William Shakespeare - "The Life of King Henry the Fifth"

A. Arthur Reade - "Study and Stimulants"

Thomas Carlyle - "History of Friedrich II of Prussia V 11"

Sam Vaknin - "Wars and Empire"

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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




That Ethel should see Leonard before the last, he was quite resolved;
and Ethel, finding that so it was, left the _when_ in his hands,
knowing the concession to be so great, that it must be met by
grateful patience on her own side, treasuring the drawing meanwhile
with feelings beyond speech. Dr. May did not wish the meeting to
take place till he was really sure that all hope was at an end; he
knew it would be a strong measure, and though he did not greatly care
for the world in general, he did not want to offend Flora
unnecessarily; in matters of propriety she was a little bit of a
conscience to him, and though he would brave her or any one else when
a thing was right, especially if it were to give one last moment of
joy to Leonard, she was not to be set at naught till the utmost
extremity.

And for one day, the sight of Averil would be enough. She had
struggled into something sufficiently like recovery to be able to
maintain her fitness for the exertion; and Henry had recognized that
the unsatisfied pining was so preying on her as to hurt her more than
the meeting and parting could do, since, little as he could
understand how it was, he perceived that Leonard could be depended on
for support and comfort. With him, indeed, Leonard had ever shown
himself cheerful and resolute, speaking of anything rather than of
himself and never grieving him with the sight of those failings of
flesh and heart that would break forth where there was more congenial
sympathy, yet where they were not a reproach.

So Averil, with many a promise to be 'good,' and strongly impressed
with warnings that the chance of another meeting depended on the
effects of this one, was laid back in the carriage, leaving poor
little Minna to Mary's consolation. Minna was longing to go too, but
Henry had forbidden it, and not even an appeal to Dr. May had
prevailed; so she was taken home by Mary, and with a child's touching
patience, was helped through the weary hours, giving wandering though
gentle attention to Ella's eager display of the cariosities of the
place, and explanations of the curious games and puzzles taught by
'Mr. Tom.' Ethel, watching the sweet wistful face, and hearing the
subdued voice, felt a reverence towards the child, as though somewhat
of the shadow of her brother's cross had fallen on her.

The elder brother and sister meanwhile arrived at the building now
only too familiar to one of them, and, under her thick veil,
unconscious of the pitying looks of the officials, Averil was led,
leaning on Henry's arm, along the whitewashed passages, with their
slate floors, and up the iron stairs, the clear, hard, light coldness
chilling her heart with a sense of the stern, relentless, inevitable
grasp in which the victim was held. The narrow iron door flew open
at the touch of the turnkey; a hand was on her arm, but all swam
round with her, and she only knew it was the well-known voice; she
did not follow the words between her brothers and the turnkey about
the time she was to be left there, but she gave a start and shudder
when the door sprung fast again behind her, and at the same instant
she felt herself upheld by an arm round her waist.

'Take off your bonnet, Ave; let me see you,' he said, himself undoing
the strings, and removing it, then bending his face to hers for a
long, almost insatiable kiss, as they stood strained in one intense
embrace, all in perfect silence on the sister's part.

'I have been making ready for you,' he said at length, partly
releasing her; 'you are to sit here;' and he deposited her, still
perfectly passive in his hands, upon his bed, her back against the
wall. 'Put up your feet! There!' And having settled her to his
satisfaction, he knelt down on the floor, one arm round her waist,
one hand in hers, looking earnestly up into her face, with his soul
in his eyes, her other hand resting on his shoulder.

'How are the little ones, Ave?'

'Very well. Minna so longed to come.'

'Better not,' said Leonard; 'she is so little, and these white walls
might distress her fancy. They will remember our singing on the last
Sunday evening instead. Do you remember, Ave, how they begged to
stay on and on till it grew so dark that we could not see a word or a
note, and went on from memory?' and he very softly hummed the restful
cadence, dying away into


'Till in the ocean of Thy love
We lose ourselves in Heaven above.'


'How can you bear to think of those dear happy days!'

'Because you will be glad of them by and by, said Leonard; 'and I am
very glad of them now, though they might have been so much better, if
only we had known.'

'They were the only happy days of all my life!'

'I hope not--I trust not, dearest. You may and ought to have much
better and happier days to come.'

She shook her head, with a look of inexpressible anguish, almost of
reproach.

'Indeed I mean it, Ave,' he said; 'I have thought it over many times,
and I see that the discomfort and evil of our home was in the spirit
of pride and rebellion that I helped you to nurse. It was like a
wedge, driving us farther and farther apart; and now that it is gone,
and you will close up again, when you are kind and yielding to Henry
--what a happy peaceful home you may make out in the prairie land!'

'As if we could ever--'

'Nay, Averil, could not you recover it if I were dying now of
sickness? I know you would, though you might not think so at the
time. Believe me, then, when I say that I am quite willing to have
it as it is--to be my own man to the last--to meet with such precious
inestimable kindness from so many. Of course I should like to live
longer, and do something worth doing; but if I am to die young, there
is so much blessing even in this way, that nothing really grieves me
but the thought of you and Henry; and if it makes you one together,
even that is made up.'

Awe-struck, and as if dreaming, she did not answer, only smoothing
caressingly the long waves of bright brown hair on his forehead. She
was surprised by his next question.

'Ave! how has Mrs. Pugh behaved?'

'Oh! the woman! I have hardly thought of her! She has been very
active about the petition, somebody said; but I don't believe Henry
can bear to hear of her any more than I can. What made you think of
her?'

'Because I wanted to know how it was with Henry, and I could not ask
him. Poor fellow! Well, Ave, you see he will depend on you entirely
for comfort, and you must promise me that shall be your great
business and care.'

'How you do think of Henry!' she said, half jealously.

'Of course, Ave. You and I have no past to grieve over together, but
poor Henry will never feel free of having left me to my self-willed
obstinacy, and let me go to that place. Besides, the disgrace in the
sight of the world touches him more, and you can tread that down more
easily than he.' Then, in answer to a wondering look, 'Yes, you can,
when you recollect that it is crime, not the appearance of it, that
is shame. I do not mean that I do not deserve all this--but--but--'
and his eye glistened, 'Ave, dear, if I could only bring out the
words to tell you how much peace and joy there is in knowing that--
with that vast difference--it is like in some degree what was borne
to save us, I really don't think you could go on grieving over me any
more; at least not more than for the loss,' he added, tenderly; 'and
you'll not miss me so much in a new country, you know, with Henry and
the children to take care of. Only promise me to be kind to Henry.'

And having drawn forth a faint promise, that he knew would have more
force by and by, Leonard went on, in his low quiet voice, into
reminiscences that sounded like random, of the happy days of
childhood and early youth, sometimes almost laughing over them,
sometimes linking his memory as it were to tune or flower, sport or
study, but always for joy, and never for pain; and thus passed the
time, with long intervals of silent thought and recollection on his
part, and of a sort of dreamy stupor on his sister's, during which
the strange peaceful hush seemed to have taken away her power of
recalling the bitter complaints of cruel injustice, and the broken-
hearted lamentations she had imagined herself pouring out in sympathy
with her victim brother. Instead of being wrung with anguish, her
heart was lulled and quelled by wondering reverence; and she seemed
to herself scarcely awake, and only dimly conscious of the pale-
cheeked bright-eyed face upturned to her, so calm and undaunted, yet
so full of awe and love, the low steady tender voice, and the warm
upholding arm.

A great clock struck, and Leonard said, 'There! they were to come at
four, and then the chaplain is coming. He is grown so very kind now!
Ave, if they would let you be with me at my last Communion! Will
you? Could you bear it? I think then you would know all the peace
of it!'

'Oh, yes! make them let me come.'

'Then it is not good-bye,' he said, as he fetched her bonnet and
cloak, and put them on with tender hands, as if she were a child, in
readiness as steps approached, and her escort reappeared.

'Here she is, Henry,' he said, with a smile. 'She has been very
good; she may come again.' And then, holding her in his arms once
more, he resigned her to Henry, saying, 'Not good-bye, Ave; we will
keep my birthday together.'




CHAPTER XVI



The captives went
To their own places, to their separate glooms,
Uncheered by glance, or hand, or hope, to brood
On those impossible glories of the past,
When they might touch the grass, and see the sky,
And do the works of men. But manly work
Is sometimes in a prison.--S. M. Queen Isabel


'Commutation of punishment, to penal servitude for life.'

Such were the tidings that ran through Stoneborough on Sunday
morning, making all feel as if a heavy oppression had been taken from
the air. In gratitude to the merciful authorities, and thankfulness
for the exemption from death, the first impressions were that Justice
was at last speaking, that innocence could not suffer, and that right
was reasserting itself. Even when the more sober and sad remembered
that leniency was not pardon, nor life liberty, they were hastily
answered that life was everything--life was hope, life was time, and
time would show truth.

Averil's first tears dropped freely, as she laid her head on Mary's
shoulder, and with her hand in Dr. May's, essayed to utter the words,
'It is your doing--you have twice saved him for me,' and Minna stood
calmly glad, but without surprise. 'I knew they could not hurt him;
God would not let them.'

The joy and relief were so great as to absorb all thought or
realization of what this mercy was to the prisoner himself, until Dr.
May was able to pay him a visit on Monday afternoon. It was at a
moment when the first effects of the tidings of life had subsided,
and there had been time to look forth on the future with a spirit
more steadfast than buoyant. The strain of the previous weeks was
reacting on the bodily frame, and indisposition unhinged the spirits;
so that, when Dr. May entered, beaming with congratulations, he was
met with the same patient glance of endurance, endeavouring at
resignation, that he knew so well, but without the victorious peace
that had of late gained the ascendant expression. There was instead
an almost painful endeavour to manifest gratitude by cheerfulness,
and the smile was far less natural than those of the last interview,
as fervently returning the pressure of the hand, he said, 'You were
right, Dr. May, you have brought me past the crisis.'

'A sure sign of ultimate recovery, my boy. Remember, dum spiro
spero.'

Leonard attempted a responsive smile, but it was a hopeless business.
From the moment when at the inquest he found himself entangled in the
meshes of circumstance, his mind had braced itself to endure rather
than hope, and his present depressed state, both mental and bodily,
rendered even that endurance almost beyond his powers. He could only
say, 'You have been very good to me.'

'My dear fellow, you are sadly knocked down; I wish--' and the Doctor
looked at him anxiously.

'I wish you had been here yesterday,' said Leonard; 'then you would
not have found me so. No, not thankless, indeed!'

'No, indeed; but--yes, I see it was folly--nay, harshness, to expect
you to be glad of what lies before you, my poor boy.'

'I am--am thankful,' said Leonard, struggling to make the words
truth. 'Wednesday is off my mind--yes, it is more than I deserve--I
knew I was not fit to die, and those at home are spared. But I am as
much cut off from them--perhaps more--than by death. And it is the
same disgrace to them, the same exile. I suppose Henry still goes--'

'Yes, he does.'

'Ah! then one thing, Dr. May--if you had a knife or scissors--I do
not know how soon they may cut my hair, and I want to secure a bit
for poor Ave.'

Dr. May was too handless to have implements of the first order, but a
knife he had, and was rather dismayed at Leonard's reckless hacking
at his bright shining wavy hair, pulling out more than he cut, with
perfect indifference to the pain. The Doctor stroked the chestnut
head as tenderly as if it had been Gertrude's sunny curls, but
Leonard started aside, and dashing away the tears that were
overflowing his eyes under the influence of the gentle action, asked
vigorously, 'Have you heard what they will do with me?'

'I do not know thoroughly. A year or six months maybe at one of the
great model establishments, then probably you will be sent to some of
the public works,' said the Doctor, sadly. 'Yes, it is a small boon
to give you life, and take away all that makes life happy.'

'If it were only transportation!'

'Yes. In a new world you could live it down, and begin afresh. And
even here, Leonard, I look to finding you like Joseph in his prison.'

'The iron entering into his soul!' said Leonard, with a mournful
smile.

'No; in the trustworthiness that made him honoured and blessed even
there. Leonard, Leonard, conduct _will_ tell. Even there, you can
live this down, and will!'

'Eighteen to-morrow,' replied the boy. 'Fifty years of it, perhaps!
I know God can help me through with it, but it is a long time to be
patient!'

By way of answer, the Doctor launched into brilliant auguries of the
impression the prisoner's conduct would produce, uttering assurances,
highly extravagant in his Worship the Mayor, of the charms of the
modern system of prison discipline, but they fell flat; there could
be no disguising that penal servitude for life was penal servitude
for life, and might well be bitterer than death itself. Sympathy
might indeed be balm to the captive, but the good Doctor pierced his
own breast to afford it, so that his heart sank even more than when
he had left the young man under sentence of death. His least
unavailing consolations were his own promises of frequent visits, and
Aubrey's of correspondence, but they produced more of dejected
gratitude than of exhilaration. Yet it was not in the way of murmur
or repining, but rather of 'suffering and being strong,' and only to
this one friend was the suffering permitted to be apparent. To all
the officials he was simply submissive and gravely resolute;
impassive if he encountered sharpness or sternness, but alert and
grateful towards kindliness, of which he met more and more as the
difference between dealing with him and the ordinary prisoners made
itself felt.

To Dr. May alone was the depth of pain betrayed; but another
comforter proved more efficient in cheering the prisoner, namely, Mr.
Wilmot, who, learning from the Doctor the depression of their young
friend, hastened to endeavour at imparting a new spring of life on
this melancholy birthday. Physically, the boy was better, and
perhaps the new day had worn off somewhat of the burthen of
anticipation, for Mr. Wilmot found him already less downcast, and
open to consolation. It might be, too, that the sense that the
present was to have been his last day upon earth, had made him more
conscious of the relief from the immediate shadow of death, for he
expressed his thankfulness far more freely and without the effort of
the previous day.

'And, depend on it,' said Mr. Wilmot, 'you are spared because there
is something for you to do.'

'To bear,' said Leonard.

'No, to do. Perhaps not immediately; but try to look on whatever you
have to bear, not only as carrying the cross, as I think you already
feel it--'

'Or there would be no standing it at all.'

'True,' said Mr. Wilmot; 'and your so feeling it convinces me the
more that whatever may follow is likewise to be looked upon as
discipline to train you for something beyond. Who knows what work
may be in store, for which this fiery trial may be meant to prepare
you?'

The head was raised, and the eyes brightened with something like hope
in their fixed interrogative glance.

'Even as things are now, who knows what good may be done by the
presence of a man educated, religious, unstained by crime, yet in the
same case as those around him? I do not mean by quitting your
natural place, but by merely living as you must live. You were
willing to have followed your Master in His death. You now have to
follow Him by living as one under punishment; and be sure it is for
some purpose for others as well as yourself.'

'If there is any work to be done for Him, it is all right,' said
Leonard, cheerily; and as Mr. Wilmot paused, he added, 'It would be
like working for a friend--if I may dare say so--after the hours when
this place has been made happy to me. I should not mind anything if
I might only feel it working for Him.'

'Feel it. Be certain of it. As you have realized the support of
that Friend in a way that is hardly granted, save in great troubles,
so now realize that every task is for Him. Do not look on the labour
as hardship inflicted by mistaken authority--'

'Oh, I only want to get to that! I have been so long with nothing to
do!'

'And your hearty doing of it, be it what it may, as unto the Lord,
can be as acceptable as Dr. May's labours of love among the poor--as
entirely a note in the great concord in Heaven and earth as the work
of the ministry itself--as completely in unison. Nay, further, such
obedient and hearty work will form you for whatever may yet be
awaiting you, and what that may be will show itself in good time,
when you are ready for it.

'The right chord was touched, the spirit of energy was roused, and
Leonard was content to be a prisoner of hope, not the restless hope
of liberation, but the restful hope that he might yet render faithful
service even in his present circumstances.

Not much passed his lips in this interview, but its effect was
apparent when Dr. May again saw him, and this time in company with
Aubrey. Most urgent had been the boy's entreaties to be taken to see
his friend, and Dr. May had only hesitated because Leonard's
depression had made himself so unhappy that he feared its effect on
his susceptible son; whose health had already suffered from the long
course of grief and suspense. But it was plain that if Aubrey were
to go at all, it must be at once, since the day was fixed for the
prisoner's removal, and the still nearer and dearer claims must not
clash with those of the friend. Flora shook her head, and reminded
her father that Leonard would not be out of reach in future, and that
the meeting now might seriously damage Aubrey's already uncertain
health.

'I cannot help it, Flora,' said the Doctor; 'it may do him some
temporary harm, but I had rather see him knocked down for a day or
two, than breed him up to be such a poor creature as to sacrifice his
friendship to his health.'

And Mrs. Rivers, who knew what the neighbourhood thought of the good
Doctor's infatuation, felt that there was not much use in suggesting
how shocked the world would be at his encouragement of the intimacy
between the convict and his young son.

People did look surprised when the Doctor asked admission to the cell
for his son as well as himself; and truly Aubrey, who in silence had
worked himself into an agony of nervous agitation, looked far from
fit for anything trying. Dr. May saw that he must not ask to leave
the young friends alone together, but in his reverence for the rights
of their friendship, he withdrew himself as far as the limits of the
cell would allow, turned his back, and endeavoured to read the
Thirty-nine Articles in Leonard's Prayer-Book; but in spite of all
his abstraction, he could not avoid a complete consciousness that the
two lads sat on the bed, clinging with arms round one another like
young children, and that it was Leonard's that was the upright
sustaining figure, his own Aubrey's the prone and leaning one. And
of the low whispering murmurs that reached his would-be deafened ear,
the gasping almost sobbing tones were Aubrey's. The first distinct
words that he could not help hearing were, 'No such thing! There
can't be slavery where one works with a will!' and again, in reply to
something unheard, 'Yes, one can! Why, how did one do one's Greek?'
--'Very different!'--'How?'--'Oh!'--'Yes; but you are a clever chap,
and had her to teach you, but I only liked it because I'd got it to
do. Just the same with the desk-work down at the mill; so it may be
the same now.'

Then came fragments of what poor Aubrey had expressed more than once
at home--that his interest in life, in study, in sport, was all gone
with his friend.

'Come, Aubrey, that's stuff. You'd have had to go to Cambridge, you
know, without me, after I doggedly put myself at that place. There's
just as much for you to do as ever there was.'

'How you keep on with your _do_!' cried Ethel's spoilt child, with a
touch of petulance.

'Why, what are we come here for--into this world, I mean--but to
_do_!' returned Leonard; 'and I take it, if we do it right, it does
not much matter what or where it is.'

'I shan't have any heart for it!' sighed Aubrey.

'Nonsense! Not with all your people at home? and though the voice
fell again, the Doctor's ears distinguished the murmur, 'Why, just
the little things she let drop are the greatest help to me here, and
you always have her--'

Then ensued much that was quite inaudible, and at last Leonard said,
'No, old fellow; as long as you don't get ashamed of me, thinking
about you, and knowing what you are about, will be one of the best
pleasures I shall have. And look here, Aubrey, if we only consider
it right, you and I will be just as really working together, when you
are at your books, and I am making mats, as if we were both at
Cambridge side by side! It is quite true, is it not, Dr. May?' he
added, since the Doctor, finding it time to depart, had turned round
to close the interview.

'Quite true, my boy,' said the Doctor; 'and I hope Aubrey will try to
take comfort and spirit from it.'

'As if I could!' said Aubrey, impatiently, 'when it only makes me
more mad to see what a fellow they have shut up in here!'

'Not mad, I hope,' said Dr. May; 'but I'll tell you what it should do
for both of us, Aubrey. It should make us very careful to be worthy
to remain his friends.'

'O, Dr. May!' broke in Leonard, distressed.

'Yes,' returned Dr. May, 'I mean what I say, however you break in,
Master Leonard. As long as this boy of mine is doing his best for
the right motives, he will care for you as he does now--not quite in
the same despairing way, of course, for holes in one's daily life do
close themselves up with time--but if he slacks off in his respect or
affection for you, then I shall begin to have fears of him. Now come
away, Aubrey, and remember for your comfort it is not the good-bye it
might have been,' he added, as he watched the mute intensity of the
boys' farewell clasp of the hands; but even then had some difficulty
in getting Aubrey away from the friend so much stronger as the
consoler than as the consoled, and unconsciously showing how in the
last twenty-four hours his mind had acted on the topics presented to
him by Mr. Wilmot.

Changed as he was from the impetuous boyish lad of a few weeks since,
a change even more noticeable when with his contemporary than in
intercourse with elder men, yet the nature was the same. Obstinacy
had softened into constancy, pride into resolution, generosity made
pardon less difficult, and elevation of temper bore him through many
a humiliation that, through him, bitterly galled his brother.

Whatever he might feel, prison regulations were accepted by him as
matters of course, not worth being treated as separate grievances.
He never showed any shrinking from the assumption of the convict
dress, whilst Henry was fretting and wincing over the very notion of
his wearing it, and trying to arrange that the farewell interview
should precede its adoption.




CHAPTER XVII



Scorn of me recoils on you.
E. B. BROWNING


After the first relief, the relaxation of his brother's sentence had
by no means mitigated Henry Ward's sense of disgrace, but had rather
deepened it by keeping poor Leonard a living, not a dead, sorrow.

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