'Only that there's some secret; and if it be as I am given to
understand, then it is a frenzy that no lucid person should permit.'

'No, Tom,' said Ethel, feeling that the whole must be told, 'it is no
certainty--only unsupported suspicion, which he could not help
telling papa after binding him on honour to make no use of it.
Putting things together, he was sure who the man in the yard was; but
it was not recognition, and he could not have proved it.'

'What Quixotry moved my father not to put the lawyers on the scent?'

Ethel explained; and for her pains Tom fell upon her for her folly in
not having told him all, when he could have gone to Blewer and
gathered information as no professional person could do; then
lamented that he had let Aubrey keep him from the inquest, when the
fellow's hang-dog look would have been sure to suggest to him to set
Anderson to get him searched. Even now he would go to the mill, and
try to hunt up something.

'Tom, remember papa's promise!'

'Do you think a man can do nothing without committing himself, like
poor Aubrey? No, Ethel, the Doctor may be clever, but that's no use
if a man is soft, and he is uncommonly soft; and you should not
encourage him in it.'

Ethel was prevented from expressing useless indignation by the
arrival of Mary, asking where papa was.

'Gone to bed. He said he must go off at six to-morrow, there are so
many patients to see. Ave does not want him, I hope?'

No, she is still asleep; I was only waiting for Richard, and he had
dreadful work with that poor Henry.'

'What kind of work?'

'Oh, I believe it has all come on him now that it was his fault--
driving Leonard to that place; and he was in such misery, that
Richard could not leave him.'

'I am glad he has the grace to feel it at last,' said Tom.

'It must be very terrible!' said Mary. 'He says he cannot stay in
that house, for every room reproaches him; and he groaned as if he
was in tremendous bodily pain.'

'What, you assisted at this scene?' said Tom, looking at her rather
sharply.

'No; but Richard told me; and I heard the groans as I sat on the
stairs.'

'Sat on the stairs?'

'Yes. I could not go back to Ave's room for fear of waking her.'

'And how long?'

'Towards an hour, I believe. I did all that piece,' said Mary,
displaying a couple of inches of a stocking leg, 'and I think it was
pretty well in the dark.'

'Sitting on the stairs for an hour in the dark,' said Tom, as he gave
Mary the candle he had been lighting for her. 'That may be called
unappreciated devotion.'

'I never can tell what Tom means,' said Mary, as she went up-stairs
with Ethel. 'It was a very comfortable rest. I wish you had had the
same, dear Ethel, you look so tired and worn out. Let me stay and
help you. It has been such a sad long day; and oh! how terrible this
is! And you know him better than any of us, except Aubrey.'

Mary stopped almost in dismay, for her sister, usually so firm, broke
down entirely, and sitting down on a low chair, threw an arm round
her, and resting her weary brow against her, gave way to long
tearless sobs, or rather catches of breath. 'Oh! Mary! Mary!' she
said, between her gasps, 'to think of last year--and Coombe--and the
two bright boys--and the visions--and the light in those glorious
eyes--and that this should be the end!'

'Dear, dear Ethel,' said Mary, with fast-flowing tears and tender
caresses, 'you have kept us all up; you have always shown us it was
for the best.'

'It is! it is!' cried Ethel. 'I do, I _will_ believe it! If I had
only seen his face as papa tells of it, I could keep hold of the
glory of it and the martyr spirit. Now I only see his earnest, shy,
confiding look--and--and I don't know how to bear it.' And Ethel's
grasp of Mary in both arms was tightened, as if to support herself
under her deep labouring sobs of anguish. Ah! he was very fond of
you.'

'There never was any one beyond our own selves that loved me so well.
I always knew it would not last--that it ought not; but oh! it was
endearing; and I did think to have seen him a shining light!'

'And don't you tell us he is a shining light now?' said Mary, among
the tears that really almost seemed to be a relief, as if her sister
herself had shed them; and as she knelt down, Ethel laid her head on
her shoulder, and spoke more calmly.

'He is,' she said, 'and I ought to be thankful for it! I think I am
generally--but now--it makes it the more piteous--the hopes--the
spirit--the determination--all to be quenched, and so quenched--and
to have nothing--nothing to do for him.

'But, Ethel, papa says your messages do him more good than anything;
and papa will let you go and see him, and that will comfort him.'

Ethel's lips gave a strange sort of smile; she thought it was at
simple Mary's trust in her power, but it would hardly have been there
but for the species of hope thus excited, and the sense of sympathy.
Mary was not one to place any misconstruction on what had passed; she
well knew that Leonard had almost taken a brother's place in Ethel's
heart, and she prized him at the rate of her sister's esteem.
Perhaps her prominent thought was how cruel were those who fancied
that Ethel's lofty faith was unfeeling, and how very good Leonard
must be to be thus mourned. At any rate, she was an excellent
comforter, in the sympathy that was neither too acute nor too obtuse;
and purely to oblige her, Ethel for the first time submitted to her
favourite panacea of hair brushing, and found that in very truth
those soft and steady manipulations were almost mesmeric in soothing
away the hard oppressive excitement, and bringing on a gentle and
slumberous resignation.

The sisters were early astir next morning, to inflict on their father
a cup of cocoa, which he rebelled against, but swallowed, and to
receive his last orders, chiefly consisting of messages to Tom about
taking the petition to be approved of by Dr. Spencer and others, and
then having it properly drawn out. Mary asked if women might sign
it, and was answered with an impatient 'Pshaw!'

'But ladies do have petitions of their own,' said Mary, with some
diffidence. 'Could not we have one?'

His lips were compressed for another 'Pshaw,' when he bethought
himself. 'Well, I don't know--the more the better. Only it won't do
for you to set it going. Flora must be the woman for that.'

'Oh, then,' cried Mary, eagerly, 'might not I walk over to breakfast
at the Grange, and talk to Flora? Ethel, you would not mind going to
Ave instead? Or will you go to Flora?'

'You had better,' said Ethel. 'I must stay on Aubrey's account; and
this is your doing, Mary,' she added, looking at her warmly.

'Then put on your hat, Mary, and take a biscuit,' said the Doctor,
'and you shall have a lift as far as the cross roads.'

Thus the morning began with action and with hope. Mary found herself
very welcome at the Grange, where there was much anxiety to hear of
Aubrey, as well as the more immediate sufferers. The Riverses had
dined at Drydale, and had met the judges, as well as a good many of
the county gentlemen who had been on the grand jury and attended on
the trial. They had found every one most deeply touched by the
conduct of the prisoner. The judge had talked to Flora about her
young brother, and the friendship so bravely avouched; had asked the
particulars of the action to which Leonard had alluded, and shown
himself much interested in all that she related.

She said that the universal impression was that the evidence was dead
against Leonard, and taken apart, led to such conviction of his
guilt, that no one could wonder at the verdict; but that his
appearance and manner were such, that it was almost impossible, under
their influence, not to credit his innocence. She had reason to
believe that petitions were already in hand both from the county and
the assize town, and she eagerly caught at Mary's proposal of one
from the ladies of Stoneborough.

'I'll drive in at once before luncheon, and take you home, Mary,' she
said. 'And, first of all, we will begin with the two widows, and
half the battle will be won.'

Nay, more than half the battle proved to be already gained in that
quarter. The writing-table was covered with sheets of foolscap, and
Mrs. Pugh was hard at work copying the petition which Mr. Harvey
Anderson had kindly assisted in composing, and which the aunt and
niece had intended to have brought to the Grange for Mrs. Rivers's
approval that very day. Harvey Anderson had spent the evening at
Mrs. Ledwich's in drawing it up, and giving his advice; and Flora,
going over it word for word with Mrs. Pugh, felt that it could hardly
have been better worded.

'He is a very clever, a very rising young man, and so feeling, said
Mrs. Ledwich to Mary while this was going on. 'In fact, he is a
perfect knight-errant on this subject. He is gone to London this
morning to see what can be done by means of the press. I tell
Matilda it is quite a romance of modern life; and indeed, the sweet
girl is very romantic still--very young, even after all she has gone
through.'

Not understanding this, Mary let it pass in calculations on the
number of possible signatures, which the two ladies undertook to
collect.

'That is well,' said Flora, as they went away. 'It could not be in
better hands. It will thrive the better for our doing nothing but
writing our names.'

They met Tom on the like errand, but not very sanguine, for he said
there had of late been an outcry against the number of reprieves
granted, and the public had begun to think itself not sufficiently
protected. He thought the best chance was the discovery of some
additional fact that might tell in favour of Leonard, and confident
in his own sagacity, was going to make perquisitions at the mill.
Every one had been visiting of late, and now that he knew more, if he
and his microscope could detect one drop of human blood in an
unexpected place, they would do better service to the prisoner than
all the petitions that could be signed.

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