“No one!” answered Mary.
“And you’ve no clue to the one as is really guilty, if t’other is not?”
Mary did not answer, but trembled all over.
Sturgis saw it.
“Don’t bother her with thy questions,” said he to his wife. “She mun go to bed, for she’s all in a shiver with the sea-air. I’ll see after the wind, hang it, and the weathercock too. Tide will help ‘em when it turns.”
Mary went upstairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who took the stranger in. Mrs. Sturgis led her into a little room redolent of the sea and foreign lands. There was a small bed for one son bound for China; and a hammock slung above for another, who was now tossing in the Baltic. The sheets looked made out of sail-cloth, but were fresh and clean in spite of their brownness.
Against the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels with their names written underneath, on which the mother’s eyes caught, and gazed until they filled with tears. But she brushed the drops away with the back of her hand, and in a cheerful tone went on to assure Mary the bed was well aired.
“I cannot sleep, thank you. I will sit here, if you please,” said
Mary, sinking down on the window-seat.
“Come, now,” said Mrs. Sturgis, “my master told me to see you to bed, and I mun. What’s the use of watching? A watched pot never boils, and I see you are after watching that weathercock. Why now, I try never to look at it, else I could do nought else. My heart many a time goes sick when the wind rises, but I turn away and work away, and try never to think on the wind, but on what I ha’ getten to do.”
“Let me stay up a little,” pleaded Mary, as her hostess seemed so resolute about seeing her to bed.
Her looks won her suit.
“Well, I suppose I mun. I shall catch it downstairs, I know. He’ll be in a fidget till you’re getten to bed, I know; so you mun be quiet if you are so bent upon staying up.”
And quietly, noiselessly, Mary watched the unchanging weathercock through the night. She sat on the little window seat, her hand holding back the curtain which shaded the room from the bright moonlight without; her head resting its weariness against the corner of the window-frame; her eyes burning and stiff with the intensity of her gaze.
The ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow into the watcher’s room.
It was the morning of the day of trial!
XXXII. THE TRIAL AND VERDICT — ”NOT GUILTY.”
”Thou stand’st here arraign’d,
That with presumption impious and accurs’d,
Thou hast usurp’d God’s high prerogative,
Making thy fellow mortal’s life and death
Wait on thy moody and diseased passions;
That with a violent and untimely steel
Hath set abroach the blood that should have ebbed
In calm and natural current: to sum all
In one wild name — a name the pale air freezes at,
And every cheek of man sinks in with horror —
Thou art a cold and midnight murderer.”
— MILMAN’S “FAZIO.”
Of all the restless people who found that night’s hours agonising from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was perhaps the most restless. He had slept but little since the blow had fallen; his waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which seemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers.
And this night of all others was the most sleepless. He turned over and over again in his mind the wonder if everything had been done, that could be done, to insure the conviction of Jem Wilson. He almost regretted the haste with which he had urged forward the proceedings, and yet, until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there was no peace on earth for him (I don’t know that he exactly used the term vengeance in his thoughts; he spoke of justice, and probably thought of his desired end as such); no peace, either bodily or mental, for he moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp of a wild beast in a cage, and if he compelled his aching limbs to cease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to convulsions, and he recommenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the more bearable fatigue.
With daylight increased power of action came; and he drove off to arouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and inquiries; and when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the courts should be opened, and the trial begin.
What were all the living, — wife or daughters, — what were they in comparison with the dead, the murdered son who lay unburied still, in compliance with his father’s earnest wish, and almost vowed purpose, of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death, before he committed the body to the rest of the grave?
At nine o’clock they all met at their awful place of rendezvous.
The judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the witnesses — all were gathered together within the building. And besides these were many others, personally interested in some part of the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part; Job Legh, Ben Sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was Charley Jones.
Job Legh had carefully avoided any questioning from Mrs. Wilson that morning. Indeed, he had not been much in her company, for he had risen up early to go out once more to make inquiry for Mary; and when he could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to undeceive Mrs. Wilson, as sorrow never came too late; and if the blow were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of the impending evil as long as possible, She took her place in the witness-room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious.
As Job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, Mr.
Bridgnorth’s clerk beckoned to him.
“Here’s a letter for you from our client!”
Job sickened as he took it. He did not know why, but he dreaded a confession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope.
The letter ran as follows: —
“DEAR FRIEND, — I thank you heartily for your goodness in finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me, whatever they may do to other people. But I am not the less obliged to you, dear friend. I foresee things will go against me — and no wonder. If I was a juryman I should say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought against him as may be brought against me tomorrow. So it’s no blame to them if they do. But, Job Legh, I think I need not tell you I am as guiltless in this matter as the babe unborn, although it is not in my power to prove it. If I did not believe that you thought me innocent, I could not write as I do now to tell you my wishes. You’ll not forget they are the words of a man shortly to die. Dear friend, you must take care of my mother. Not in the money way, for she will have enough for her and Aunt Alice; but you must let her talk to you of me; and show her that (whatever others may do) you think I died innocent. I don’t reckon she’ll stay long behind when we are all gone. Be tender with her, Job, for my sake; and if she is a bit fractious at times, remember what she has gone through. I know mother will never doubt me, God bless her.
“There is one other whom I fear I have loved too dearly; and yet, the loving her has made the happiness of my life. She will think I have murdered her lover: she will think I have caused the grief she must be feeling. And she must go on thinking so. It is hard upon me to say this; but she MUST. It will be best for her, and that’s all I ought to think on. But, dear Job, you are a hearty fellow for your time of life, and may live many years to come; and perhaps you could tell her, when you felt sure you were drawing near your end, that I solemnly told you (as I do now) that I was innocent of this thing. You must not tell her for many years to come: but I cannot well bear to think on her living through a long life, and hating the thought of me as the murderer of him she loved, and dying with that hatred to me in her heart. It would hurt me sore in the other world to see the look of it in her face, as it would be, till she was told. I must not let myself think on how she must be viewing me now.
“So God bless you, Job Legh; a
nd no more from yours to command,
“JAMES WILSON.”
Job turned the letter over and over when he had read it; sighed deeply; and then wrapping it carefully up in a bit of newspaper he had about him, he put it in his waistcoat pocket, and went off to the door of the witness-room to ask if Mary Barton was there.
As the door opened he saw her sitting within, against a table on which her folded arms were resting, and her head was hidden within them. It was an attitude of hopelessness, and would have served to strike Job dumb in sickness of heart, even without the sound of Mrs. Wilson’s voice in passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which told him as well as words could do (for she was not within view of the door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at any rate partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night.
Sorrowfully did Job return into the body of the court; neither Mrs. Wilson nor Mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness-room door.
As soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the present scene, he perceived that the trial of James Wilson for the murder of Henry Carson was just commencing. The clerk was gabbling over the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed question, “How say you, Guilty or Not Guilty?”
Although but one answer was expected, — was customary in all cases, — there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding; while the prisoner at the bar stood with compressed lips, looking at the judge with his outward eyes, but with far other and different scenes presented to his mental vision; a sort of rapid recapitulation of his life, — remembrances of his childhood, — his father (so proud of him, his first-born child), — his sweet little playfellow, Mary, — his hopes, his love, his despair, — yet still, yet ever and ever, his love, — the blank, wide world it had been without her love, — his mother, — his childless mother, — but not long to be so, — not long to be away from all she loved, — nor during that time to be oppressed with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling’s heart; — he started from his instant’s pause, and said in a low firm voice
“Not guilty, my lord.”
The circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body, the causes of suspicion against Jem, were as well known to most of the audience as they are to you, so there was some little buzz of conversation going on among the people while the leading counsel for the prosecution made his very effective speech.
“That’s Mr. Carson, the father, sitting behind Serjeant Wilkinson!”
“What a noble-looking old man he is! so stern and inflexible, with such classical features! Does he not remind you of some of the busts of Jupiter?”
“I am more interested by watching the prisoner. Criminals always interest me. I try to trace in the features common to humanity some expression of the crimes by which they have distinguished themselves from their kind. I have seen a good number of murderers in my day, but I have seldom seen one with such marks of Cain on his countenance as the man at the bar.”
“Well, I am no physiognomist, but I don’t think his face strikes me as bad. It certainly is gloomy and depressed, and not unnaturally so, considering his situation.”
“Only look at his low, resolute brow, his downcast eye, his white compressed lips. He never looks up, — just watch him.”
“His forehead is not so low if he had that mass of black hair removed, and is very square, which some people say is a good sign. If others are to be influenced by such trifles as you are, it would have been much better if the prison barber had cut his hair a little previous to the trial; and as for downcast eye, and compressed lip, it is all part and parcel of his inward agitation just now; nothing to do with character, my good fellow.”
Poor Jem! His raven hair (his mother’s pride, and so often fondly caressed by her fingers), was that, too, to have its influence against him?
The witnesses were called. At first they consisted principally of policemen; who, being much accustomed to giving evidence, knew what were the material points they were called on to prove, and did not lose the time of the court in listening to anything unnecessary.
“Clear as day against the prisoner,” whispered one attorney’s clerk to another.
“Black as night, you mean,” replied his friend; and they both smiled.
“Jane Wilson! who’s she? some relation, I suppose, from the name.”
“The mother, — she that is to prove the gun part of the case.”
“Oh, ay — I remember! Rather hard on her, too, I think.”
Then both were silent, as one of the officers of the court ushered Mrs. Wilson into the witness-box. I have often called her “the old woman,” and “an old woman,” because, in truth, her appearance was so much beyond her years, which could not be many above fifty. But partly owing to her accident in early life, which left a stamp of pain upon her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to her sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave me the idea of age. But now she might have seemed more than seventy; her lines were so set and deep, her features so sharpened, and her walk so feeble. She was trying to check her sobs into composure, and (unconsciously) was striving to behave as she thought would best please her poor boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her uncontrolled impatience. He had buried his face in his arms, which rested on the front of the dock (an attitude he retained during the greater part of his trial, and which prejudiced many against him).
The counsel began the examination.
“Your name is Jane Wilson, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The mother of the prisoner at the bar?”
“Yes, sir,” with quivering voice, ready to break out into weeping, but earning respect by the strong effort at self-control, prompted, as I have said before, by her earnest wish to please her son by her behaviour.
The barrister now proceeded to the important part of the examination, tending to prove that the gun found on the scene of the murder was the prisoner’s. She had committed herself so fully to the policeman, that she could not well retract; so without much delay in bringing the question round to the desired point, the gun was produced in court, and the inquiry made —
“That gun belongs to your son, does it not?”
She clenched the sides of the witness-box in her efforts to make her parched tongue utter words. At last she moaned forth —
“Oh! Jem, Jem! what mun I say?”
Every one bent forward to hear the prisoner’s answer; although, in fact, it was of little importance to the issue of the trial. He lifted up his head; and with a face brimming full of pity for his mother, yet resolved into endurance, said —
“Tell the truth, mother!”
And so she did, with the fidelity of a little child. Every one felt that she did; and the little colloquy between mother and son did them some slight service in the opinion of the audience. But the awful judge sat unmoved; and the jurymen changed not a muscle of their countenances; while the counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly through this part of the case, including the fact of Jem’s absence from home on the night of the murder, and bringing every admission to bear right against the prisoner.
It was over. She was told to go down. But she could no longer compel her mother’s heart to keep silence, and suddenly turning towards the judge (with whom she imagined the verdict to rest), she thus addressed him with her choking voice —
“And now, sir, I’ve telled you the truth, and the whole truth, as he bid me; but don’t you let what I have said go for to hang him; oh, my lord judge, take my word for it, he’s as innocent as the child as has yet to be born. For sure, I, who am his mother, and have nursed him on my knee, and been gladdened by the sight of him every day since, ought to know him better than yon pack of fellows” (indicating the jury, while she strove against her heart to render her words distinct and clear for her dear son’s sake), “who, I’ll go bail, never saw him before this morning in all their born days. My
lord judge, he’s so good I often wondered what harm there was in him; many is the time when I’ve been fretted (for I’m frabbit enough at times), when I’ve scold’t myself, and said: ‘You ungrateful thing, the Lord God has given you Jem, and isn’t that blessing enough for you?’ But He has seen fit to punish me. If Jem is — if Jem is — taken from me, I shall be a childless woman; and very poor, having nought left to love on earth, and I cannot say ‘His will be done.’ I cannot, my lord judge, oh, I cannot.”
While sobbing out these words she was led away by the officers of the court, but tenderly, and reverently, with the respect which great sorrow commands.
The stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh force from every witness who was examined, and threatening to overwhelm poor Jem. Already they had proved that the gun was his, that he had been heard not many days before the commission of the deed to threaten the deceased; indeed, that the police had, at that time, been obliged to interfere, to prevent some probable act of violence. It only remained to bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the murder. The clue to this had been furnished by the policeman, who had overheard Jem’s angry language to Mr. Carson; and his report in the first instance had occasioned the sub-poena to Mary.
And now she was to be called on to bear witness. The court was by this time almost as full as it could hold; but fresh attempts were being made to squeeze in at all the entrances, for many were anxious to see and hear this part of the trial.
Old Mr. Carson felt an additional beat at his heart at the thought of seeing the fatal Helen, the cause of all, — a kind of interest and yet repugnance, for was not she beloved by the dead; nay, perhaps, in her way, loving and mourning for the same being that he himself was so bitterly grieving over? And yet he felt as if he abhorred her and her rumoured loveliness, as if she were the curse against him; and he grew jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and would fain have deprived her of even her natural right of sorrowing over her lover’s untimely end: for you see it was a fixed idea in the minds of all, that the handsome, bright, gay, rich young gentleman must have been beloved in preference to the serious, almost stern-looking smith, who had to toil for his daily bread.
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 39
