CHAPTER XV.IN PRISON.
Oh, God! that one might see the book of fate,And read the revolution of the times—Make mountains level, and the continent,Weary of solid firmness, melt itselfInto the sea! and other times to seeThe beachy girdle of the oceanToo wide for Neptune’s hips.—Shakspeare.
Oh, God! that one might see the book of fate,And read the revolution of the times—Make mountains level, and the continent,Weary of solid firmness, melt itselfInto the sea! and other times to seeThe beachy girdle of the oceanToo wide for Neptune’s hips.—Shakspeare.
Oh, God! that one might see the book of fate,And read the revolution of the times—Make mountains level, and the continent,Weary of solid firmness, melt itselfInto the sea! and other times to seeThe beachy girdle of the oceanToo wide for Neptune’s hips.—Shakspeare.
Oh, God! that one might see the book of fate,
And read the revolution of the times—
Make mountains level, and the continent,
Weary of solid firmness, melt itself
Into the sea! and other times to see
The beachy girdle of the ocean
Too wide for Neptune’s hips.—Shakspeare.
Clearly broke the morning through the grated windows of the lock-up house. The beams of the rising sun slanting through the bars, shown upon the wretched inmates, some extended along the benches, some squatted upon the floor but all in a heavy sleep.
Eudora, lying covered up carefully in her remote corner of the room, out of the direct rays of the sun, also continued to sleep soundly.
An hour or two passed without anything disturbing the quiet of the prison, until at length the falling of the bars, opening of the door, and entrance of the policemen, awoke the sleepers, who commenced an unanimous clamor for food, for drink, and above all, for release.
Roused by the noise, Eudora started up and gazed wildly around, not comprehending her situation; but soon memory, with all its terrors, awoke, and nearly turned her into stone. She gazed upon her manacled hands, her prison walls, and her wretched companions, and her blood nearly froze in her veins.
The policemen had come to take the other women and the children before the magistrate. The three females who had befriended her the night before now came to her to reclaim their shawls, and with many kind wishes, took leave.
“Keep up your spirits, lass! don’t let the beaks see youdown in the mouth! Lawk, it is only thefirsttime going as is awful. By the time you’ve been hauled up afore the beak as often as I has, you won’t mind it more’n I do. Will she, Nance?”
“Not a bit of it,” said the girl addressed.
Eudora shuddered throughout her frame at this horrible style of consolation. And yet so real is the link that binds together the whole brotherhood and sisterhood of man and woman, and so intense in times of trouble is the craving of the human heart for human sympathy, that it was with feelings of longing and regret Eudora saw these wretched women depart.
She was left quite alone for an hour; at the end of which the detective Sims brought her some coffee and bread, of which he kindly advised her to partake.
“How long shall I have to remain here?” inquired the poor girl.
“Your examination before the magistrates is fixed for noon. It can’t take place before, because of the witnesses having to be brought together.”
“Thank you. Will you set down the coffee, and be kind enough to procure me a pitcher of water?”
The officer nodded, and went and brought the required refreshment, and then retired and barred the door upon the solitary prisoner.
And as soon as she was again left alone, Eudora, over whose habits of neatness no misfortune could prevail, took combs, brushes, and a towel from her travelling-bag, and with the aid of the jug of water, bathed her face, combed her hair, and arranged her dress as well as with her manacled hands she could. Then she drank the coffee and tried to compose her mind for the severe ordeal before her.
She had not long to wait. At a quarter to twelve the bars once more fell with a clang, the door was opened, and the two officers entered to conduct her before the magistrates. With her fettered hands she managed to put onher bonnet, but could not contrive to arrange her shawl; but Sims performed this service for her with gentleness and delicacy, folding the shawl so as to conceal the manacles.
Then, closely veiled, she was led out between the two policemen, and conducted across the street to the Townhall, in a front room of which the magistrates held their sessions.
A rude crowd of men, women and boys was collected in front of the building, waiting to get a sight of her face as she passed. But the policemen kindly hurried her through this crowd into the hall.
It was a large stone room, divided across the middle of the floor by an iron railing. Within this railing, behind a long table, sat three magistrates; the presiding Justice, Sir Ira Brunton, occupied the central position, while on his right sat Squire Humphreys, and on his left Squire Upton. At one extremity of the table sat the clerk, and at the opposite end stood the group of witnesses, consisting of Dr. Watkins, Dr. Hall, the Princess Pezzilini, two chemists, a policeman, and the domestic servants of Allworth Abbey.
Immediately before the table stood Malcolm Montrose, looking pale, anxious, and heart-broken. On seeing the entrance of Eudora guarded, he hurried through the little gate of the railings towards her, saying, in a low and hurried tone:
“Oh, Eudora! It is but an hour since I heard of your arrest—only when the sheriff’s-officer arrived at Allworth to summon the witnesses; and I hurried hither immediately to see what I could do for you.”
“Nothing, nothing, you can do nothing for me, dear friend; my case is so desperate that none but God can help me.”
“But oh, Eudora——”
“Sir, we cannot allow any conversation with the prisoner,” said Sims, hurrying his charge on to the immediate presence of the magistrates.
“Place a chair for her, officer; she is unable to stand,” said Squire Upton, looking at the terrified and half-fainting girl with feelings that might have been compassion, but for the horror her supposed crime inspired.
Sims placed a chair directly in front of the table before the magistrates, and Eudora dropped rather than set down in it.
Sims then laid the warrant upon the table before their worships, and retreated behind the chair of his prisoner.
Sir Ira Brunton adjusted his spectacles, took up the warrant, looked over it, and then addressing the accused, said, coldly:
“Will you please to throw aside your veil, Miss Leaton?”
Eudora, with trembling fingers, obeyed, and revealed a face, so deathly in its pallor, that those who looked upon it shrank back and uttered exclamations of pity, for they thought the girl must be dying.
“Miss Leaton,” pursued Sir Ira Brunton, “the warrant that I hold here charges you with the murder, by the administration of poison, of the late Lord and Lady Leaton and their daughter, the Hon. Agatha Leaton. I must say that I grieve exceedingly to see one of your age and sex and rank stand before us charged with so heinous a crime.”
The deadly pallor of Eudora’s cheeks were suddenly flushed with a hectic spot, as she faltered forth:
“I am guiltless; oh, sir, you who have known me ever since I came, an orphan, in this strange land, should know that I am.”
“God grant that it may prove so,” said the magistrate, sternly.
And the investigation immediately commenced. First, the minutes of the coroner’s inquest were read; and then the witnesses were examined in turn.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Vose, was called, and with many tears, and much reluctance, gave in her testimony:
“That Miss Eudora Leaton was the niece of Lord Leaton, and after Miss Agatha, the next heiress to the estate. Miss Eudora had nursed Lord Leaton through his fatal illness, preparing all his delicate food and drink with her own hands. She prepared the sleeping-draught of which he drank ten minutes before his sudden death. Miss Eudora also nursed Miss Agatha through her last illness, which corresponded in all its symptoms to that of the late Lord Leaton. Miss Eudora watched beside Miss Agatha on the last night of her life, and prepared the tamarind-water of which she drank just before her death. Lady Leaton drank of the same beverage just before her sudden demise.”
Squire Upton inquired:
“Was the jug containing this beverage left out of the prisoner’s keeping from the time of her preparing it to the time of Miss Agatha Leaton’s death?”
“I think not. Miss Eudora prepared the drink in the housekeeper’s room, and took it up to Miss Agatha’s chamber, where she (Miss Eudora) watched through the night,” replied Mrs. Vose.
Several others among the domestic servants were examined, and each one, in a greater or less degree, corroborated the testimony of the housekeeper.
The next witness examined was the family physician, Dr. Watkins, who testified that the symptoms of the sudden accessions of illness, which successively terminated in the death of Lord Leaton, Lady Leaton, and Miss Leaton, were those produced by the poison of St. Ignatius’ Bean;—that traces of this poison were discovered in the autopsy of the dead bodies and in the analysis of the beverage prepared by Miss Eudora Leaton, and of which they drank just previous to their deaths;—and that a quantity of the same fatal drug was found in Miss Eudora Leaton’s box.
The testimony of the doctor was corroborated by two physicians who had assisted in the autopsy of the bodiesand the analysis of the beverage, and by the policeman who had executed the warrant and discovered the poison in Eudora’s possession.
The last witness examined was the Princess Pezzilini, who, with the exception of the scientific evidence offered by the physicians, corroborated the whole of the foregoing testimony.
The evidence being all collected, the prisoner was asked if she had any explanation to give before the magistrates should decide upon her case.
Slowly rising, and in a very faint voice, she answered:
“None that will do any good, I fear. I did, indeed, nurse my uncle and my cousin through their last illnesses—”
“Prisoner, you are seriously compromising yourself by making these admissions. You must be careful not to commit yourself again,” said Squire Upton.
“Sir, if I speak at all, I can only speak the truth, and I cannot believe that the truth can hurt me. I repeat, then, your worships, that I did nurse my uncle and cousin through their last illness. I did prepare with my own hands all the food and drink of which they partook—”
“Prisoner, prisoner,” said Squire Upton, in a tone of great sympathy, for—despite the conclusive evidence against her, it was impossible to look into her innocent eyes without feeling a doubt of her supposed guilt, and wishing to give her the benefit of that doubt—“prisoner, I must again earnestly warn you that you are fatally criminating yourself, a thing that the law does not require you to do. Justice affords even to the most guilty the opportunity of acquittal, which the criminal is not bound to destroy.”
“Sir, I am not a criminal; and if speaking the truth is to destroy me, it must do so. I did prepare their food and drink, as I did everything else for their relief and comfort, because I loved them so much that I would havegiven my life, if its sacrifice could have saved theirs. I put no injurious ingredient in anything that I made for them. And as for that deadly poison of St. Ignatius’ Bean, of which it is said they died, and which was found in my box, I do not know how it came there. I never, certainly, had it in my possession, never knew anything of its properties, never even heard of its existence before! And as I have spoken truly, so may the Lord deliver my life from this great peril!”
She concluded in a very low voice, and at the close of her little speech sank trembling into her chair again. Her simple defence, with its fatal admissions, was of course worse than useless; and her unsupported denial of the poisoning had not a feather’s weight to counterbalance the crushing mass of evidence against her.
“Humph! I see but one course for us to pursue, and that is to send her to trial. What do you say, Mr. Humphreys? What do you say, Mr. Upton?” inquired Sir Ira Brunton, looking to the right and left upon his associate magistrates.
“I regret to be obliged to coincide with you,” said Mr. Humphreys.
“It is very sad, very, very sad; but I see no possible alternative,” said Squire Upton, looking with deep compassion upon the poor young girl.
“Fill out the mittimus, Wallace,” ordered Sir Ira Brunton.
The clerk immediately filled out the commitment of Eudora Leaton, and placed it in the hands of detective Sims, with the order to take away his prisoner at once.
At this command a wild affright blanched the face of Eudora, who, in her utter ignorance of the magistrates’ prerogative, clasped her hands, and raised her dilated eyes, in an agony of supplication, saying:
“Oh, sirs, I am innocent! God knows I am! Have pity on me!”
“My child,” said the kind-hearted Squire Upton, who more than half-doubted her imputed guilt, “this is not final, you know. He pronounced no judgment upon your guilt or innocence, we only send you to take your trial before a higher court, where you may be fully acquitted. Meanwhile, no doubt your friends will procure you counsel from the highest legal talent in the kingdom, and this talent will devote itself to the task of clearing away these circumstances that appear against you; and if you are really innocent, as I hope that you are, take faith and patience to your heart, and pray and trust to God for their success and your deliverance.”
Eudora listened to these words with eager, breathless interest; but, oh, they afforded her but little hope. She bowed in silent acknowledgment of the magistrates’ kindness, and turned in resigned despair towards her custodians.
Malcolm Montrose, with anguish stamped like death upon his brow, came forward, and, in a choking voice, said:
“Gentlemen, if any amount of bail would suffice to set her at liberty—”
“Mr. Montrose, the Queen of England could not bail out a prisoner charged with the crime of which she stands committed,” said Sir Ira Brunton, sternly.
Ah! Malcolm knew this as well as the magistrates did; he had only spoken in the transient madness of grief and desperation. Now he turned to the prisoner, and said:
“Eudora, throw yourself upon the mercy of heaven, since there is so little left on earth. Oh, pray to God as I shall pray for you, and try to bear up under this heaviest affliction through these darkest of days. I will leave for London to-night, and retain the best counsel that can be procured. I will bring them to you to-morrow. Oh, try to endure your life until then.”
“Mr. Montrose,” said Sir Ira Brunton, “the prisonermust be at once removed; we are waiting to examine other cases.”
“Good-bye until to-morrow, Eudora. Before you reach your prison walls, I shall be speeding towards London to bring down your counsel. Heaven be with you, most innocent and most injured girl.”
And pressing her hand fervently, he relinquished it, and hurried away, to throw himself into the next up-train.
Eudora was led out between the two officers, placed in a cab, and driven towards the gaol.
The prison—situated on the outskirts of the town—was a great, grim-looking, dark, gray stone building, pierced by narrow grated windows, and surrounded by high stone walls.
Poor Eudora’s stricken heart collapsed and sank within her as the cab drew up before this formidable-looking stronghold.
The policemen alighted, handed their prisoner out, and rang at the grated gate in the wall, which was immediately unlocked and opened by the turnkey on duty there.
The terrified, half-fainting girl was led into a close courtyard, where the very wind of heaven, that bloweth where it listeth, was scarcely free to move, and across it, towards the main entrance of the prison, a low, narrow, iron-bound oaken door, approached by six steep stone steps in the thickness of the wall.
Here again the policemen rang, and the door was opened by the keeper on duty, who admitted the whole party into a gloomy-looking stone hall, where a turnkey received and silently conducted them to a side-door on the right leading into the gaoler’s office.
Here the sinking girl was permitted to sit down while the gaoler received the warrant for her confinement, entered her name upon the prison books, gave a receipt for her person, and discharged the policemen, who immediately left.
When they were gone, the gaoler looked with the utmost interest and sorrow upon the unhappy girl left in his custody; and well he might, for it was the father of Eudora whose kind efforts had procured his appointment to the office which he now held.
He went to a small cupboard in the wall, and poured out a glass of sherry, which he brought to her, and with paternal kindness compelled her to drink.
The generous wine certainly called back the ebbing tide of her life, and when Mr. Anderson saw this, he said:
“Do not be too much cast down, Miss Leaton. Hope for the best. Meantime, while you are left in my charge, I will try to make your confinement as easy as I can, consistently with my duty and your safe keeping.”
“I thank you,” breathed Eudora, in a low voice, and with a slightly surprised look; for the poor child’s abstract idea of gaolers had been that they were terrible, avenging demons, having indeed the shape of men, but being set aside from common human nature by reason of their odious office. And to see in this dreaded monster a benevolent little man, who spoke gently and acted kindly, was a new revelation.
“And now I will take you to your cell, where at least you may lie down and take the rest that you seem to need so much. I will make you as comfortable as circumstances will admit; and as you are not here for punishment, but only to await your trial, you may be allowed many privileges that are denied to those who are confined for offences.”
“I thank you,” again sighed the poor girl, whose tortured brain could shape no other form of reply, and whose aching heart could take no interest in the minor comforts or discomforts of her situation, while the appalling calamity of her approaching trial and probable fate stared her in the face.
But she arose and followed the gaoler, who led her backinto the hall, up a flight of steep stone stairs, and along a narrow corridor flanked each side by grated doors.
About midway down the length of this corridor, he paused and unlocked a door on the right hand, and led his prisoner into a stone cell, very small but very clean, having a grated window at the back, and furnished with a cot-bed, and a wooden stand and chair.
“I place you here,” said Mr. Anderson, “because the window looks down upon the prison garden and out over the heath, so that your eyes may travel though your feet may not. And now sit down, if you please, while I take off those handcuffs.”
Eudora sank into the only chair, and held up her hands while the gaoler relieved her of those galling fetters, which, long after they had been removed, left livid circles around those delicate wrists to show where they had pressed.
“And now I will go and send one of the female turnkeys to bring you what you need. And if there is anything that will—I cannot say add to your comfort, but—detract from yourdiscomfort, send word by her to me, and, if possible, you shall be accommodated with what you want,” said Anderson, leaving the cell and locking the door.
Eudora took off her bonnet and shawl, cast herself upon the narrow bed, closed her eyes, threw her arms up over her head—it was almost with a sense of pleasure that she felt them free again—and abandoned herself to the natural attitude of the prostration of grief.
She had scarcely lain thus for five minutes when the door was again unlocked, and a woman, coarse in person, but civil in demeanor, entered the cell, bringing a basin, pitcher of water, and towel, all of which she placed upon the stand.
Hearing this woman moving about the cell, Eudora, without changing her attitude, listlessly opened her eyes.
The woman then pointed to the conveniences she had brought, and said:
“Mr. Anderson wishes to know if there is anything else you would like.”
Eudora shook her head in silence, and the woman retreated, and once more locked the prisoner in.
Two or three hours passed, in which Eudora, lying still upon her narrow prison bed in the dull anguish of despair, felt as if her heart was slowly and painfully dying, but without the hope of ultimate death.
Everyone who has suffered the extremity of suspense, grief, or despair, knows the dread sensation of this dying life or living death. It is that which even in youth, in health, and in a few hours, has power to wrinkle the brow, whiten the hair, and disorganize the heart.
It was quite dark, when the female turnkey, whose name was Barton, entered the cell, bringing Eudora’s supper on a tray, and saying:
“This was sent you from Mr. Anderson’s own table, miss; do try and eat a bit.”
Eudora shook her head in silence; but the woman was kindly persistent, and the poor girl, by nature very docile, lifted herself up and ate a small bit of mutton-chop, and drank a little port wine.
“And now, miss, if you’ve brought your night clothes along with you, I would like to help you to undress, and see you comfortably in bed before I leave you, for you do not look so very over strong.”
In this instance also Eudora meekly yielded to the guidance of Mrs. Barton, took a night-gown from the travelling-bag, and permitted the good woman to help her to undress and get into bed.
And then Mrs. Barton hung up Eudora’s dress, and bidding her be of good cheer, and wishing her good-night, left the cell, and locked her in.
And as soon as the poor girl found herself again alone, she closed her eyes, clasped her hands, and raised her heart in prayer to God for strength, comfort, and deliverance.