Chapter XXIIThe next six weeks dragged heavily enough for John Leslie within the four walls of his cell at Carlisle, but, to Cynthia, they were one long agony. She spent one short week-end with her people at Galston and then gratefully accepted Miss Allen’s proposal that she should stay with her till the Assizes opened at Carlisle. Her mother’s open antagonism to John Leslie made her home unbearable to the girl and she was thankful to get away.Miss Allen’s tactful sympathy and uncompromising common sense acted as a tonic to the girl and the older woman, who was never idle for long herself, managed to keep her guest employed with a variety of small occupations which gave her little chance to brood over the ordeal that lay before her.“It’s no earthly good meeting troubles half-way,” Miss Allen assured her. “The more you think of things, the more likely you are to invent all sorts of horrors that will probably never happen. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t go off your food now or you’ll be fit for nothing when the time comes.”In spite of her sharp tongue she watched over the girl like a mother, pampered her uncertain appetite with all sorts of unexpected and tempting dishes and developed an almost uncanny instinct for knowing when she was sleeping badly and would appear in her room with hot milk and biscuits in the small hours of the morning and sit and chat until she saw the girl’s eyelids beginning to droop. Cynthia grew to love the sight of her bulky red-quilted dressing-gown and the grey plait that stuck out stiffly between her shoulders.Fayre ran down to Staveley for a fortnight and spent most of his time over at Greycross. He and Miss Allen were fast becoming close friends and she had already promised to be the first of his guests when the cottage of his dreams materialized.The rest of his time he spent in London, looking up old friends and haunting Grey’s office, a disheartening pursuit, for the solicitor had little enough to report as time went on.The middle of May found them all gathered at Carlisle. Dreading the publicity of a hotel Miss Allen had taken lodgings for herself and Cynthia. Grey and Fayre were at the station hotel, where they were joined by Kean on the night before the trial.Fayre had tried in vain to persuade Cynthia not to go near the courthouse until she was actually called as witness for the Defence, but he received no support from either Kean or Grey, both of whom considered that her appearance would create a good impression and, in any case, he would not have succeeded in keeping her away. He could only feel thankful that she was in the keeping of so staunch a friend as Miss Allen and do all in his power to make things as easy for her as possible.The trial seemed to drag on interminably and it was not till the afternoon of the sixth day that Kean rose to make his speech for the Defence. To Fayre, who had sat through the Counsel for the Crown’s very able address to the Jury, Leslie’s case seemed almost hopeless and he was beginning to feel that only a miracle could save him. He had watched Kean, on whom all their hopes rested, sitting motionless, his face utterly impassive, apparently entirely unmoved by his rival’s eloquence, and had tried to read his mind in vain. And all the time he had thanked his stars that he had allowed Cynthia to influence him and had kept back until after the trial the secret that, even now, he dreaded to reveal to Kean. Indeed, it seemed to Fayre, during the long hours of suspense, as though his mind had become a sort of Bluebeard’s chamber into which he no longer dared look. So much that he could not fathom and a little that he understood only too well he had locked away there until after Leslie’s fate was decided. Even if Kean managed to secure an acquittal for him Fayre could only look forward with a kind of horror to the aftermath of the trial.For one who wished nothing but happiness to his fellow men the world had indeed gone agley. The knowledge that lay at the back of all his thoughts and actions had come between him and Edward Kean and their friendship had lost its old ease and intimacy. In his distress he had lost all desire to see and consult with Sybil Kean and, in spite of the fact that her health was mending rapidly and that he had had a charming letter of invitation from her in answer to the note he had written in Kean’s Chambers and had eventually posted from his club, he had felt unable to face her. Fortunately her health had given no further cause for anxiety and her improvement had been so steady that Kean had come north for the trial comparatively free from anxiety.He was at his best now as he stood facing the Jury. Fayre, who had persuaded Cynthia to allow Miss Allen to take her home before lunch, fell so completely under the spell of his eloquence that, for a few brief moments, he forgot his personal interest in the case and was lost in admiration of the sheer genius that inspired it. It was not the first time he had heard Kean plead. One of his first actions on reaching England had been to go to the Old Bailey to see his old friend in harness. He had not been disappointed then, in spite of all he had heard of his ability, but to-day Kean spoke like a man inspired. One by one he took the very points which the Counsel for the Crown had used so effectively and turned them to his client’s advantage. He possessed a beautiful voice and knew how to make the most of it. He had had Cynthia in the box the day before and had examined her with a skill that was so little apparent that it was all the more telling. And Cynthia, partly helped by her own quick wits and partly as the result of careful coaching, had backed him up nobly. He used her evidence now as the basis of his speech, turning even the quarrel between her and Leslie to advantage and playing on the emotions of his audience with a skill and audacity that was little short of amazing. Given a Latin jury, Fayre told himself, the result would have been a foregone conclusion by now and, not for the first time in his life, he cursed British stolidity as he gazed hopelessly at the inscrutable countenances of the twelve respectable citizens who composed the jury and tried in vain to follow the progress of their thoughts. To his excited fancy they seemed the only people in the packed courthouse who remained totally unmoved by Kean’s eloquence.Then, suddenly it was over and, like a douche of icy water, after the burning flow of Kean’s impassioned appeal, came the calm, measured accents of the Judge as he summed up.By the time he had finished Fayre was once more in the depths of depression and in bad shape to face the long wait while the Jury considered their verdict. He watched them file out feeling as near despair as he had ever been in his life and then settled down to endure a suspense that seemed interminable but which, in reality, lasted just over an hour and a half.By the time the jury returned, the proceedings seemed to Fayre to have taken on all the unreality of a nightmare. As one in a dream he heard the Judge’s voice break the tense silence of the crowded court.“Are you all agreed?”“We are all agreed, My Lord.”Then, as his numbed brain mechanically registered the fact that the foreman, surprisingly, spoke with a strong Cockney accent instead of the North-country burr he had expected, came the verdict.“We find the prisoner guilty, My Lord.”
The next six weeks dragged heavily enough for John Leslie within the four walls of his cell at Carlisle, but, to Cynthia, they were one long agony. She spent one short week-end with her people at Galston and then gratefully accepted Miss Allen’s proposal that she should stay with her till the Assizes opened at Carlisle. Her mother’s open antagonism to John Leslie made her home unbearable to the girl and she was thankful to get away.
Miss Allen’s tactful sympathy and uncompromising common sense acted as a tonic to the girl and the older woman, who was never idle for long herself, managed to keep her guest employed with a variety of small occupations which gave her little chance to brood over the ordeal that lay before her.
“It’s no earthly good meeting troubles half-way,” Miss Allen assured her. “The more you think of things, the more likely you are to invent all sorts of horrors that will probably never happen. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t go off your food now or you’ll be fit for nothing when the time comes.”
In spite of her sharp tongue she watched over the girl like a mother, pampered her uncertain appetite with all sorts of unexpected and tempting dishes and developed an almost uncanny instinct for knowing when she was sleeping badly and would appear in her room with hot milk and biscuits in the small hours of the morning and sit and chat until she saw the girl’s eyelids beginning to droop. Cynthia grew to love the sight of her bulky red-quilted dressing-gown and the grey plait that stuck out stiffly between her shoulders.
Fayre ran down to Staveley for a fortnight and spent most of his time over at Greycross. He and Miss Allen were fast becoming close friends and she had already promised to be the first of his guests when the cottage of his dreams materialized.
The rest of his time he spent in London, looking up old friends and haunting Grey’s office, a disheartening pursuit, for the solicitor had little enough to report as time went on.
The middle of May found them all gathered at Carlisle. Dreading the publicity of a hotel Miss Allen had taken lodgings for herself and Cynthia. Grey and Fayre were at the station hotel, where they were joined by Kean on the night before the trial.
Fayre had tried in vain to persuade Cynthia not to go near the courthouse until she was actually called as witness for the Defence, but he received no support from either Kean or Grey, both of whom considered that her appearance would create a good impression and, in any case, he would not have succeeded in keeping her away. He could only feel thankful that she was in the keeping of so staunch a friend as Miss Allen and do all in his power to make things as easy for her as possible.
The trial seemed to drag on interminably and it was not till the afternoon of the sixth day that Kean rose to make his speech for the Defence. To Fayre, who had sat through the Counsel for the Crown’s very able address to the Jury, Leslie’s case seemed almost hopeless and he was beginning to feel that only a miracle could save him. He had watched Kean, on whom all their hopes rested, sitting motionless, his face utterly impassive, apparently entirely unmoved by his rival’s eloquence, and had tried to read his mind in vain. And all the time he had thanked his stars that he had allowed Cynthia to influence him and had kept back until after the trial the secret that, even now, he dreaded to reveal to Kean. Indeed, it seemed to Fayre, during the long hours of suspense, as though his mind had become a sort of Bluebeard’s chamber into which he no longer dared look. So much that he could not fathom and a little that he understood only too well he had locked away there until after Leslie’s fate was decided. Even if Kean managed to secure an acquittal for him Fayre could only look forward with a kind of horror to the aftermath of the trial.
For one who wished nothing but happiness to his fellow men the world had indeed gone agley. The knowledge that lay at the back of all his thoughts and actions had come between him and Edward Kean and their friendship had lost its old ease and intimacy. In his distress he had lost all desire to see and consult with Sybil Kean and, in spite of the fact that her health was mending rapidly and that he had had a charming letter of invitation from her in answer to the note he had written in Kean’s Chambers and had eventually posted from his club, he had felt unable to face her. Fortunately her health had given no further cause for anxiety and her improvement had been so steady that Kean had come north for the trial comparatively free from anxiety.
He was at his best now as he stood facing the Jury. Fayre, who had persuaded Cynthia to allow Miss Allen to take her home before lunch, fell so completely under the spell of his eloquence that, for a few brief moments, he forgot his personal interest in the case and was lost in admiration of the sheer genius that inspired it. It was not the first time he had heard Kean plead. One of his first actions on reaching England had been to go to the Old Bailey to see his old friend in harness. He had not been disappointed then, in spite of all he had heard of his ability, but to-day Kean spoke like a man inspired. One by one he took the very points which the Counsel for the Crown had used so effectively and turned them to his client’s advantage. He possessed a beautiful voice and knew how to make the most of it. He had had Cynthia in the box the day before and had examined her with a skill that was so little apparent that it was all the more telling. And Cynthia, partly helped by her own quick wits and partly as the result of careful coaching, had backed him up nobly. He used her evidence now as the basis of his speech, turning even the quarrel between her and Leslie to advantage and playing on the emotions of his audience with a skill and audacity that was little short of amazing. Given a Latin jury, Fayre told himself, the result would have been a foregone conclusion by now and, not for the first time in his life, he cursed British stolidity as he gazed hopelessly at the inscrutable countenances of the twelve respectable citizens who composed the jury and tried in vain to follow the progress of their thoughts. To his excited fancy they seemed the only people in the packed courthouse who remained totally unmoved by Kean’s eloquence.
Then, suddenly it was over and, like a douche of icy water, after the burning flow of Kean’s impassioned appeal, came the calm, measured accents of the Judge as he summed up.
By the time he had finished Fayre was once more in the depths of depression and in bad shape to face the long wait while the Jury considered their verdict. He watched them file out feeling as near despair as he had ever been in his life and then settled down to endure a suspense that seemed interminable but which, in reality, lasted just over an hour and a half.
By the time the jury returned, the proceedings seemed to Fayre to have taken on all the unreality of a nightmare. As one in a dream he heard the Judge’s voice break the tense silence of the crowded court.
“Are you all agreed?”
“We are all agreed, My Lord.”
Then, as his numbed brain mechanically registered the fact that the foreman, surprisingly, spoke with a strong Cockney accent instead of the North-country burr he had expected, came the verdict.
“We find the prisoner guilty, My Lord.”