What shall he be, ere night?—Perchance a thingO'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing.—Byron.
It was broad daylight when the viscount was again awakened, and this time by the solemn tolling of the prison bell. He sprang out of bed and looked out of the window and recoiled in horror. There in the angle of the prison yard stood the gallows, grimly painted black. That was what the carpenters had been at work on all night.
And the tolling of the prison bell warned him that the last hour of the condemned man had come; that he was even now leaving his cell for the gallows. Lord Vincent staggered back and fell upon his bed. In the fate of Frisbie he seemed to feel a forewarning of the certain retribution that was lying in wait for himself.
There came a sound of footsteps along the passage. They paused before his cell. Someone unlocked the door. And, to the viscount's astonishment, the procession that was on its way to the gallows entered his presence. There was Frisbie, still unbound, but guarded by a half a dozen policemen and turnkeys, and attended by the undersheriff of the county, and the warden and the chaplain of the prison.
Lord Vincent stared in astonishment, wondering what brought them there; but he found no words in which to put the question.
The chaplain constituted himself the spokesman of the party.
"My lord, this unhappy man wishes to see you before he dies; and the sheriff has kindly accorded him the privilege," said Mr. Godfree.
Lord Vincent looked from the chaplain to the prisoner in perplexity and terror. What could the condemned man, in the last hour of his life, want with him?
Frisbie spoke:
"My lord, I am a dying man; but I could not meet death with guilty secrets on my soul. My lord, I have told everything, the whole truth about the death of poor Ailsie, and the plot against my lady. I could not help it, my lord. I could not leave the world with such wrong unrighted behind me. I could not so face my Creator. I have come to tell you this, my lord, and ask you to forgive me if, in doing this, I have been compelled to do you harm," said the man, speaking humbly, deprecatingly, almost affectionately.
"God forgive you, Frisbie, but you have ruined me!" was the somewhat strange reply of the viscount, as he turned away; for it seemed to those who heard him that he was asking the Lord to forgive the sinner, not for his sins, but for his confession of them.
The procession of death left the cell; the door was locked, and the viscount was alone again—alone, and in utter, irremediable despair.
He sat upon the side of the bed, his hands clasped and his chin dropped upon his breast until the bell of the prison chapel suddenly ceased to toll. Then he looked up. It was all over. The judicial tragedy had been enacted. And he arose and went to the grated window and looked out.
No, oh, Heaven, it was not all over! That group around the foot of the gallows; that cart and empty coffin; that shrouded and bound figure, convulsed and swaying in the air—blasted his sight. With a loud cry he dashed his hand up to his eyes to shut out the horrible vision, and fell heavily upon the floor. He lay there as one dead until the turnkey brought his breakfast. Then he got up and threw himself upon the bed. He eagerly drank the coffee that was brought to him, for his throat was parched and burning; but he could not swallow a mouthful of solid food.
"Bring me the afternoon paper as soon as it is out," he said to the turnkey, at the same time handing him a half-crown. The man bowed in silence and took his breakfast tray from the table and withdrew.
For some reason or other, perhaps from the fear of coming in contact with the preparations for the execution, Mrs. MacDonald did not present herself at the prison until nearly noon, so that the prison clock was actually on the stroke of twelve when old Cuthbert was admitted to his master's cell. On entering and beholding his master, the old man started and exclaimed in affright:
"Gude guide us, me laird, what has come over ye?"
"Nothing, Cuthbert, but want of rest. What is that you have in your hand?"
"The evening paper, me laird, that ane o' the lads gi'e me to bring your lairdship."
"Have you looked at it?" demanded the viscount anxiously, for he could not bear the idea of his old servant's reading the confession of Frisbie, that was probably in that very paper. "Have you looked at it, I ask you?" he repeated fiercely.
"Nay, no, me laird. I hanna e'en unfaulded it," said the old man simply, handing the paper.
The viscount seized it, threw himself on the chair, and opened it; but instead of reading the paper he looked up at old Cuthbert, who was standing there watching his master, with the deepest concern expressed in his venerable countenance.
"There, get about something; do anything! only don't stand there and stare at me, as if you had gone daft!" angrily exclaimed Lord Vincent.
The old man turned meekly, and began to put things straight in the cell. The viscount searched and found what he had feared to see. Ah! well might he dread the eye of old Cuthbert on him while he read those columns.
Yes, there it was; the account of the last hours of Alick Frisbie by the pen of the chaplain! the night in the cell, the scene of the execution, and, last of all, the confession of the culprit with all its shameful revelations. The viscount, with a feverish desire to see how deeply he himself was implicated, and to know the worst at once, read it all. How far he was implicated indeed! He was steeped to the very lips in infamy.
Why, the crime for which Frisbie had suffered death, the murder of that poor girl, committed in a paroxysm of passion, and repented in bitterness, and confessed in humility, seemed only a light offense beside the deep turpitude, the black treachery, of that long premeditated, carefully arranged plot against Lady Vincent, in which the viscount was the principal and the valet only the accomplice. The plot was revealed in all its base, loathsome, revolting details. The reader knows what these details were, for he has both seen them and heard of them. But can he imagine what it was to the viscount to have them discovered, published, and circulated?
When Lord Vincent had read this confession through he knew that all was forever over with him; he knew that at that very hour hundreds of people were reading that confession, shuddering at his guilt, scorning his baseness, and anticipating his conviction; he knew as well as if he had just heard the sentence of the court what that sentence would be. Penal servitude for life!
Deep groans burst from his bosom.
"Me laird, me laird, you are surely ill," said the old man anxiously, coming forward.
"Yes, Cuthbert, I am ill; in pain."
"Will I call a doctor?"
"No, Cuthbert; a doctor is not necessary; but attend to me a moment.They let you bring me anything you like unquestioned, do they not?"
"Aye, surely, me laird; for you are no under condemnation yet; but only waiting for your honorable acquittal."
"Cuthbert, I think you have a brother who is a chemist in town, have you not?"
"Ou, aye, me laird. Joost Randy, honest man."
The viscount sat down and wrote a line on a scrap of paper and gave it to the old man.
"Now, Cuthbert, take this to your brother. Be sure that you let no one see that bit of paper, and when you get the medicine that I have written for, put it in your bosom and don't take it out until you come back to me and we are alone. Now, Cuthbert, I hope you will be more canny over this affair than you were over the affair of the note I sent to Frisbie, which you permitted to fall into the hands of Philistines."
"Ah, puir Frisbie, puir lad! Gude hae mercy on him! I'll be carfu', me laird; though it was no me, but puir Frisbie himsel', that let the bit note drap. But I'll be carefu', me laird, though 'deed I dinna see the use o' concealment, sin' naebody ever interferes wi' onything I am bringing your lairdship."
"But they might interfere with this because it is medicine; for they might think that no one but the prison doctor has a right to give medicine here."
"Ou, aye—I comprehend, me laird, that sic might be the case where the medicament is dangerous. But will this be dangerous?"
"Why, no; it is nothing but simple laudanum. You know how good laudanum is to allay pain; and that there is no danger at all in it."
"No, me laird, gin ane doesna tak' an ower muckle dose."
"Certainly, if one does not take an overdose; but I have knowledge enough not to do that, Cuthbert."
"Surely, me laird. I'll gae noo and get it," replied the old man, taking up his hat, and knocking at the door to be released. The turnkey opened promptly, and Cuthbert departed on his errand.
When the viscount was left alone he resumed his restless pacing up and down the narrow limits of his cell and continued it for a while. Then he sat down to his little table, drew a sheet of paper before him, and began to write a letter.
He was interrupted by the unlocking of his cell door. Hastily he turned the paper with the blank side up and looked around. It was Mr. Bruce, his counsel. The lawyer looked unusually grave.
"Well," he said, as soon as he was left alone with his client, "the poor devil Frisbie is gone."
"Yes," responded the viscount, in a low voice.
"That is an ugly business of the confession."
"Very; the man was mad," said the viscount.
"Not unlikely; but I wish we may be able to persuade the jury that he was so; or else to induce the judges to rule his evidence out altogether."
"Can that be done? I mean can the judges be induced to rule out the confession as evidence?" inquired the viscount, sudden hope lighting up his hitherto dejected countenance.
"I fear not; I fear that our chance is to persuade the jury that the man was insane or mendacious—in a word, to impeach his rationality or his truthfulness, one or the other; we must decide which stand we are to take, which call in question."
"You might doubt either his sanity or his truth with equally good cause. He was always a fool and always a liar. When is the trial to come on?"
"That is just what I came to speak to you about. It is called for to-morrow at ten."
"To-morrow at ten?"
"Yes."
"Are you quite ready with the defense?"
"I was until this nasty business of Frisbie's confession turned up. I shall have to take a copy of the paper containing it home with me to-night, and study it, to see how I can pull it to pieces, and destroy its effects upon the jury. Have you got it here?" said Mr. Bruce, taking up the afternoon paper that lay upon the table.
"Yes."
"Have you done with it?"
"Yes."
The lawyer folded up the paper and put it in his pocket, and took his hat to depart.
"Mr. Bruce," said the viscount earnestly, "I am about to ask you a question, which I must entreat you to answer truthfully: What are the chances of my acquittal?"
The lawyer hesitated and changed color. The eyes of the viscount were fixed earnestly upon him. The eyes of the counsel fell.
"I see; you need not reply to my question. You think my chance a bad one," said Lord Vincent despondently.
"No, my lord; I did not mean to give you any such impression," said Mr. Bruce, recovering himself and his professional manners. "Before this troublesome confession of Frisbie's your chance was an excellent one—"
"But since?"
"Well, as I say, that is an ugly feature in the case; but I will do my best. And to say nothing of my own poor abilities, my colleagues, Stair and Drummond, are among the most successful barristers in the kingdom. They are always safe to gain a verdict where there is a verdict possible to be gained."
"Yes; I know that I have the best talent in the Three Kingdoms engaged in my defense," said the viscount; but he said it with a profound sigh.
"I will look in upon you again early to-morrow morning, before we go into court," said Mr. Bruce, as he bowed himself out.
This interview with his counsel had only tended to confirm the fears of the viscount and deepen his despondency, for, notwithstanding the guarded words of the lawyer, Lord Vincent saw that he had well-nigh given up all for lost. With a deep groan he sat down to the table and resumed the writing of his letter. He had not written many minutes when he was startled by the opening of the door. He hastily concealed his writing under a piece of blotting paper, and nervously turned to see who was the new intruder.
It was old Cuthbert, come back from his errand.
As soon as the door was closed upon them, the old man approached his master.
"Have you got the medicine, Cuthbert?"
"Aye, me laird," replied the servant, taking a bottle, rolled in a white paper, from his pocket, and handing it to his master. Some instinct made the viscount conceal the bottle in his own bosom.
"And here, me laird, are two letters the turnkey gave me to hand to your lairdship. He tauld me they had just been left at the warden's office for you," said Cuthbert, laying two formidable-looking epistles before his master.
Lord Vincent recognized in the superscription of the respective letters the handwriting of his counsel, Mr. Drummond and Mr. Stair. He hastily opened them one after the other. Several banknotes for a large amount rolled out of each. Surprised, he rapidly cast his eyes over each in turn. And his face turned to a deadly whiteness. The two letters were in effect the same. It seemed as though the writers, though not in partnership, had acted in concert on this occasion. They each respectfully begged leave to return their retaining fees and retire from the defense of the viscount. Since reading the confession of the convict, Alick Frisbie, they could not conscientiously act as counsel for Lord Vincent. Such was the purport, if not the exact words of the two letters.
"Me laird, me laird, ye are ill again!" said old Cuthbert, anxiously approaching his master.
"Yes; the pain has returned."
"Will ye no tak' some o' the medicine noo?"
"No, Cuthbert; not until I retire for the night," answered the viscount; but he withdrew the bottle from his bosom, and took it to the wash-basin and washed off the label and then threw it—the label—into the fire.
Cuthbert watched him, and wondered at this proceeding, but was too respectful to express surprise or make inquiries. And at this moment the turnkey entered with Lord Vincent's supper, that had been brought from the "Highlander"; and while he arranged it on the table he warned Cuthbert that the prison doors were about to be closed for the night, and that Mrs. MacDonald was waiting for him to drive her back to the castle. Upon hearing this the old man took a respectful leave of his master and departed. The turnkey remained in attendance upon the prisoner, kindly pressing him to eat.
But Lord Vincent swallowed only a little tea, and then pushed the food from him. The turnkey took away the service, locked the prisoner in for the night, and went to the warden's office.
"Weel, Donald, what is it, mon?" inquired the warden.
"An ye please, sir, I'm no easy in my mind about me Laird; Vincent," said the turnkey.
"Why, what ails me laird?"
"Why, sir, he is joost like ane distraught!"
"On, aye, it will be the confession o' the malefactor, Frisbie, that has fasht him; as weel it may!"
"He's war nor fasht; he looks joost likely to do himsel' a mischief," said Christie, shaking his head.
"Heeh! an that be sae we maun be carefu'! Are there any sharp-edged or pointed instruments in his cell?"
"Naught but his penknife. I was minded to bring it away, but I did na."
"Eh, then we will pay him a visit in his cell," said the warden, rising.
The turnkey led the way upstairs, and they entered the prisoner's cell. The viscount, who was sitting at the table with his head leaning upon his hand, looked up at this unusual visit. His face was deadly pale; but beyond that the warden noticed nothing amiss in his appearance, and that paleness was certainly natural in a prisoner suffering from confinement and anxiety. There is usually but scant ceremony observed between jailer and prisoner; nevertheless, in this case Auld Saundie Gra'ame actually apologized for his unseasonable visit.
"Me laird," he said, "I hae a verra unpleasant duty to perform here. Donald reports that ye are no that weel in your mind. And sic being the case, I maun, in regard to your ain guid and safety, see till the removal of a' edged tools and sic like dangerous weapons."
"Take away what you please; I have no objection," said the viscount indifferently.
Whereupon the warden and turnkey made a thorough search of the room; took away his razors and scissors from his dressing-case, and his penknife and his eraser from his writing desk.
"I shall take guid care of a' these articles, me laird, and return them to you safe, ance you are out o' these wa's," said the warden.
The viscount made no reply.
"And ye maun ken that I only remove them to prevent ye doin' yoursel' a mischief in your despondency," he continued.
The viscount smiled with a strange, derisive, triumphant expression; but still did not reply in words.
"And gin ye will heed guid counsel, ye will na gi'e yoursel' up to despair. Despair is an unco ill counselor, and the de'il is aye ready to tak' advantage of its presence. Guid nicht, me laird, and guid rest till ye," said Auld Saundie, as he withdrew himself and his subordinate from the cell, and locked his prisoner in finally for the night.
When he got back to his office he summoned all of his officers around him and spoke to them.
"Lads, I ha'e sair misgivings anent yon Laird Vincent. Ye maun be verra carefu'! Ye mauna let his mon Cuthbert tak' onything in, until it ha'e passed muster under me ain twa een. And you, Donald, maun aye gang in wi' Cuthbert or ony ither, gentle or simple, wha gaes to see me laird, and bide in the cell wi' them to watch that the visitor gi'es naething unlawfu' or daungerous to the prisoner. An ounce o' prevention, ye ken, lads, is better than a pund o' cure!"
And having given this order, the warden dismissed his subordinates to their various evening duties.
Yes, an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure! But it is a pity the honest warden had not known when to apply the preventive agent.
Meanwhile, how had Faustina borne her imprisonment?
Why, excellently. Not that she had any patience, or courage, or fortitude, for she had not the least bit of either, or any other sort of heroism. But, as I said before, she was such a mere animal that, so long as she was made comfortable in the present, she felt no trouble on the score of the past or the future.
After her first fit of howling, weeping, and raging had exhausted itself, and she had seen that her violence had no other effect than to injure her cause, she resigned herself to circumstances and made herself as comfortable as possible in her cell. The expenditure of a few pounds had procured her everything she wanted, except her liberty; and that she did not feel the want of, as a creature with more soul might have done.
Any chance visitor who might have gone into Faustina's cell would have been astonished to see it fitted up as a tiny boudoir, and would have required to be told that there was no law to prevent a prisoner, unconvicted and waiting trial, from fitting up her cell as luxuriously as she pleased to do, if she had money to pay the expense and friends to take the trouble. And Faustina had freely spent money and freely used Mrs. MacDonald.
The floor of her cell was covered with crimson carpet, the festooned window with a lace curtain, and ornamented with a bouquet of flowers. A soft bed, with fine linen and warm coverlids, stood in one corner; a toilet table and mirror draped with lace, in another; a small marble washstand, with its china service, in a third; and a French porcelain stove in the fourth. A crimson-covered easy-chair and tiny stand filled up the middle of the small apartment.
And here, always well dressed, Faustina sat and read novels, or worked crochet, and gossiped with Mrs. MacDonald all day long. And here her epicurean meals, shared by her friend and visitor, were brought.
And here Mrs. MacDonald petted and soothed and flattered her with the hopes of a speedy deliverance.
Oh, in their deaths, remember they are men,Strain not revenge to wish their tortures grievous.—Addison.
Death—even the most serene and beautiful death, coming to a good old man at the close of a long, beneficent life—is awful. Sudden and violent death, falling upon a strong young man in the midst of his sins and follies, is horrible. But perhaps the most appalling aspect under which the last messenger can appear is that of a deliberately inflicted judicial death.
Such a doom, pronounced upon the greatest sinner that ever lived, must move the pity of his bitterest enemy.
The family at Cameron Court formed a Christian household. They received the news of Frisbie's conviction with solemn, compassionate approbation. Justice approved the sentence; but mercy pitied the victim. And they passed the day of his execution in a Sabbath stillness.
They were glad when the day was over; glad when the late evening mail brought the afternoon papers from Banff, announcing that the tragedy was finished; glad to read there that the sinner had repented, confessed, and died, hoping in the mercy of the Father, through the atonement of sin.
Each one breathed a sigh of infinite relief to find that this sinner had not endangered his soul by impenitently rushing from man's temporal to God's eternal condemnation.
No one failed to see the immense importance of Frisbie's dying confession as evidence for the prosecution in the approaching trial of the Viscount Vincent and Faustina Dugald; or the fatal effect it must have upon the accused; yet no one spoke of it then and there. The day of stern retributive justice was not the time for unseemly triumph.
They separated for the night, gravely and almost sadly.
Claudia went up to her room, where her women, Katie and Sally, reinstated in her service, were in attendance. Sally, as usual, was silent and humble; Katie, equally as usual, talkative and dictatorial.
"And so de shamwally is hung at last! serbe him right; and I hopes it did him good; an' I wish it was my lordship an' de whited salt- peter along ob him!" she said, folding her arms ever her fat bosom and rolling herself from side to side with infinite satisfaction.
"For shame, Katie, to triumph so over a dead man! I should have thought a good Christian woman like you would have prayed for him before he died," said Claudia gravely.
"'Deed didn't I! An' I aint gwine to do it nuther. I aint gwine to bother my Hebbenly Master 'bout no sich grand vilyan! dere now!"
"Oh, Katie, Katie, I am afraid you are a great heathen!"
"Well, den, I just ruther be a heathen dan a whited salt-peter, or a shamwally, or a lordship either, if I couldn't do no more credit to it dan some," said Katie, having, as usual, the last word.
Claudia longed to be alone on this night; so she soon dismissed her attendants, closed up her room, put out all her lights, and lay down in darkness, solitude, and meditation.
Strange! but on this night her thoughts, and even her sympathies, were with Lord Vincent in his prison cell. Why should she think of him? Why should she pity him? She had never loved him, never even fancied that she loved him, even in the delusive days of courtship; or in the early days of marriage; and she had despised and shunned him in the miserable days of their estranged life at Castle Cragg. Why, then, as she lay there in the darkness, silence, and solitude of her own chamber, should her imagination hover over him? Why did she contemplate him in sorrow and in compassion?
Because in that dreary cell she saw the twofold man—the man that he ought to have been, and the man that he was; because she was his wife, and though she had never loved him, yet with better treatment she might have been won to do so; and finally, because she was a woman, and therefore full of sympathy with every sort of suffering.
She knew that the dying confession of Frisbie would seal Lord Vincent's fate. And she contemplated that fate as she had never done before.
Penal servitude.
Why it had seemed a mere, empty phrase until now. Now it was an appalling reality brimful of horror, even for the coarsest, dullest, and hardest criminal; but of how much more for him.
Lord Vincent in the prison garb, working in chains; inquired after by curious sight-seers; and pointed out to strangers as the felon- viscount.
She meditated on the effect all this would have on him, in the unspeakable misery it would inflict upon his vain, insolent, self- indulgent organization; and she marveled how he would ever endure it.
And she thought of the dishonor this would reflect upon herself as his wife. And she shrunk shudderingly away from the burning shame of living on, the wife of a felon.
In the deep compassion she could not but feel for him, and in the intense mortification she anticipated for herself, she earnestly wished that in some manner he might escape the degrading penalty of his crimes.
In these harassing thoughts and distressing feelings Claudia lay tossing upon her restless bed until long after midnight, when at length she dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Now the circumstance that I am about to relate will be interpreted in a different manner by different people. Rationalists who pin their faith on Sir Walter Scott and his "Demonology" will say it was only an optical illusion; the incredulous, who believe in nothing, will declare it was but a dream; while Spiritualists, who follow Mr. Robert Dale Owen in his "Footprints on the Boundaries of Another World," will be ready to declare that it was the apparition of a spirit; I commit myself to no opinion on the subject.
But when Claudia had slept soundly for three hours she was aroused by hearing her name called; she awoke with a violent start; she sat upright in bed, and stared right before her with fixed eyes, pallid face, and immovable form, as though she were suddenly petrified.
For there at the foot of the bed, between the tall posts, in the division formed by the festoons of the curtains, stood the figure of the Viscount Vincent. His face was pale, still, stern, like that of a dead man; one livid hand clutched his breast, the other was stretched towards her; and from the cold, blue, motionless lips proceeded a voice hollow as the distant moan of the wintry wind through leafless woods:
"Claudia, the debt is paid!"
With these words the vision slowly dissolved to air. Then, and not until then, was the icy spell that bound all Claudia's faculties loosened. She uttered piercing shriek upon shriek that startled all the sleepers in the house, and brought them rushing into her room. Katie and Sally being the nearest, were the first to enter.
"For Marster's sake, my ladyship, what is the matter?" inquired the old woman, while Sally stood by in a dumb terror.
"Oh, Katie, Katie! it was Lord Vincent! He has contrived to make his escape in some manner! He is out of prison! he is in this very house! he was in this room but a minute ago, though I do not see him now! and he spoke to me!"
"My goodness gracious me alibe, Miss Claudia, honey, it couldn't a been he! he's locked up safe in jail, you know! It mus' a been his sperrit!" said superstitious Katie, with the deepest awe.
"Claudia, my dearest, what is the matter? What is all this? What has happened?" anxiously inquired the Countess of Hurstmonceux, as, hastily wrapped in her dressing-gown, she hurried into the chamber and up to Claudia's bedside.
"Come closer, Berenice; stoop down; now listen! The viscount has broken prison! he was here but a moment ago! and he is gone! but his unexpected appearance in this place and at this hour, looking as he did so deathly pale, so livid and so corpse-like, frightened me nearly out of my senses, and I screamed with terror. I—I tremble even yet."
"My dearest Claudia, you have been dreaming. Compose yourself," saidLady Hurstmonceux soothingly.
"My dearest Berenice, it was no dream, believe me. I was indeed asleep, fast asleep; but I was awakened by hearing myself called by name—'Claudia, Claudia, Claudia,' three times. And I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, and saw standing at the foot, looking at me between the curtains, Lord Vincent."
At this moment Judge Merlin, in his dressing-gown and slippers, came slowly into the chamber, looking around in a bewildered way and saying:
"They told me the screams proceeded from my daughter's apartment. What is the matter here? Claudia, my dear, what has happened? What has frightened you?" he inquired, approaching her bedside.
"Oh, my poor papa, have you been disturbed, too? How sorry I am!" said Claudia.
"Never mind me, my dear! What has happened to you?"
"Lady Vincent has been frightened by a disagreeable dream, sir," replied Lady Hurstmonceux, answering for her friend.
"My dear lady, you here!" exclaimed the judge, seeing her for the first time since he entered the room.
"I am a light sleeper," smiled the countess.
"I am very sorry, papa, that I aroused the house in this manner," said Claudia, with real regret in her tone.
"It was not like you to do so, for a dream, my dear," replied the judge gravely.
"It was no dream, papa! it was no dream, as the result will prove."
"What was it then, my dear?"
"It was the Viscount Vincent!"
"The Viscount Vincent!" exclaimed the judge, in astonishment.
"Yes, papa; he has contrived to escape and to enter this house and this very room. It was his sudden appearance that frightened me into the screaming fit that alarmed the household; and for which I am very sorry."
"The Viscount Vincent here! But how on earth could he have escaped from prison?"
"I do not know, papa. I only know by the evidence of my own senses that he has done so."
"My dearest Claudia, believe me, you have been dreaming. Judge Merlin, if you knew the great strength and security of our prisons, you would also know how impossible it would be for any prisoner to escape," said Lady Hurstmonceux, addressing in turn the father and the daughter.
"Berenice, that I have not been dreaming to-morrow will show. For to-morrow you and all concerned will know that Lord Vincent has escaped from prison. But my dear Berenice, and you, my dearest father, promise to me one thing; promise me not to give Lord Vincent up to justice; but to suffer him to get away from the country, if he can do so. That is doubtless all that he proposes to himself to do. And such exile will be punishment enough in itself for him, especially as it will involve the resignation of his rank, title, and inheritance. So let him get away if he can. He can work no further woe for me. Frisbie's dying confession has killed off all his calumnies against me. He is harmless henceforth. So leave him to God," pleaded Claudia.
"I am willing to do, or leave undone, whatever you please, my dear; but—do you really think that you actually did see the viscount, and that you did not only dream of seeing him?" inquired the judge, unable to get over his amazement.
"Yes, papa; I saw him; and to-morrow will prove that I did so," saidClaudia emphatically.
Lady Hurstmonceux smiled incredulously, for she did not reflect that there were more ways than one of breaking out of prison.
"But supposing it to have been the viscount; and supposing that he had succeeded in bursting locks and bars and eluding guards and sentinels; why should he have come here, of all places in the world? What could have been his motive in so risking a recapture?" inquired the judge, who seemed inclined to investigate the affair then and there.
"I do not know, papa. I have not had time to think. I was so astonished and even frightened at his mere appearance that I never asked myself the reason of it," answered Claudia.
"Did you not ask him?"
"No, papa. I only screamed."
"Did he not speak to you?"
"Yes, papa."
"What did he say?"
"Papa, I had better tell you just how it happened," answered Claudia, giving the judge a detailed account of the dream, vision, or ghost, as the reader chooses to call it; but which she persisted in declaring to be the viscount himself in the flesh.
"It is most extraordinary! How did he get out? Lady Hurstmonceux, had we not better have the house searched for him?" inquired the judge.
"It shall be done if you please, judge; though I think it unnecessary."
"Papa, no! he went as he came. Let him go. I hope he will be clear of the country before to-morrow morning."
At this moment the clock struck five, although it was still pitch- dark and far from the dawn of day.
"There! I declare it is to-morrow morning already, as the Irish would say. Lady Hurstmonceux, do not let me keep you up any longer. I know your usual hour for rising at this season of the year is eight o'clock. You will have three good hours' sleep before you yet. Papa, dear, go to bed or you will make yourself ill."
"Are you sure you will not have anything before I go, Claudia?" inquired the countess.
"Nothing whatever, dear; I think I shall sleep."
Lady Hurstmonceux stooped and kissed her friend, and then, with a smile and a bow to the judge, she retired from the room.
"Do you think now that you will rest, Claudia?" inquired the judge.
"Yes, papa, yes. Go to rest yourself."
He also stooped and kissed her, and then left the chamber.
"Go to bed, Katie and Sally," said Claudia to her women.
"'Deed 'fore de Lord aint I gwine to no bed to leabe you here by yourse'f. I don't want you to see no more sperrits," replied Katie. And she left the room for a few minutes and returned dragging in her mattress, which she spread upon the floor, and upon which she threw herself to sleep for the remainder of the dark hours.
Lady Vincent submitted to this intrusion, because she knew it would be utterly useless to expostulate. But Sally began to whimper.
"Now, den, what de matter long o' you? You seen a sperrit too?" demanded Katie.
"I's feared to sleep by myse'f, for fear I should see somethin'," wept Sally.
"Den you lay down here by me," ordered Katie.
And thus it was that Lady Vincent's two women shared her sleeping room the remainder of that disturbed night—to be disturbed no longer; for, whether it was owing to the presence of the negroes or not, Claudia slept untroubled by dream, vision, or apparition, until the daylight streaming through one window, that had been left unclosed, awakened her.
It was ten o'clock, however, before the family assembled at the breakfast table, where they were engaged in discussing the affair of the previous night, and in each maintaining his or her own opinion as to its character; Claudia persisting that it was the Viscount Vincent in person that she had seen; Berenice contending that it was a dream; and the judge hesitating between two opinions; Ishmael silent.
"A very few hours will now decide the question," said Claudia, abandoning the discussion and beginning to chip her egg. At this moment came a sound of wheels on the drive before the house, followed by a loud knock at the door.
"There! I should not in the least wonder if that is a detachment of police coming to tell us that Lord Vincent has broken prison, and bringing a warrant to search this house for him," said Claudia, half rising to listen.
A servant entered the room and said:
"Sergeant McRae is out in the hall, asking to see his honor the judge."
"I thought so," said Claudia briskly.
The judge went out to see the sergeant of police.
Claudia and Berenice suspended their breakfast, and waited in intense anxiety the result of the interview.
Some little time elapsed, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, though the impatience of the ladies made it seem an hour in length; and then the door slowly opened and the judge gravely re-entered the breakfast room.
"It is as I said. The Viscount Vincent has broken jail and they have come here with a search warrant to look for him!" exclaimed Claudia, glancing up at her father as he approached; but when she saw the expression of profound melancholy in his countenance, she started, turned pale, and cried:
"Good Heaven, papa, what—what has happened?"
"Partly what you have anticipated, Claudia. The Viscount Vincent has broken out of prison, but not in the manner you supposed," solemnly replied the judge, taking his daughter's arm and leading her to a sofa and seating her upon it.
Lady Hurstmonceux, startled, anxious, and alarmed, followed and stood by her and held her hand. And both ladies gazed inquiringly into the disturbed face of the old man.
"There is something—something behind! What is it, papa? The viscount has broken jail, you say! Has he—has he—killed one of the guards in making his escape?" inquired Claudia, in a low, awe- stricken voice.
"No, my dear, he has not done that. He has escaped the tribunal of man to rush uncalled to the tribunal of God," said the judge solemnly.
Claudia, though her dilated eyes were fixed in eager questioning on the face of her father, and though her ears were strained to catch his low-toned words, yet did not seem to gather in his meaning.
"What—what do you say, papa? Explain!" she breathed in scarcely audible syllables.
"The Viscount Vincent is dead!"
"Dead!" ejaculated Claudia.
"Dead!" echoed the countess.
"Dead, by his own act!" repeated the judge.
Claudia sank back in the corner of the sofa and covered her face with her hands—overcome, not by sorrow certainly, but by awe and pity.
Berenice sat down beside the newly made widow, and put her arms around her waist, and drew her head upon her bosom. Judge Merlin stood silently before them. The only one who seemed to have the full possession of his faculties was Ishmael.
He quietly dismissed the gaping servants from the room, closed the doors, and drew a resting-chair to the side of his old friend, and gently constrained him to sit down in it. And then he was about to glide away when the judge seized his hand and detained him, saying imploringly:
"No, no, Ishmael! no, no, my dearest young friend! do not leave us at this solemn crisis."
Ishmael placed his hand in that of the old man, as an earnest of fidelity, and remained standing by him.
After a little while Claudia lifted her head from the bosom of LadyHurstmonceux, and said:
"Oh, papa, this is dreadful!"
"Dreadful, indeed, my dear."
"That any human being should be driven to such a fate!"
"To such a crime, Claudia," gravely amended the judge.
"Crime, then, if you will call it so. But I do not wonder at it. MayGod in his infinite mercy forgive him!" fervently prayed Claudia.
"Amen!" deeply responded the judge.
"Papa, they say that suicides are never forgiven—can never be forgiven—because their sin is the last act of their life, affording no time for repentance. Yet who knows that for certain? Who knows but in the short interval between the deed and the death, there may not be repentance and pardon?"
"Who knows, indeed! 'With God all things are possible.'"
"Oh, papa, I hope he repented and is pardoned!"
"I hope so too, Claudia."
She dropped her head once more upon the bosom of Lady Hurstmonceux, in pity and in awe; but not in sorrow, for his death was an infinite relief to her and to all connected with him. After a little while she raised her head again, and in a low, hushed voice, inquired:
"Papa, at what hour did he die?"
"Between four and five o'clock this morning, my dear."
"Between four and five o'clock this morning! Good Heavens!" exclaimed Claudia and Berenice simultaneously, starting and gazing into each other's faces.
"What is the matter?" gravely inquired the judge.
"That was the very hour in which Claudia was awakened by her strange dream!" replied Lady Hurstmonceux.
"Oh, papa! that was the very hour in which I saw Lord Vincent standing at the foot of my bed!" exclaimed Claudia, with a shudder.
"How passing strange!" mused the judge.
"Oh, papa! can such things really be? can a parting spirit appear to us the moment it leaves the body?" inquired Claudia, in an awe- struck manner.
"My dear if anyone had related to me such a strange circumstance as this, of which we are all partly cognizant, I should have discredited the whole affair. As it is, I know not what to make of it. It may have been a dream; nay, it must have been a dream; yet, even as a dream, occurring just at the hour it did, it was certainly an astonishing and a most marvelous coincidence."
Again Claudia dropped her head upon the supporting bosom of Lady Hurstmonceux, but this time it was in weariness and in thought that she reposed there.
A few minutes passed, and then, without lifting her head, she murmured:
"Tell me all about it, papa; I must learn some time; as well now as any other."
"Can you bear to hear the story now, Claudia?"
"Better now, I think, than at a future time; I am in a measure prepared for it now. How did it happen, papa?"
The judge drew closer to his daughter, took her hand in his, and said:
"I will tell you, as McRae told me, my dear. You must know that from the time Lord Vincent read the published confession of Frisbie, in the afternoon papers, he became so much changed in all respects as to excite the attention, then the suspicion, and finally the alarm of his keepers. At six o'clock after the turnkey, Donald, had paid his last visit to his prisoner, and locked up the cell for the night, he reported the condition of Lord Vincent to the governor of the jail. Mr. Gra'ame, on hearing the account given by Donald, determined to curtail many of the privileges his lordship had hitherto, as an untried prisoner, enjoyed. Among the rest he determined that nothing more should be carried to his lordship in his cell that he, the governor, had not first examined, as a precautionary measure against drugs or tools, with which the prisoner might do himself a mischief."
"I should think they ought to have taken that precaution from the first," said Claudia.
"It is not usual in the case of an untried prisoner; but, however, the governor of Banff jail seemed to think as you do, for he farther determined to make a special visit to the prisoner that night, to search his cell and remove from it everything with which he might possibly injure himself. And accordingly the governor, accompanied by the turnkey, went to the cell and made a thorough search. They found nothing suspicious, however. But in their late though excessive caution they carried away, not only the prisoner's razor, but his pen-knife and scissors. And then they left him."
"And after all, left him with the means of self-destruction," exclaimed Claudia.
"No, they did not. You shall hear. About eight o'clock that night, as the watchman of that ward was pacing his rounds, he heard deep groans issuing from Lord Vincent's cell. He went and gave the alarm. The warden, the physician, and the turnkey entered the cell together. They found the viscount in the agonies of death."
"Great Heavens! Alone and dying in his cell!"
"Yes; and suffering even more distress of mind than of body. When it was too late, he regretted his rash deed. For he freely confessed that being driven to despair and almost if not quite to madness, by the desperate state of his affairs, he had procured laudanum through the agency of his servant, having persuaded the old man that he merely wanted the medicine to allay pain."
"Poor, poor soul!"
"Cuthbert, simple and unsuspicious, and as easily deceived as a child, brought the laudanum to him and bid him adieu for the night. And it was in the interval between the last visit of the turnkey and the special visit of the governor that the prisoner drank the whole of the laudanum. And then to prevent suspicion he washed the label from the bottle and poured in a little ink from his inkstand. So that when the governor made his visit of inspection, although he actually handled that bottle, he took it for nothing else but a receptacle for ink."
"Oh, how dreadful! how dreadful, that anyone should exercise so much calculation, cunning, and foresight for the destruction of his own soul!" moaned Claudia.
"Yes; he himself thought so at last; for no sooner did the poison begin to do its work, no sooner did he feel death approaching, than he was seized with horror at the enormity of his own crime, and with remorse for the sins of his whole life. It would seem that in that hour his eyes were opened for the first time, and he saw himself as he really was, a rampant rebel against all the laws of God and on the brink of eternal perdition. It was the great agony of mind produced by this view of himself and his condition that forced from him those deep groans that were heard by the night-watch, who brought the relief to him."
"Then he must have repented. Oh! I hope that God forgave him!" prayed Claudia, with earnest tones and clasped hands.
"You may be sure that God did forgive him if he truly repented! Certainly it seemed that he repented; for he begged for antidotes, declaring that he wished to live to atone for the sins of his past. Antidotes were administered, but without the least good effect. And when he repeated his earnest wish to be permitted to live that he might 'atone by his future life for the sins of his past,' the physician, who is a good man, sent for the chaplain of the jail, a fervent Christian, who told the prisoner how impossible it was for him, should he have a new lease of life, to atone, by years of penance, for the smallest sin of his soul; but pointed him at the same time to the One Divine Atoner, who is able to save to the uttermost. The chaplain remained praying with the dying man until half-past four o'clock this morning, when he breathed his last. That is all, Claudia."
"Oh, papa, you see he did repent; and I will hope that God has pardoned him," said Claudia earnestly; but she was very pale and faint, and she leaned heavily upon the shoulder of Lady Hurstmonceux.
"My dearest Claudia, let me lead you to your room; you require repose after this excitement," said the countess, giving her arm to the new widow.
Claudia arose; but the judge gently arrested her progress.
"Stay, my dear! One word before you go. The business of McRae here was not only to announce the death of Lord Vincent, but also the approaching trial of Faustina Dugald. It comes on at ten o'clock to- morrow morning. You are summoned as a witness for the prosecution. Therefore, my dear, we must leave Edinboro' for Banff by the afternoon express train."
"Oh, papa! to appear in a public court at such a time!" exclaimedClaudia, with a shudder.
"I know it is hard, my dear. I know it must be dreadful; but I also know that the way of Justice is like the progress of the Car of Juggernaut. It stops for nothing; it rolls on in its irresistible course, crushing under its iron wheels all conventionalities, all proprieties, all sensibilities. And I know also, my daughter, that you are equal to the duties, the exertions, and the sacrifices that Justice requires of you. There, go now! take what repose you can for the next few hours, to be ready for the train at six o'clock," said the judge, stooping, and pressing a kiss upon his daughter's brow, before the countess led her away.
"Ishmael," said the judge, as soon as they were alone, "do you know what you and I have got to do now?"
"Yes, sir," said the young man solemnly, "I know."
"That poor, unhappy man in yonder prison has no friend or relative to claim his body, his father being absent; and if we do not claim it, it will be ignominiously buried by the prison authorities within the prison walls."
"I thought of that, but waited for your suggestion. If you please I will see the proper authorities to-morrow and make arrangements with them."
"Do, my dear young friend," said the judge, wringing his hand as he left him.
Amid the great crises of life its small proprieties must still be observed. This the Countess of Hurstmonceux knew. And, therefore, as soon as she had seen Claudia reposing on her comfortable sofa in her chamber, she ordered her carriage and drove to Edinboro', and to a celebrated mourning warehouse where they got up outfits on the shortest notice, and there she procured a widow's complete dress, including the gown, mantle, bonnet, veil, and gloves, and took them home to Claudia. For she knew that if Lady Vincent were compelled to appear in the public courtroom the next day, she must wear widow's weeds.
When she took these articles into Claudia's room and showed them to her, the latter said:
"My dear Berenice, I thank you very much for your thoughtful care. But do you know that it would seem like hypocrisy in me to wear this mourning?"
"My dearest Claudia, conventionalities must be observed though the heavens fall. You owe this to yourself, to society, and even to the dead—for in his death he has atoned for much to you."
"I will wear them then," said Claudia.
And there the matter ended.
Meanwhile, the news of Lord Vincent's death had got about among the servants. Katie and Sally also had heard of it.
So that when Lady Vincent rang for her women to come and pack up her traveling trunk to go to Banff, Katie entered full of the subject.
"So my lordship has gone to his account, and all from takin' of an overdose of laudamy drops. How careful people ought to be when they meddles long o' dat sort o' truck. Well, laws! long as he's dead and gone I forgibs him for heavin' of me down to lib long o' de rats, and den sellin' ob me to de barbariums in de Stingy Isles. 'Deed does I forgibs him good too. and likewise de shamwally while I'se got my hand in at forgibness," she said.
"That's right, Katie. Never let your hatred follow a man to the grave," said Claudia.
"I wouldn't forgib 'em if dey wasn't dead, dough. 'Deed wouldn't I. I tell you all good too. And if dey was to come back to life I would just take my forgibness back again. And it should all be just like it was before," said Katie, sharply defining her position.
Claudia sadly shook her head.
"That is a very questionable species of forgiveness, Katie," she said.
That afternoon the whole party, including the Countess of Hurstmonceux, who declared her intention of supporting Claudia through the approaching ordeal, left Cameron Court for Edinboro', where they took the six o'clock train for Banff, where they arrived at ten the same evening.
They went to the "Highlander," where they engaged comfortable apartments and settled themselves for a few days.
Oh, what a fate is guilt! How wild, how wretched!When apprehension can form naught but fears.—Howard.
Early the next morning Ishmael went over to the prison to see the governor relative to the removal of the body of the unhappy Vincent. But he was told that the old Earl of Hurstmonceux had arrived at noon on the previous day and had claimed the body of his son and had it removed from the prison in a close hearse at the dead of night, to escape the observation of the mob, and conveyed to Castle Cragg, where, without any funeral pomp, it would be quietly deposited in the family vault.
With this intelligence Ishmael came back to Judge Merlin.
"That is well! That is a great relief to my mind, Ishmael," said the judge, and he went to convey the news to Lady Vincent and the countess.
At nine o'clock Katie, Sally, and Jim, who were all witnesses for the prosecution in the approaching trial of Faustina Dugald, were dispatched to the courthouse, under the escort of the professor.
At half-past nine Judge Merlin, Ishmael Worth, Lady Vincent, and the Countess of Hurstmonceux entered a close carriage and drove to the same place.
What a crowd!
It is not every day that a woman of high rank stands at the bar of a criminal court to answer to a charge of felony. And Faustina was a woman of high rank, at least by marriage. She was the Honorable Mrs. Dugald; and she was about to be arraigned upon several charges, the lightest one of which, if proved, would consign her to penal servitude for years.
The world had got wind of this trial, and hence the great crowd that blocked up every approach to the courthouse.
Two policemen had to clear a way for the carriage containing the witnesses for the prosecution to draw up. And when it stopped and its party alighted, the same two policemen had to walk before them to open a path for their entrance into the courthouse.
Here every lobby, staircase, passage, and anteroom was full of curious people, pressed against each other. These people could not get into the courtroom, which was already crowded as full as it could be packed; nor could they see or hear anything from where they stood; and yet they persisted in standing there, crowding each other nearly to death, and stretching their necks and straining their eyes and ears after sensational sights and sounds.
Through this consolidated mass of human beings the policemen found great difficulty in forcing a passage for the witnesses. But at length they succeeded, and ushered the party into the courtroom, and seated them upon the bench appointed to the use of the witnesses for the prosecution.
The courtroom was even more densely packed than the approaches to it had been. It was scarcely possible to breathe the air laden with the breath of so many human beings. But for the inconvenience of the great crowd and the fetid air, this was an interesting place to pass a few hours in.
The Lord Chief Baron, Sir Archibald Alexander, presided on the bench. He was supported on the right and left by Justices Knox and Blair. Some of the most distinguished advocates of the Scottish bar were present.
The prisoner had not yet been brought into court. A few minutes passed, however, and then, by the commotion near the door and by the turning simultaneously of hundreds of heads in one direction, it was discovered that she was approaching in custody of the proper officers. Room was readily made for her by the crowd dividing right and left and pressing back upon itself, like the waves of the Red Sea, when the Israelites passed over it dryshod. And she was led up between two bailiffs and placed in the dock. Then for the first time the crowd got a good view of her, for the dock was raised some three or four feet above the level of the floor.
She was well dressed for the occasion, for if there was one thing this woman understood better than another, it was the science of the toilet. She wore a dark-brown silk dress and a dark-brown velvet bonnet, and a Russian sable cloak, and cuffs, and muff, and her face was shaded by a delicate black lace veil.
Mrs. MacDonald, who had followed her into the court, was allowed to sit beside her; a privilege that the lady availed herself of, at some considerable damage to her own personal dignity; for at least one-half of the strangers in the room, judging from her position beside the criminal, mistook her for an accomplice in the crime.
After the usual preliminary forms had been observed, the prisoner was duly arraigned at the bar.
When asked by the clerk of arraignments whether she were guilty or not guilty, she answered vehemently:
"I am not guilty of anything at all; no, not I! I never did conspire against any lady! My Lord Viscount Vincent and his valet Frisbie did that! And I never did abduct and sell into slavery any negro persons! My Lord Vincent and his valet did that also! It was all the doings of my lord and his valet, as you may know, since the valet has been guillotined and my lord has suffocated himself with charcoal! And it is a great infamy to persecute a poor little woman for what gross big men did! And I tell you, messieurs—"
"That will do! This is no time for making your defense, but only for entering your plea," said the clerk, cutting short her oration.
She threw herself into a chair and burst into tears, and sobbed aloud while the Queen's Solicitor, Counselor Birnie, got up to open the indictment setting forth the charges upon which the prisoner at the bar had been arraigned.
At the end of the opening speech he proceeded to call the witnesses, and the first called to the stand was:
"Claudia Dugald, Viscountess Vincent."
Judge Merlin arose and led his daughter to the stand, and then retired.
Claudia threw aside her deep mourning veil, revealing her beautiful pale face, at the sight of which a murmur of admiration ran through the crowded courtroom.
The oath was duly administered, Claudia following the words of the formula, in a low, but clear and firm voice.
Oh! but her position was a painful one! Gladly would she have retired from it; but the exactions of justice are inexorable. It was distressing to her to stand there and give testimony against the prisoner, which should cast such shame upon the grave of the dumb, defenseless dead; yet it was inevitable that she must do it. She was under oath, and so she must testify to "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!"
Then being questioned, she spoke of the sinful league between. Faustina Dugald, the prisoner at the bar, and the deceased Viscount Vincent; she then related the conversation she had overheard between these two accomplices on the very night of her first arrival home at Castle Cragg; that momentous conversation in which the first germ of the conspiracy against her honor was formed; being further questioned, she acknowledged the complete estrangement between herself and her husband, and the actual state of widowhood in which she had lived in his house, while his time and attention were all devoted to her rival, the prisoner at the bar.
Here Claudia begged leave to retire from the stand; but of course she was not permitted to do so; the Queen's Solicitor had not done with her yet. She was required to relate the incidents of that evening when the valet Frisbie was dragged from his hiding-place in her boudoir by the Viscount Vincent. And amid fiery blushes Claudia detailed all the circumstances of that scene. She was but slightly cross-questioned by the counsel for the prisoner, and without effect, and was finally permitted to retire. Her father came and led her back to her seat.
The housekeeper of Castle Cragg was the next witness called, and she testified with a marked reluctance, that only served to give additional weight to her statement, to the sinful intimacy between the deceased viscount and the prisoner at the bar.
Following her came old Cuthbert, who sadly corroborated her testimony in all respects.
Next came other servants of the castle, all with much dislike to do the duty, speaking to the one point of the fatal attachment that had existed between Lord Vincent and Mrs. Dugald.
And then at length came Katie. Now we all know the facts to which Katie would bear testimony, and the style in which she would do it; and so we need not repeat her statement here. It was sufficiently conclusive to insure the conviction of the prisoner, even if there had been nothing to support it.
But the most fatal evidence was yet to be produced: The Reverend Christian Godfree, chaplain of the jail, was called to the stand and duly sworn. And then a manuscript was placed in his hand, and he was asked if he could identify that as the veritable last confession made by the convict, Alick Frisbie, in his cell, on the night previous to his execution. Mr. Godfree carefully examined it and promptly identified it.
But here the counsel for the prisoner interposed, and would have had the confession ruled out as evidence; and a controversy arose between the prosecution and the defense, which was at last decided by the bench, who ordered that the confession of Alick Frisbie should be received as evidence in the case of Faustina Dugald.
And then the Queen's Solicitor, taking the paper from the witness, proceeded to read the confession with all its deeply disgraceful revelations. From it, the complicity of Faustina Dugald in the conspiracy against Lady Vincent was clearly shown. Having read it through, the solicitor called several witnesses from among the servants of the castle, who swore to the signature at the bottom of the confession as the handwriting of Alick Frisbie. And then the solicitor passed the paper to the foreman of the jury, that he might circulate it among his colleagues for their examination and satisfaction. The solicitor then summed up the evidence for the prosecution and rested the case.
Mr. Brace, leading counsel for the prisoner, arose and made the best defense that the bad case admitted of. He tried to pull to pieces, destroy, and discredit the evidence that had been given in; but all to no purpose. He next tried to engage the sympathy of the judge and jury for the beauty and misfortunes of his client; but in vain. Finally, he called a number of paid witnesses, who testified chiefly to the excellent moral character of Mrs. Faustina Dugald, seeking to make it appear quite impossible that she should do any wrong whatever, much less commit the crimes for which she stood arraigned; and also to the malignant envy, hatred, and malice felt by every servant at Castle Cragg and every witness for the prosecution against the injured and unhappy prisoner at the bar, seeking to make it appear that all their testimony was nothing but malignant calumny leveled against injured innocence.
But, unfortunately for the defense, the only impression these witnesses made upon the judge and the jury was that they—the witnesses—were about the most shameless falsifiers of the truth that ever perjured themselves before a court of justice.
The counsel for the prisoner went over the evidence for the defense in an eloquent speech, which was worse than wasted in such evil service.
The Queen's Solicitor had, as usual, the last word.
The Lord Chief Baron then summed up the evidence on either side and charged the jury. And the charge amounted in effect to an instruction to them to bring in a verdict against the prisoner. And accordingly the jury retired and consulted about twenty minutes, and then returned with the verdict: "Guilty."