by John Crowley
Mr Wigmore Bland then arose, magnificent in Robe & Horse-hair, and began to question the poor man sharply; and by the time he was through, the Jury might have suspected (as Mr Bland intended they should) that the Coachman himself could have done his Master to death, and if that was reasonable to think, then the Defendant’s guilt was not so clear as at first it seemed. Following the Coachman, the Prosecutors brought forward the Officers and tenants of the Laird who had at first discovered Ali, weapon in hand, over the body of his father. These too Mr Bland was quick to question—to cast doubt upon what they thought they had seen, but perhaps had not—and when any of them averred what he knew only by report, the Barrister sprang to his feet, to have the words struck from the record, as being the merest hearsay, and according to the new rules of evidence, inadmissible—he asked that the Judge instruct the Jury to erase all such hearsay from their minds as though they had not heard it, whereupon the Jury looked upon one another as though the Court were mad, to ask such a thing.
It having been shown that, tho’ the Accused might have been discovered standing above the dead man sword in hand, yet the man had not been slain by sword—he had been trussed and hanged, the mark of no blade upon him. The disproportionate strengths and sizes of the Father and Son being demonstrated, the Prosecutors claimed that the defendant must have had confederates—the same who later freed the Accused from prison, one being a gigantic black man obviously capable of any enormity. The Barrister ridiculed all such testimony—the Turnkey was called, and made to admit how late the hour was, how dark the place—to confess he could not swear upon Scripture that the door to Ali’s cell had been well locked—and that from Childhood he had been subject to the Nightmare (a fact which the Barrister had been at pains to elicit from the Turnkey’s neighbours before the trial began) and thus may have beheld the supposititious Negro in a Dream! At length the Judge, perhaps tiring of the matter, asked Ali to come forward, and deliver his statement, and his evidence.
‘I leave that to my counsel, my Lord,’ said Ali—which he had promised Mr Bland was all he would say, no matter how he was importuned—and it was, of all the hard things he had ever had to say, the hardest.
‘Your counsel cannot speak for you,’ said the Judge with weary kindness. ‘You must do that yourself, if you have an account you may give to the Jury, where you was, what doing, and the like—if you have anything to observe on the evidence so far brought, you ought to do it yourself. Now, Sir, do you intend to leave your defence to your Counsel?’
‘I do,’ said Ali.
The Judge hereupon addressed the smiling Counsel himself. ‘Will you not advise your Client to speak for himself?’
‘No, my Lord, I would not advise him to say any thing.’
Thus, the only evidence against him being circumstantial, and the most telling of that shut up in a dark box called Hearsay whence it was not permitted ever to emerge, and the Prosecutors kept away from Ali like a pack of curs on a short leash by his refusal to speak, the Judge—to the regret (apparent in their fallen faces and angry scowls) of numbers of those present—must needs instruct the Jury that Ali’s guilt, however likely it might seem to them, had not been proven beyond the possibility of Doubt—and therefore they could not convict—for such was the best London practice now, and would be followed here. Whereat Mr Wigmore Bland bow’d to Judge and Jury with a graciousness just this side of impertinence, and his rosy smiling face turned and shone upon Ali like the Sun.
INNOCENT! OR, IF NOT innocent, then not proven to be guilty—a judgement only the Scots can make, and which in no way differs, in respect of the defendant’s Liberty, or Property, from a judgement of innocence—tho’ it may be altogether different in the eyes of some all-seeing Judge, or in the defendant’s own soul. No guilt will burn, no guilt will eat at us, like the guilt that knows no object—though the sufferer be a benefactor of Mankind as great as Prometheus, still Jove’s vulture will tear at him, and punish him for what he cannot say was sin! And it was as present to Ali’s mind, as to every other person’s who stood to observe his trial—or later read of it in every paper, Tory or Radical, where it was reported—that no one else was suspected—no party named, or even guessed at—who might have done the deed, and atrociously murdered the man—yet, ‘He had surely not hanged himself up like a side of beef,’ as one Observer noted. If Justice was not uppermost in the minds of those who puzzled over the case, curiosity surely was—and neither, it appeared, was to be satisfied.
When Ali was at last free to depart from that place, he asked one favour of his defender the Barrister—he would fain, he said, travel to his old home—his ‘Scotch properties’, as he said to the Man of Law, so as not to be thought sentimental—and, these lying not a day’s distance, the Man of Law was quick to agree—for he was never reluctant to employ his fine equipage (tho’ alert to the hurts it might receive upon those mean ways the Scotch call roads and highways). Without incident they achieved the drive that led down through the ruined Park to the Abbey gate—the way that Ali had last travelled in a different coach, in a different time—how long ago it seemed to him! He fell silent, so that even the Barrister marked his mood, and yielded to it with a composed demeanour of his own.
There were no servants now to greet him—he who was their Laird, by the disposition of the Court—nor did Ali expect them. And yet a long pulling of the bell and a halloo’ing brought forth at last one who opened the wicket with aged slowness: it proved to be ‘Old Jock’, that faithful man upon whom Ali had once leaned! Beneath the Barrister’s interested gaze, Ali fell into the old man’s arms, weeping in amazement—for, though he had been gone but a year, it seemed to have been ten—too many for flesh as old as Old Jock’s to endure. Remembering himself then as host, Ali brought his guest within, and saw to his comfort, insofar as he could—that gentleman appearing a little deflated at the hospitality that could be provided, though he pretended not.
‘It is, I perceive, an ancient line, to the name of which your rights are now secured,’ said he, gazing about himself at the cold halls, and bare walls.
‘It is, I am told,’ said Ali. ‘The ancestries of my father, and that of the late Lady Sane, are venerable. They are even connected, I believe, at a time in the past—so she said to me—I took little note of it.’
The Barrister nodded at this—his great white eyebrows rose, and he touched the knob of his stick to his lips in thoughtful interest. ‘And the estates of both parents were left in a state of some confusion—profitless—entailed—mortgaged—laid under various encumbrances—not to be touched by yourself.’
‘I have not inquired deeply into the matter,’ said Ali. ‘The Steward of this house will know more than I—indeed, I ought now to inquire of him concerning the state of my affairs—but I find I cannot—indeed, I must beg you to excuse me for a time—I declare I am unfit for company. Please regard the house as your own.’
‘I shall do that,’ said Mr Bland, with a smile as broad and as innocent as a babe’s.
Ali meantime wandered through the Abbey, from which even the greater number of those who had formerly lived and laboured there were vanished, to other and better employment, or to the cots and fields whence they had been drawn. Whither had Factotum betaken himself? It seemed to Ali that the fellow might well have accompanied his Master to the land below—he seemed to have been but a visitor upon the Earth in any case—to serve him there in Death as he had in life. Where were those Beasts his father had liked to have by him, as instinctual as himself? They had died, it seemed, of grief—or fled into the Forest, there to terrify the woodcutters. There was one, above all, he sought in the halls and kitchens, and found not, until Old Jock at last brought him to the quiet place by the double elm where he had laid him—Warden, unfailing friend, protector, great heart! Perhaps, Old Jock averred, that heart had broke when Ali vanished—there was no more to say—he had been inconsolable, and refused his food, and so died. Ali kneeling by the unlettered stone that good Jock had there raised, wept freel
y, as he had done for no other lost to Death.
Why should he not stay on here, and live alone, with none for company but whatever ghosts might choose to walk? For him they could hold no terror now. Here he might live, and do no harm; and if he ever thought to go again into the world, then he might wish that those ghosts would rise up, and warn him again, that nothing he had done upon Earth’s surface had brought good to any creature—not even to himself—therefore let him here stay!
He did not, of course—such resolves may be a necessary balm to our hearts, but we rarely cleave to them. He returned to London with Mr Bland, who occupied the time in conversation with Ali upon the condition of his Estates, and the incomes derivable there-from, which that Man of Law thought might easily be increased. He had—he said—spent a profitable morning in conversation with the Steward and the dusty piles of account-books, papers and bills that filled the Steward’s snuggery, and in that time had acquired more learning in the history of the Sanes than had ever attach’d itself to Ali. ‘Place your affairs in my hands,’ said he to Ali, ‘and I can assure you absolutely that they shall not go worse, and will with a near certainty go very much better. You have not profited as you should by what is yours, and others have profited by your ignorance, and neglect—the which may result from the former Lord’s own, I suspect—but never mind—a new Era may dawn for you, Sir, if you allow me to serve you.’
‘My father was sure he had pressed all that he could from what he had,’ Ali said, ‘and that the Law was fixed as regards his situation, and was against him.’
‘Ah no,’ said the great man, ‘ah no, my Lord—for as our Saviour said of the Sabbath, the Law is made for man, and not man for the Law; if we truly believe it to be amenable to our Purposes, when those are made entirely clear to its Guardians, then surely—though the process may take Time (indeed it is not unknown to outlive us who bring before the Law our appeals, may Heaven forbid it in your own case!)—we may have confidence in the conclusion—if we but play our cards astutely.’
Ali pondered these remarks, and these offers—but not very astutely—for he had no means to ponder with, so to speak, his ignorance being what it was—and after his return to London, it was not many weeks before a conclusion took form within his mind, the only he could come to.
When we place our affairs in the hands of new agents, is it not with the same trepidation as a General feels, who throws his forces against a perceived weakness of his enemy’s, knowing not if he have guessed right, and ruin be as likely as victory? Or, if we know not this sensation—and few of us mere citizens do—then perhaps it resembles those of a man who in spite of all Uncertainties at last speaks the few necessary words to a young Lady—those few words that may never be withdrawn—not, at least, without the greatest cost, and the tearing of conjoin’d flesh. Or it may more closely resemble the Lady’s sensations, upon accepting! But it need not resemble any thing—it is what it is—Fate personified, in the hand we take, the seal we press down, the pen & ink we wield, and our familiar name indited—appearing rather strange to us—upon papers as fraught as Sybil’s leaves. It may make a man suddenly desirous of a bottle of iced Champagne, and a lobster salad, and a segar to set afire, and careless company—all which was available in profusion to a young man of such expectations as Ali had suddenly become.
That was a Summer wonderfully warm, the summer of the Allies, when the stupor Mundi had again stupefied the world, this time by losing his battles, and abdicating his throne, as he had before by winning them, and toppling the thrones of others: for his mind, which had seemed superior to Fortune, had proved to be not so. Very large Bourbons were then drawn through London behind horses white as cream, to be embraced (insofar as their arms could reach round) by even larger Hanovers, and congratulated on their Restoration; old Blucher roam’d the city, and his Germanic capacities and Appetites were commented upon, and also the size of his Boots, which now and again left Balls and celebrations just in advance of their owner’s hoary head. Every great house in Mayfair was alight, and masquerades were the rage, with many going in Disguise, as Persons different from their true selves—and some of them were Masked.
At one of the Mayfair routs where Ali loitered uncomfortably—being neither a Waltzer, nor an exchanger of Banter of any great skill—the Honourable pointed out to him, seated demurely at a distance from the Throng and seeming as unsuited to it as himself (yet perhaps more willing to be pleased), a dark pale girl of uncommon self-possession, and no little beauty. ‘She is called Catherine,’ said the Honourable, upon Ali’s question. ‘Her family, Delaunay; she came out a season or two ago, though in respect of Gowns and Suitors and other splendours I have not seen her much shine since. She will converse—or at any rate she will talk—at length, and very well too, in the right company, and upon the right subjects, though often she is silent, as you see her, and the common stream of gossip and levity has little attraction for her.’ Ali thought the name spoken seemed familiar, but for a moment could not remember in what circumstances he had heard it—and when he did remember, a cold tremor passed over him that his friend observed—and laughed to see, mistaking its source or nature—for this Miss Delaunay was the heiress whom his Father had, on the last night of his life, pressed upon Ali’s attention! ‘Allow me to ask if she would meet you,’ said Mr Piper, and, before Ali could forestall him, he had slipt away amid the people passing and repassing.
Upon his return, though, the Honourable was unwontedly cast down—for his machinations upon occasions such as this were commonly successful, and this had failed. ‘I offered to present the famous Lord Sane, he who was the hero of Salamanca—I spoke of your celebrity—’
‘And why not my infamy? I wish you had said none of these things!’
‘It matters not much,’ said Mr Piper. ‘She had heard of you. But she is disinclined to make your acquaintance.’
‘Is she indeed?’
‘Mistake not—she had no particular objection—no moral animadversion—nothing of that kind—she merely evinced no interest—graciously, in fact, and with a smile.’
A confused emotion then arose in Ali’s breast, or brain—wherever emotions do arise,—for though he wanted not to be known for those ambiguous events which had made him famous, and sought after by so many—still, to be refused despite them—he knew not what to make of this—he felt challenged, or his worth called into question, though his worth depended not on his celebrity, as he was certain. ‘Let us be gone,’ said he shortly. ‘I have had amusement enough among the cosseted.’ And even as Mr Piper took his arm, and sought for one who might call his carriage, Ali looked back—but Catherine Delaunay was in conversation with another, and turn’d not in his direction.
NOTES FOR THE 8TH CHAPTER
1. a young Lady: An incident from life. Later, Lady Caroline Lamb would bribe her way into Ld. B.’s quarters, sometimes disguised as a page (see a following Chapter for an incident based upon this extravagant lady and her passion).
2. your maiden speech: Writing of London and early fame may have reminded Ld. B. of his own maiden speech in the House of Lords, a flaming denunciation of a bill calling for capital punishment for the crime of frame-breaking, for which desperate stocking-weavers in his own county of Nottinghamshire were at that time daily arrested. That these poor men’s lives should have been rated at less than the price of a stocking-frame was barbarous indeed; but those men could not see the future, only the cruelty with which it cut across their lives. Their descendants are at work in great manufactories today, making stockings and a thousand other goods by machines neither they, nor their Defender on that day, could have conceived—and the lowly stocking-frame is broken for good.
3. not proven: A judgement possible in Scottish courts. Would that it were possible in that Court to which Ld. B. here alludes, in which, while all the facts must be clear at last, the reasons may still remain unknowable, even to the soul brought up before that Bar, and to the Judge beyond. I shall believe that it is.
4. W
arden: As before stated, Byron’s own Newfoundland was named Boatswain. Over the dog’s tomb at Newstead (which I was privileged to see) are Byron’s own words:
To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but One,—and here he lies.
Upon my remarking recently to him that I had seen this monument on my journey thence, my father’s loyal friend Mr Hobhouse, Lord Broughton, told me that when Byron first composed the epitaph, he himself was by his side and—less than pleased at the sentiment—he suggested to Byron an emendation: ‘I never knew but one—and here I lies.’
5. Waltzer: It may be supposed that Lord Byron felt himself hors de combat where dancing was concerned, but common suppositions concerning his abilities or disabilities in respect of his foot & leg are often wrong in fact. He wrote a satire upon the Waltz—‘Seductive Waltz—Though on thy native shore, Even Werter’s self proclaim’d thee half a whore’, &c., tho’ it is ambiguous in its moral tendency, as so much of his verse both comic and serious tends to be.
6. a dark pale girl: My mother tells me that her initial response to Lord Byron—that she did not care to meet him, when all the world did—piqued his vanity, and his interest. I never knew if this was so, but in his depiction here Byron seems to assert something of the same concerning his hero—a curious confirmation.
