XIX. JEM WILSON ARRESTED ON SUSPICION,
"Deeds to be hid which were not hid, Which, all confused, I could not know, Whether I suffered or I did, For all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe." --COLERIDGE.
I left Mary, on that same Thursday night which left its burden ofwoe at Mr. Carson's threshold, haunted with depressing thoughts.All through the night she tossed restlessly about, trying to getquit of the ideas that harassed her, and longing for the light whenshe could rise, and find some employment. But just as dawn began toappear, she became more quiet, and fell into a sound heavy sleep,which lasted till she was sure it was late in the morning, by thefull light that shone in.
She dressed hastily, and heard the neighbouring church clock strikeeight. It was far too late to do as she had planned (afterinquiring how Alice was, to return and tell Margaret), and sheaccordingly went in to inform the latter of her change of purpose,and the cause of it; but on entering the house she found Job sittingalone, looking sad enough. She told him what she came for.
"Margaret, wench! why, she's been gone to Wilson's these two hours.Ay! sure, you did say last night you would go; but she could na restin her bed, so was off betimes this morning."
Mary could do nothing but feel guilty of her long morning nap, andhasten to follow Margaret's steps; for late as it was, she felt shecould not settle well to her work, unless she learnt how kind goodAlice Wilson was going on.
So, eating her crust-of-bread breakfast, she passed rapidly alongthe street. She remembered afterwards the little groups of peopleshe had seen, eagerly hearing, and imparting news; but at the timeher only care was to hasten on her way, in dread of a reprimand fromMiss Simmonds.
She went into the house at Jane Wilson's, her heart at the instantgiving a strange knock, and sending the rosy flush into her face, atthe thought that Jem might possibly be inside the door. But I doassure you, she had not thought of it before. Impatient and lovingas she was, her solicitude about Alice on that hurried morning hadnot been mingled with any thought of him.
Her heart need not have leaped, her colour need not have rushed sopainfully to her cheeks, for he was not there. There was the roundtable, with a cup and saucer, which had evidently been used, andthere was Jane Wilson sitting on the other side, crying quietly,while she ate her breakfast with a sort of unconscious appetite.And there was Mrs. Davenport washing away at a night-cap or so,which, by their simple, old-world make, Mary knew at a glance wereAlice's. But nothing--no one else.
Alice was much the same, or rather better of the two, they told her:at any rate she could speak, though it was sad rambling talk. WouldMary like to see her?
Of course she would. Many are interested by seeing their friendsunder the new aspect of illness; and among the poor there is nowholesome fear of injury or excitement to restrain this wish.
So Mary went upstairs, accompanied by Mrs. Davenport, wringing thesuds off her hands, and speaking in a loud whisper far more audiblethan her usual voice.
"I mun be hastening home, but I'll come again to-night, time enoughto iron her cap; 'twould be a sin and a shame if we let her go dirtynow she's ill, when she's been so rare and clean all her life long.But she's sadly forsaken, poor thing! She'll not know you, Mary;she knows none of us."
The room upstairs held two beds, one superior in the grandeur offour posts and checked curtains to the other, which had beenoccupied by the twins in their brief lifetime. The smaller had beenAlice's bed since she had lived there; but with the naturalreverence to one "stricken of God and afflicted," she had beeninstalled, since her paralytic stroke the evening before, in thelarger and grander bed; while Jane Wilson had taken her short brokenrest on the little pallet.
Margaret came forwards to meet her friend, whom she half expected,and whose step she knew. Mrs. Davenport returned to her washing.
The two girls did not speak; the presence of Alice awed them intosilence. There she lay with the rosy colour, absent from her facesince the days of childhood, flushed once more into it by hersickness nigh unto death. She lay on the affected side, and withher other arm she was constantly sawing the air, not exactly in arestless manner, but in a monotonous, incessant way, very trying toa watcher. She was talking away, too, almost as constantly, in alow indistinct tone. But her face, her profiled countenance, lookedcalm and smiling, even interested by the ideas that were passingthrough her clouded mind.
"Listen!" said Margaret, as she stooped her head down to catch themuttered words more distinctly.
"What will mother say? The bees are turning homeward for th' lasttime, and we've a terrible long bit to go yet. See! here's alinnet's nest in this gorse-bush. Th' hen bird is on it. Look ather bright eyes, she won't stir. Ay! we mun hurry home. Won'tmother be pleased with the bonny lot of heather we've got! Makehaste, Sally, maybe we shall have cockles for supper. I saw th'cockleman's donkey turn up our way fra' Arnside."
Margaret touched Mary's hand, and the pressure in return told herthat they understood each other; that they knew how in this illnessto the old, world-weary woman, God had sent her a veiled blessing:she was once more in the scenes of her childhood, unchanged andbright as in those long departed days; once more with the sister ofher youth, the playmate of fifty years ago, who had for nearly asmany years slept in a grassy grave in the little churchyard beyondBurton.
Alice's face changed; she looked sorrowful, almost penitent.
"O Sally! I wish we'd told her. She thinks we were in church allmorning, and we've gone on deceiving her. If we'd told her at firsthow it was--how sweet th' hawthorn smelt through the open churchdoor, and how we were on th' last bench in the aisle, and how itwere the first butterfly we'd seen this spring, and how it flew intoth' very church itself; oh! mother is so gentle, I wish we'd toldher. I'll go to her next time she comes in sight, and say, 'Mother,we were naughty last Sabbath.'"
She stopped, and a few tears came stealing down the old witheredcheek, at the thought of the temptation and deceit of her childhood.Surely many sins could not have darkened that innocent child-likespirit since. Mary found a red-spotted pocket-handkerchief, and putit into the hand which sought about for something to wipe away thetrickling tears. She took it with a gentle murmur.
"Thank you, mother."
Mary pulled Margaret away from the bed.
"Don't you think she's happy, Margaret?"
"Ay! that I do, bless her. She feels no pain, and knows nought ofher present state. Oh! that I could see, Mary! I try and bepatient with her afore me, but I'd give aught I have to see her, andsee what she wants. I am so useless! I mean to stay here as longas Jane Wilson is alone; and I would fain be here all to-night,but"--
"I'll come," said Mary decidedly.
"Mrs. Davenport said she'd come again, but she's hardworked allday"--
"I'll come," repeated Mary.
"Do!" said Margaret, "and I'll be here till you come. Maybe, Jemand you could take th' night between you, and Jane Wilson might geta bit of sound sleep in his bed; for she were up and down the betterpart of last night, and just when she were in a sound sleep thismorning, between two and three, Jem came home, and th' sound o' hisvoice roused her in a minute."
"Where had he been till that time o' night?" asked Mary.
"Nay! it were none of my business; and, indeed, I never saw him tillhe came in here to see Alice. He were in again this morning, andseemed sadly downcast. But you'll, maybe, manage to comfort himto-night, Mary," said Margaret, smiling, while a ray of hopeglimmered in Mary's heart, and she almost felt glad, for an instant,of the occasion which would at last bring them together. Oh! happynight! when would it come? Many hours had yet to pass.
Then she saw Alice, and repented, with a bitter self-reproach. Butshe could not help having gladness in the depths of her heart, blameherself as she would. So she tried not to think, as she hurriedalong to Miss Simmonds', with a dancing step of lightness.
She was late--that she knew she should be. M
iss Simmonds was vexedand cross. That also she had anticipated, and had intended tosmooth her raven down by extraordinary diligence and attention. Butthere was something about the girls she did not understand--had notanticipated. They stopped talking when she came in; or rather, Ishould say, stopped listening, for Sally Leadbitter was the talkerto whom they were hearkening with deepest attention. At first theyeyed Mary, as if she had acquired some new interest to them sincethe day before. Then they began to whisper; and, absorbed as Maryhad been in her own thoughts, she could not help becoming aware thatit was of her they spoke.
At last Sally Leadbitter asked Mary if she had heard the news?
"No! What news?" answered she.
The girls looked at each other with gloomy mystery. Sally went on.
"Have you not heard that young Mr. Carson was murdered last night?"
Mary's lips could not utter a negative, but no one who looked at herpale and terror-stricken face could have doubted that she had notheard before of the fearful occurrence.
Oh, it is terrible, that sudden information, that one you have knownhas met with a bloody death! You seem to shrink from the worldwhere such deeds can be committed, and to grow sick with the idea ofthe violent and wicked men of earth. Much as Mary had learned todread him lately, now he was dead (and dead in such a manner) herfeeling was that of oppressive sorrow for him.
The room went round and round, and she felt as though she shouldfaint; but Miss Simmonds came in, bringing a waft of fresher air asshe opened the door, to refresh the body, and the certainty of ascolding for inattention to brace the sinking mind. She, too, wasfull of the morning's news.
"Have you heard any more of this horrid affair, Miss Barton?" askedshe, as she settled to her work.
Mary tried to speak; at first she could not, and when she succeededin uttering a sentence, it seemed as though it were not her ownvoice that spoke.
"No, ma'am, I never heard of it till this minute."
"Dear! that's strange, for every one is up about it. I hope themurderer will be found out, that I do. Such a handsome young man tobe killed as he was. I hope the wretch that did it may be hanged ashigh as Haman."
One of the girls reminded them that the assizes came on next week.
"Ay," replied Miss Simmonds, "and the milkman told me they willcatch the wretch, and have him tried and hung in less than a week.Serve him right, whoever he is. Such a handsome young man as hewas."
Then each began to communicate to Miss Simmonds the various reportsthey had heard.
Suddenly she burst out--
"Miss Barton! as I live, dropping tears on that new silk gown ofMrs. Hawkes'! Don't you know they will stain, and make it shabbyfor ever? Crying like a baby, because a handsome young man meetswith an untimely end. For shame of yourself, miss! Mind yourcharacter and your work, if you please. Or if you must cry" (seeingher scolding rather increased the flow of Mary's tears, thanotherwise), "take this print to cry over. That won't be marked likethis beautiful silk," rubbing it, as if she loved it, with a cleanpocket-handkerchief, in order to soften the edges of the hard rounddrops.
Mary took the print, and, naturally enough, having had leave givenher to cry over it, rather checked the inclination to weep.
Everybody was full of the one subject. The girl sent out to matchsilk, came back with the account gathered at the shop, of thecoroner's inquest then sitting; the ladies who called to speak aboutgowns first began about the murder, and mingled details of that,with directions for their dresses. Mary felt as though the hauntinghorror were a nightmare, a fearful dream, from which awakening wouldrelieve her. The picture of the murdered body, far more ghastlythan the reality, seemed to swim in the air before her eyes. SallyLeadbitter looked and spoke of her, almost accusingly, and made nosecret now of Mary's conduct, more blamable to her fellow-workwomenfor its latter changeableness, than for its former giddy flirting.
"Poor young gentleman," said one, as Sally recounted Mary's lastinterview with Mr. Carson.
"What a shame!" exclaimed another, looking indignantly at Mary.
"That's what I call regular jilting," said a third. "And he lyingcold and bloody in his coffin now!"
Mary was more thankful than she could express, when Miss Simmondsreturned, to put a stop to Sally's communications, and to check theremarks of the girls.
She longed for the peace of Alice's sick-room. No more thinkingwith infinite delight of her anticipated meeting with Jem; she felttoo much shocked for that now; but longing for peace and kindness,for the images of rest and beauty, and sinless times long ago, whichthe poor old woman's rambling presented, she wished to be as neardeath as Alice; and to have struggled through this world, whosesufferings she had early learnt, and whose crimes now seemedpressing close upon her. Old texts from the Bible, that her motherused to read (or rather spell out) aloud in the days of childhood,came up to her memory. "Where the wicked cease from troubling, andthe weary are at rest." "And God shall wipe away all tears fromtheir eyes," etc. And it was to that world Alice was hastening!Oh! that she were Alice!
I must return to the Wilsons' house, which was far from being theabode of peace that Mary was picturing it to herself. You rememberthe reward Mr. Carson offered for the apprehension of the murdererof his son? It was in itself a temptation, and to aid its efficacycame the natural sympathy for the aged parents mourning for theirchild, for the young man cut off in the flower of his days; andbesides this, there is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery,in catching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty.This feeling, I am sure, gives much impetus to the police. Theirsenses are ever and always on the qui-vive, and they enjoy thecollecting and collating evidence, and the life of adventure theyexperience: a continual unwinding of Jack Sheppard romances,always interesting to the vulgar and uneducated mind, to which theoutward signs and tokens of crime are ever exciting.
There was no lack of clue or evidence at the coroner's inquest thatmorning. The shot, the finding of the body, the subsequentdiscovery of the gun, were rapidly deposed to; and then thepoliceman who had interrupted the quarrel between Jem Wilson and themurdered young man was brought forward, and gave his evidence,clear, simple, and straightforward. The coroner had no hesitation,the jury had none, but the verdict was cautiously worded. "Wilfulmurder against some person unknown."
This very cautiousness, when he deemed the thing so sure as torequire no caution, irritated Mr. Carson. It did not soothe himthat the superintendent called the verdict a mere form,--exhibited awarrant empowering him to seize the body of Jem Wilson committed onsuspicion,--declared his intention of employing a well-known officerin the Detective Service to ascertain the ownership of the gun, andto collect other evidence, especially as regarded the young woman,about whom the policeman deposed that the quarrel had taken place;Mr. Carson was still excited and irritable; restless in body andmind. He made every preparation for the accusation of Jem thefollowing morning before the magistrates: he engaged attorneysskilled in criminal practice to watch the case and prepare briefs;he wrote to celebrated barristers coming the Northern Circuit, tobespeak their services. A speedy conviction, a speedy execution,seemed to be the only things that would satisfy his craving thirstfor blood. He would have fain been policeman, magistrate, accusingspeaker, all; but most of all, the judge, rising with full sentenceof death on his lips.
That afternoon, as Jane Wilson had begun to feel the effect of anight's disturbed rest, evinced in frequent droppings off to sleep,while she sat by her sister-in-law's bedside, lulled by theincessant crooning of the invalid's feeble voice, she was startledby a man speaking in the house-place below, who, wearied of knockingat the door, without obtaining any answer, had entered and wascalling lustily for--
"Missis! missis!"
When Mrs. Wilson caught a glimpse of the intruder through thestair-rails, she at once saw he was a stranger, a working-man, itmight be a fellow-labourer with her son, for his dress was grimyenough for the supposition. He held a gun in his hand.
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"May I make bold to ask if this gun belongs to your son?"
She first looked at the man, and then, weary and half asleep, notseeing any reason for refusing to answer the inquiry, she movedforward to examine it, talking while she looked for certainold-fashioned ornaments on the stock. "It looks like his; ay, it ishis, sure enough. I could speak to it anywhere by these marks. Yousee it were his grandfather's as were gamekeeper to some one up inth' north; and they don't make guns so smart nowadays. But, howcomed you by it? He sets great store on it. Is he bound for th'shooting-gallery? He is not, for sure, now his aunt is so ill, andme left all alone"; and the immediate cause of her anxiety beingthus recalled to her mind, she entered on a long story of Alice'sillness, interspersed with recollections of her husband's and herchildren's deaths.
The disguised policeman listened for a minute or two, to glean anyfurther information he could; and then, saying he was in a hurry, heturned to go away. She followed him to the door, still telling himher troubles, and was never struck, until it was too late to ask thereason, with the unaccountableness of his conduct, in carrying thegun away with him. Then, as she heavily climbed the stairs, she putaway the wonder and the thought about his conduct, by determining tobelieve he was some workman with whom her son had made somearrangement about shooting at the gallery; or mending the oldweapon or something or other. She had enough to fret her, withoutmoidering herself about old guns. Jem had given it to him to bringit to her; so it was safe enough; or, if it was not, why she shouldbe glad never to set eyes on it again, for she could not abidefirearms, they were so apt to shoot people.
So, comforting herself for the want of thought in not making furtherinquiry, she fell off into another dose, feverish, dream-haunted,and unrefreshing.
Meanwhile, the policeman walked off with his prize, with an oddmixture of feelings; a little contempt, a little disappointment, anda good deal of pity. The contempt and the disappointment werecaused by the widow's easy admission of the gun being her son'sproperty, and her manner of identifying it by the ornaments. Heliked an attempt to baffle him; he was accustomed to it; it gavesome exercise to his wits and his shrewdness. There would be no funin fox-hunting, if Reynard yielded himself up without any effort toescape. Then, again, his mother's milk was yet in him, policeman,officer of the Detective Service though he was; and he felt sorryfor the old woman, whose "softness" had given such materialassistance in identifying her son as the murderer. However, heconveyed the gun, and the intelligence he had gained, to thesuperintendent; and the result was, that, in a short timeafterwards, three policemen went to the works at which Jem wasforeman, and announced their errand to the astonished overseer, whodirected them to the part of the foundry where Jem was thensuperintending a casting.
Dark, black were the walls, the ground, the faces around them, asthey crossed the yard. But, in the furnace-house, a deep and luridred glared over all; the furnace roared with mighty flame. The men,like demons, in their fire-and-soot colouring, stood swart around,awaiting the moment when the tons of solid iron should have melteddown into fiery liquid, fit to be poured, with still, heavy sound,into the delicate moulding of fine black sand, prepared to receiveit. The heat was intense, and the red glare grew every instant morefierce; the policemen stood awed with the novel sight. Then, blackfigures, holding strange-shaped bucket-shovels, came athwart thedeep-red furnace light, and clear and brilliant flowed forth theiron into the appropriate mould. The buzz of voices rose again;there was time to speak, and gasp, and wipe the brows; and then oneby one, the men dispersed to some other branch of their employment.
No. B72 pointed out Jem as the man he had seen engaged in a scufflewith Mr. Carson, and then the other two stepped forward and arrestedhim, stating of what he was accused, and the grounds of theaccusation. He offered no resistance, though he seemed surprised;but calling a fellow-workman to him, he briefly requested him totell his mother he had got into trouble, and could not return homeat present. He did not wish her to hear more at first.
So Mrs. Wilson's sleep was next interrupted in almost an exactlysimilar way to the last, like a recurring nightmare.
"Missis! missis!" some one called out from below.
Again it was a workman, but this time a blacker-looking one thanbefore.
"What don ye want?" said she peevishly.
"Only nothing but"--stammered the man, a kind-hearted matter-of-factperson, with no invention, but a great deal of sympathy.
"Well, speak out, can't ye, and ha' done with it?"
"Jem's in trouble," said he, repeating Jem's very words, as he couldthink of no others.
"Trouble?" said the mother, in a high-pitched voice of distress."Trouble! God help me, trouble will never end, I think. What d'yemean by trouble? Speak out, man, can't ye? Is he ill? My boy!tell me, is he ill?" in a hurried voice of terror.
"Na, na, that's not it. He's well enough. All he bade me say was,'Tell mother I'm in trouble, and can't come home tonight.'"
"Not come home to-night! And what am I to do with Alice? I can'tgo on, wearing my life out wi' watching. He might come and helpme."
"I tell you he can't," said the man.
"Can't, and he is well, you say? Stuff! It's just that he's gettenlike other young men, and wants to go a-larking. But I'll give ithim when he comes back."
The man turned to go; he durst not trust himself to speak in Jem'sjustification. But she would not let him off.
She stood between him and the door, as she said--
"Yo shall not go till yo've told me what he's after. I can seeplain enough you know, and I'll know too, before I've done."
"You'll know soon enough, missis!"
"I'll know now, I tell ye. What's up that he can't come home andhelp me nurse? Me, as never got a wink o' sleep last night wi'watching."
"Well, if you will have it out," said the poor badgered man, "thepolice have got hold on him."
"On my Jem!" said the enraged mother. "You're a downright liar, andthat's what you are. My Jem, as never did harm to any one in hislife. You're a liar, that's what you are."
"He's done harm enough now," said the man, angry in his turn, "forthere's good evidence he murdered young Carson, as was shot lastnight."
She staggered forward to strike the man for telling the terribletruth; but the weakness of old age, of motherly agony, overcame her,and she sank down on a chair, and covered her face. He could notleave her.
When next she spoke, it was in an imploring, feeble, child-likevoice.
"O master, say you're only joking. I ax your pardon if I have vexedye, but please say you're only joking. You don't know what Jem isto me."
She looked humbly, anxiously up to him.
"I wish I were only joking, missis; but it's true as I say. They'vetaken him up on charge of murder. It were his gun as were foundnear th' place; and one o' the police heard him quarrelling with Mr.Carson a few days back, about a girl."
"About a girl!" broke in the mother, once more indignant, though toofeeble to show it as before. "My Jem was as steady as"--shehesitated for a comparison wherewith to finish, and then repeated,"as steady as Lucifer, and he were an angel, you know. My Jem wasnot one to quarrel about a girl."
"Ay, but it was that, though. They'd got her name quite pat. Theman had heard all they said. Mary Barton was her name, whoever shemay be."
"Mary Barton! the dirty hussy! to bring my Jem into trouble of thiskind. I'll give it her well when I see her: that I will. Oh! mypoor Jem!" rocking herself to and fro. "And what about the gun?What did ye say about that?"
"His gun were found on th' spot where the murder were done."
"That's a lie for one, then. A man has got the gun now, safe andsound. I saw it not an hour ago."
The man shook his head.
"Yes, he has indeed. A friend o' Jem's, as he'd lent it to."
"Did you know the chap?" asked the man, who was really anxious forJem's exculpation, and caught a gleam of hope from her last speech.
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br /> "No! I can't say as I did. But he were put on as a workman."
"It's maybe only one of them policemen, disguised."
"Nay; they'd never go for to do that, and trick me into telling onmy own son. It would be like seething a kid in its mother's milk;and that th' Bible forbids."
"I don't know," replied the man.
Soon afterwards he went away, feeling unable to comfort, yetdistressed at the sight of sorrow; she would fain have detained him,but go he would. And she was alone.
She never for an instant believed Jem guilty: she would havedoubted if the sun were fire, first: but sorrow, desolation, andat times anger, took possession of her mind. She told theunconscious Alice, hoping to rouse her to sympathy; and then wasdisappointed, because, still smiling and calm, she murmured of hermother, and the happy days of infancy.
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