The court assembled in the town of Dorchester, and the notorious Jeffries, with his gross, ferocious face, took his place upon the bench. Several trials for treason were entered into in the morning, and dispatched with terrible rapidity. Death! Death! Death was the news brought to the prison every hour; and each man awaited his doom as his character permitted.
The court was crowded to suffocation; and most of the magistrates of the county were assembled near the bench. There were several clergymen among them; but one, in particular, seemed much interested in the course of the proceedings. He was a stout, tall, portly man, of the middle age, with bright, twinkling eyes, and a smooth, rosy countenance. He moved frequently on his seat; often looked toward the dock and the jury, and sometimes cast his eyes with an inquisitive glance at the paper of notes which lay before the judge, from whom he was not very far distant.
At length the case of Ralph Woodhall was called on; and, before the prisoner was brought into the dock, the good clergyman I have mentioned approached the judge, and was seen to whisper to him with a paper in his hand. Jeffries turned round, bent his beetle brows upon him, and surveyed him from head to foot.
"I thought it was some Presbyterian knave," he said, aloud, "and not a clergyman of the establishment. What do you come here for, sirrah? Like a straw witness, to bring off the guilty?"
"No, faith, my lord," replied Doctor M'Feely, with a laugh, and perfectly undismayed by the menacing aspect of the judge, "I came according to my duty, as a magistrate, and, moreover, to get your advice about this little bit of a paper; and perhaps to drink a bottle with you--or maybe two--after you have done the hanging and quartering, if you should be good-humored enough to ask me to dinner. We have drank a bottle together before now at the Miter, when you were a little man and I not much bigger: I paid for it, too, by the same token--But what am I to do with this paper?"
"It's not evidence, knave," thundered Jeffries, unable to restrain himself under the half-suppressed merriment of the court. "Is the witness forthcoming? Is he dead? Is he buried? Is he gone to the devil by your ghostly counsels? It is not evidence, sir. Take it away, and yourself too, for fear I have the gown stripped off your back. You shall not long disgrace the bench."
"Faith, my lord, if I do, I am not the only one," replied Doctor M'Feely, walking away; but, ere he had taken many steps, pushing a path through his fellow-magistrates, Jeffries recollected himself a little, and called out aloud, "Here, fellow--you parson!--give me the paper. Let me look at it."
Doctor M'Feely seemed to be suddenly stricken with a fit of deafness, and walked on deliberately; but those whom he was passing at the moment heard him say, as if to himself, "Don't I know better? He's just in a humor to tear every thing to pieces--why not this? No, no, I know what I will do;" and, getting into the court below, he forced his way to a spot just behind Mr. Danes, and spoke to him in a whisper over his shoulder. Mr. Danes in turn whispered to an elderly counselor before him, who turned round his grave, hard-lined face, and said, "Good! We will use it in some way, if need be. The very tendency will have its effect upon the jury."
Doctor M'Feely remained standing where he was during the whole of the events which succeeded, although his fat sides suffered severely from the pressure of the crowd.
The little incident of the sparring between the parson and the judge had withdrawn the attention of the spectators from the dock, and when heads were turned round and eyes bent in that direction, Ralph Woodhall was seen standing between two jailers. Every one knows the impression produced by a fine person and dignified bearing, even upon a court of justice; and, as the young gentleman stood there, his handsome face, athletic form, and calm, resolute demeanor, had no slight influence in his favor. He fixed his eyes for a moment or two upon the judge, and then let them run round the court. There was no loved face to greet him--no look of encouragement for his support--nothing but a sea of unknown, indifferent faces gazing at him as an object of curiosity.
Some forms were gone through, and then at once the counsel for the prisoner rose. Jeffries would fain have refused to listen to him at that stage of the proceedings; but he insisted, and the harsh judge knew his man too well--his firmness, his quiet, persevering courage, and his profound knowledge of law to resist too far. He was permitted to speak, and at once took an objection to the competence of the court. He pointed out that the venue had not been changed, and that the case ought to be tried in Norfolk. It required but little argument to show that the law of the land was entirely on his side; and that argument was placed in the plainest and briefest form.
Jeffries was furious. He looked over his desk to a little man sitting near his feet, and asked him a question. The reply was in a very low and humble tone; but it stirred up the wrath of the judge still higher. His face became actually purple, and he poured forth upon the poor man's head a torrent of invective, of which the words "knave, villain, and pitiful impostor" were the lightest ornaments. A vast string of very blasphemous oaths was added; and then, having thus vented his first fury, he consulted for a few moments with the counsel for the crown, whom he beckoned up; and then, raising his great coarse voice as if addressing the whole court, he said, "Look you here now! See what law is, and how carefully it protects the subject! There stands a murderer--a man who should not be suffered to cumber the face of earth one hour longer than needful--a bad fellow--always a bad fellow from his cradle--and yet some of the officers of the crown--drunken knaves, I warrant--having neglected, or, perhaps, been bribed--to neglect their duty in a matter of mere form--a thing of no moment--this fellow thinks that he will protract his life for some miserable months to come. He must be a cowardly villain, to wish to live on in a prison--"
"I wish a fair trial, by a just judge," said Ralph, in a firm, loud tone, which startled even Jeffries.
"Hold your tongue, knave!" cried the judge; "we will fit you. You shall be disappointed of your fine project. You may gain a few hours, but no more. You shall be hanged before I quit Dorchester, if I live. See here, now, what a fellow this is! There are no less than three charges against this man. One for murder--cold-blooded, premeditated murder--one under the statute regarding conformity--and one for high treason. The indictment is ready; but he must have a copy, and time to read it. Oh, yes, he shall have a copy--but we will fit him." Then, leaning forward a little, he looked full at Ralph's counsel, and said bitterly, "You have gained so much for your man, sir, and you shall not say I overstepped the law. Oh no, sir! You strive to withdraw him from justice, but you sha'n't succeed."
"You mistake, my lord," replied the counsel, "I have no intention of charging you with overstepping the law; and still more do you mistake in supposing that I wished to withdraw this honorable and noble-minded young man from fair trial and justice. Had I done so, I should have taken another course. As the venue is laid in Dorsetshire, and the indictment, on its very face, alleges the crime charged to have been committed in Norfolk, I should have suffered the trial to proceed to a verdict, and then pointed out the flaw in the indictment; but, in consultation with this honorable and very high-spirited gentleman last night, I agreed, at his suggestion, to raise the objection at once, in order to show that he shrunk not from a fair trial, but only claimed the same rights as other British subjects."
"Silence, sir, silence! Sit down this instant!" exclaimed Jeffries. "Jailer, remove the prisoner, and keep him in safe custody. Call on another."
Several persons left the court from the outskirts of the crowd, and Doctor M'Feely elbowed his way out with difficulty, taking the paper he had brought in his pocket. Tidings of what had occurred spread to various houses in the vicinity--to the great inn, and to the temporary dwelling of Hortensia Danvers; and various were the feelings which the intelligence that Ralph Woodhall's trial for murder had been put off, on account of an error in the indictment, excited in the bosoms of the many persons interested.
Lord Woodhall received the news with stern bitterness, and said little, but remained gloomy, dark, and silent till Robert Woodhall joined him with a very cheerful face.
"Well, what think you of this?" said the old lord; "you seem gay, young man."
"Because every thing is going well, my lord," replied Robert Woodhall; "we have ten times the chances of getting a verdict against him, as things stand at present, on the charge of high treason, than we should have upon the charge of murder. Armitage says that he would most certainly have been acquitted--that poor Henry's letter would be quite sufficient. I told you how refractory the jury were last night, and those who know them say that at least five of them would have held out for acquittal, even if they had died of starvation. It not being a state case, the jury was badly struck; but upon the charge of treason Armitage declares he is perfectly certain. Armitage says they are condemning every body, and when once they have got a taste of blood, they will go on."
"It vexes me," said the old lord, with a dissatisfied look. "He should be hanged for Henry's death, and nothing else. A gross and culpable act of negligence has been committed; and the clerk, or whoever he is, should be discharged and punished."
"Counselor Armitage declares it is very well as it is," says Robert; adding, with a laugh, "He vows that he saw the flaw, and would not notice it, because he knew we should fail of conviction; but I don't believe he did see it, or even looked at the indictment. The charge of treason, however, will succeed, depend upon it; and if it should not, by any chance, we have still another left to go upon with a better chance of success."
Lord Woodhall, however, was still dissatisfied, and would not be convinced that it made no difference whether Ralph Woodhall was condemned for another offense or for the murder of his son. He drew a distinction, which Robert Woodhall, only anxious to destroy an enemy, could not at all perceive. Knowing how impossible it was to move him in any opinion which he had once taken up, he at length left him, but did not even ask to see Margaret, for he knew there was little to be hoped from an interview at that moment.
It was night, when, in a large, airy chamber of the great inn, where Lord Woodhall had taken up his abode on his arrival in Dorchester, Margaret sat, side by side with Hortensia, who had quietly entered the room a moment before. The faces of both were pale from anxiety, and from thought fixed intensely upon one subject. It was the day of Ralph's trial for high treason; and both were well aware, Hortensia more especially, that Ralph had never had any share whatever in Monmouth's rebellion. They had not met till then, during the whole day, and each had looked upon the charge somewhat lightly, and entertained but small doubts that upon that, at least, Ralph would be acquitted.
As the day had passed on, however, and messenger after messenger brought tidings from the court to each, their feelings had become very different; and they were startled and astounded by the evidence which was produced. It was proved by Hortensia's own servants that Ralph had come to Danvers's New Church during her absence; that he had been found in her park in close communication with a notorious rebel, then actually levying war against the crown, one Thomas Dare; that, very shortly after this, Dare appeared in Taunton, and raised the people of that town in favor of Monmouth, and that he boasted publicly there that he had assurances of Lady Danvers's tenantry joining the duke. This was enough to shake Hortensia's confidence--to agitate--to terrify her. But another messenger had followed soon after, bringing her the news that two of her servants had sworn to the fact of Ralph having had a long private interview with Monmouth in her house during her absence, and that Mr. Drayton himself had sworn to the same. Then she heard that two more of her people had deposed, that, on leaving Ralph at the door of her house, the duke had turned to him, saying, "Remember my commission. I trust to you;" and that Ralph replied, "I will not fail your grace."
Hortensia herself, though she easily conceived the words to be innocent, did not understand to what they could apply; and she evidently saw the chain, which bound the victim, being drawn tighter and tighter around him. Then came the evidence of his having been on the road to Axminster when Monmouth was actually in combat with the royal troops; and then of his having been taken on the very field of Sedgemoor. She knew that many a one had already been condemned upon evidence slighter than this, and her heart failed her. The summing up, too, of the judge, had been brought to her with tolerable accuracy; and she perceived how skillfully he had pieced out the evidence against the unfortunate prisoner, not only indulging in violent abuse of him, but attributing to him much to which none of the witnesses testified.
Ralph's defense had been simple and straight forward. He told the facts just as they had occurred, plainly and straightforwardly. He pointed out that the Duke of Monmouth had come to Danvers's New Church with a considerable body of men, whom he had no power of opposing, even if he had been personally cognizant of then being in rebellion; that the duke had left with him a sealed letter for Lady Danvers, which, he believed, had come from the young Baroness Wentworth, charging him to deliver it as soon as possible, and that the words which had passed between them at the door referred solely to that. At all this Jeffries scoffed in his summing up, declaring it to be a trumped up story which would not deceive an oyster wench, it was clear, he contended--as clear as any thing under the sun, that Ralph had held friendly communication with the rebel and his agents, had agreed to assist him, and had endeavored to induce Lady Danvers to take part in the same criminal proceeding. "Doubtless," he said, "the young knave entrapped her to go into Axminster, for the purpose of entangling her with the insurrection, so that she could not draw back."
"Either her ladyship's good sense or her good fortune," said Jeffries, "kept her out of the scrape; but with that we have nothing to do at present. The case is against this young felon--felon in all senses of the word--guilty, beyond a doubt, of a thousand different crimes."
He then hypocritically declared he left the case entirely in the hands of the jury, though he could not have any doubt as to the verdict they would bring in.
Poor Hortensia--despair took possession of her when these tidings were brought to her solitary room. She did not fail to perceive how the evidence might be made to bear against herself; but she gave that hardly a moment's thought. Her whole mind was fixed upon the fate of Ralph; and, after pondering gloomily for a few minutes, she started up suddenly, saying, "I will go and see her, let the old man behave as he will;" and, calling her maid, she hastened away to the inn, where she now sits with poor Margaret, not exactly alone, for the two maids are there, standing at a little distance, and entering partially into the feelings of those whom they served.
Old Lord Woodhall had gone forth several hours before to the court; for his disappointment at the result of the first charge against Ralph had but stimulated his eagerness, and he could not rest satisfied without watching the progress of events. When once there, the interest increased upon him. He was torn, it is true, by various contending feelings. He could not see the gallant young man, whom he had loved only less than his own children in former years, stand there in the dock, defending his life with calm dignity and firmness, without feeling emotions he strove hard to crush. But when he thought of his own brave, high-spirited boy, and persuaded himself that Ralph's hand had killed him, returning affection was changed again to gall and bitterness. The interest was but the deeper, however, from this contention. He stayed out the examination of all the witnesses--he stayed out the prisoner's defense and the judge's summing up; and now, with the greater part of the auditory, he was lingering still in the court to hear the verdict of the jury, who had retired to deliberate.
The time was one of anxious suspense to all, but to none more terrible than to Margaret and Hortensia. From time to time they would send out a maid to inquire, or one of Lady Danvers's servants would put his head in and say, "No verdict yet, my lady." Hortensia bore it all firmly, and apparently calmly, though her anxious eye and pale cheek belied the tranquillity of her manner. Poor Margaret could hardly bear up at all: often the tears would not be restrained, and the long-protracted suspense kept her only under increasing agony.
At length there was a noise of bustle and confusion in the street and a hasty step was heard running up the stairs. The moment after the door opened quickly, and Mr. Drayton himself appeared. His face was sufficient answer to all inquiries. It was pale, haggard, ghastly and full of deep grief.
"Speak!" cried Hortensia, "speak!"
"Condemned, madam," replied the steward, solemnly, "and partly upon my testimony. But, indeed, I could not help it. I only told the truth."
The words had hardly passed his lips, and Margaret's head had fallen forward on the table, with her eyes deluging her fair hands with tears, when Lord Woodhall entered the room with a slow and somewhat feeble step. He was a very much altered man. His eyes were fixed upon the floor, his look grave and sad, his whole aspect downcast and sorrowful. Oh, how often does fruition bring to strong passion ashes and bitterness. He was sated; the fierce desire of his heart was gratified; the man upon whom he sought vengeance was condemned to a terrible death. The awful words rang in his ear; he saw the gallant youth stand firm and unshaken while they were uttered; he saw him wave his hand as he left the dock, and say as calmly as if he had been going to his rest, "Farewell all! Remember, I die innocent!--Remember!"
Remorse and pity had touched the old man's heart. For the first time he doubted the guilt of the man he had persecuted; and, as he sank into a chair, his first words were, "Poor Ralph!"
Margaret's ear caught those friendly sounds; and, springing up, with a wild gesture of entreaty, she cast herself at her father's feet, exclaiming, "Oh save him! save him!" The old man shook his head sorrowfully, and replied, in a very low tone, "It is in vain, my child; I can not even interfere to save the slayer of my son."
"Oh! he did not--he did not!" cried Margaret, vehemently; "it is all false--a device of that traitor's. Ralph would have died ere he injured Henry."
"You have been deluded, Lord Woodhall," said Lady Danvers, wiping the tears from her eyes; "and if the trial for murder had taken place, you would have seen that your poor young kinsman is innocent. I can give testimony as to the impossibility of his ever having drawn his sword against your son; for I know where he was, and can account for every moment of his time, from nine o'clock of that fatal morning till after the deed was done. Lord Woodhall, if you had any share in bringing about this condemnation, now exert yourself to the utmost to save this young man's life, or I will, ere two days are over, lay before you such evidence of his innocence as shall fill you with horror and remorse until the last day of your existence."
"Can you so?" asked the old man, gazing at her. "Is it so doubtful as that?"
"It is not doubtful in the least," replied Hortensia, almost sternly. "He did not do it--it was impossible for him to do it. Stay with him, Margaret! Cease not to plead until you have wrung it from him! I have heard some of the doings in this case, and know how much influence he has exerted and can exert. I will away at once to another quarter, and see what can be done there. When I return, I will bring with me those who can show your father where Ralph Woodhall spent every moment of his time, on the day of your brother's death, which he did not pass with me. They are now in the town, though they would have come too late had he been tried three days ago."
Thus saying, she hurried away, followed by her maid, and on the stairs passed Robert Woodhall with a look of contempt and horror which she could not hide.
The young man doffed his hat, and smiled, with one of those meaning serpent looks which often accompanied with him a sense of triumphant cunning. He walked on to the room in which Margaret and her father had been left together, but merely opened the door and looked in. Then, seeing her at her father's feet, he bowed his head slowly to Lord Woodhall, and retired.
The sight of him made the old man start; and he gazed round vacantly for a moment, as if looking for something. It was some resource he looked for, for his mind was greatly troubled. At length some sudden scheme seemed to strike him, and he grasped his child's hands in his. "Margaret, my child, Margaret," he cried, "you can save all--him--me--all of us, if you will. I have promised your hand to your cousin Robert. I have pledged him my honor and my faith. I have imprecated the curse of Heaven upon my head if I do not keep my word. Now, Margaret--now give your consent; promise to be Robert's, and I will do my best to save this young man."
Margaret started up and gazed upon her father silently with a look of icy horror. "Oh God!" she exclaimed, at length, "what is it my father imposes on me!" Then she raised her hand to her brow and pressed it tight, as if to still the throbbing of her brain.
"You will do your best to save him?" she said, gazing wildly in the old man's face.
"Iwillsave him--heshallbe saved!" exclaimed Lord Woodhall, vehemently. "If not, your promise shall be void. Do you consent, Margaret?--Consent, my child, consent! Your old father beseeches and entreats his child to save him from dishonor and from remorse, and this young man from death."
Margaret clasped her hands together, and raised her eyes on high, as if praying to Heaven for help. But then she placed her right hand in her father's, and said in a low, sad, solemn tone, but with every word marked and distinct, "On that condition I do consent. But give me time--you must give me time;" and she added, in a lower tone, "to die."
"You shall have time--ample time. Thanks--thanks, my dear child," said Lord Woodhall, kissing her. But when he withdrew his arms again, Margaret fell senseless on the floor.
The maid, who had been in the room during the whole scene, ran hastily to her mistress's aid; and poor Margaret was removed to her own chamber still in a state from which it was cruelty to rouse her.
"Send for a doctor--bring her to herself!" said the old lord. "I will away as speedily as possible, and see the judge; he has blank pardons in his pocket, they say, ready signed, which he tosses about among boon companions in a drinking bout. I must find him forthwith, though doubtless he is now at his revels. Tell her where I am gone--that will please her."
Thus saying, he sped away; and when Lady Danvers returned, about three quarters of an hour after, with a young man and an elderly woman, she found the room vacant. Inquiring further, and leaving her two companions behind her, she sought out Margaret's chamber. The fair, beautiful girl was lying on the bed, as pale as death, and with her eyes still closed; but Hortensia could see by a tear which trickled through the lids, and gemmed the long, dark lashes, that she had been recalled to sense and suffering.
Her maid was now with her alone, and making a sign to Lady Danvers not to speak aloud, she advanced, and said in a whisper that her poor mistress was better, but that the least effort made her fall into a fainting fit again. In the same tone she communicated to Hortensia all that had occurred.
"Poor girl!" said Hortensia, clasping her hands together, "what hast thou done? They have been very cruel to thee. Thou hast done all to save him thou lovest, but at the expense of peace and happiness, and perhaps life."
It is probable Margaret heard the murmur of her voice; but she stirred not in the least, and Hortensia quitted the room in deep sadness.
A large table was set in a rich and costly room, and round it were seated a number of persons very dignified in station, but certainly not at that moment very dignified in demeanor. At the head of the table was an elderly gentleman, well fattened and of rubicund face, which had evidently lost none of its roses by the accessories of the meal. This was Mr. Mayor, entertaining the judges at supper. On his right hand sat Lord Chief-justice Jeffries, with his wig a good deal on one side, a curious sort of tightness about one corner of his mouth and a depression of the other corner, as if he had been slightly affected by palsy. There was a merry leer in his eyes, however, and a robustious jollity about his whole appearance, which contrasted strangely with his savage and ferocious look upon the bench. Yes, it did afford a strange contrast; but yet it was nothing, compared with the harsh, jarring discord of his light, licentious levity at the table, when closely opposed to the savage cruelty which occupied the morning. There he was, laughing, and drinking, and jesting, and singing, immediately after having condemned half a score of innocent men to death.
Judges, like undertakers, I believe, get hardened to the idea of death.
"How many are you going to pardon, my lord?" asked the worthy mayor, with a half-suppressed hiccough.
"That depends upon their circumstances, Master Mayor," replied Jeffries, with a broad laugh.
"That young man, I hope," said the good-natured magistrate; "I mean the Mr. Woodhall who was convicted of seeing Monmouth before the rebellion broke out. His case was not half as bad as the rest, and he seemed a fine young fellow."
"His case will be worse before Saturday night," said Jeffries. "A knave--an arrant knave, sir! Why, they tell me his father is not worth five hundred a year. Was there ever such a knave? By God's wounds! the son of such a knave ought to hang for having such a father, and the father ought to hang for having such a son. Ha! what is this? Say I am supping; I will not be disturbed. I have done work enough for one day, and cut out work enough for a few others."
"The lady says she must and will see you, my lord," replied the servant to whom his last words were addressed, and who the moment before had slipped a note into his hand.
"Ha, ha! a lady!" cried Jeffries, with a leer round the table; "we must see the lady. Is she young, fellow? Is she pretty?"
"Quite beautiful, sir," replied the man; "and such a dress!"
"'Twill do--'twill do!" cried the judge; "show her into a private room--quite private, and I will come to her anon. I must steady myself, gentlemen--I must steady myself. I'll even drink a cup of water--that is the most steadying thing I know;" and, after a moment's thought, Jeffries rose and walked out of the room coolly and straightly enough, for it required an infinite quantity of strong drink to produce any thing more in him than a sort of boisterous merriment, in which he strangely forgot all dignity and propriety.
As the reader has probably by this time supposed, the person whom he found waiting for him was Lady Danvers. She was accompanied by her maid, however, and two of her men were stationed at the door of the room.
"My lord," she said, as soon as she entered, "I am glad to see you. You have condemned my young friend, Ralph Woodhall, this day: I come to intercede for him."
"All in vain, my lady--all in vain!" said Jeffries, glancing his eye at the maid-servant. "Found guilty by a jury, he can expect no mercy."
Hortensia had spoken very calmly, and she knew the man too well to let him see any agitation. "Why not?" she asked, in the same quiet tone. "If his guilt were proved, which you, my lord, know quite well it is not, and which I deny, still he would be very much less culpable than any of the others whom you have condemned. You must, and of course will, pardon some, in mere compassion to the executioner. Is it not right, then, to choose the least guilty? Alice, go to the door and stay with the two men; shut the door, remember."
Jeffries grinned; for he saw that Lady Danvers was now coming to the point.
"I do not mean to say," he answered, "that this young man's guilt is quite as atrocious as that of some others, but--"
"The levying of a severe fine," replied Hortensia, "will meet the justice of the case better than execution."
"That may be, ma'am," said Jeffries; "but the law says death."
"One is bound and justified to evade the law in the cause of mercy where law is too severe," replied Hortensia. "You have, my lord, I understand, received from the king, with a view to such very cases as these, a number of pardons signed in blank, in order to prevent a waste of time in referring to him. Now I can see, by what you admit, that you judge this young man is worthy of one of these pardons, and the only question is, what is the fine you think sufficient? If the strict letter of the law prevents you from commuting the sentence openly to a fine, the money can be paid quite privately, justice be satisfied, and yet no deviation from the law appear."
"Madam, they should send you ambassador to the hardest-headed court in Europe," said Jeffries, with a laugh. "The worst feature, however, of this case is, the young man is too poor to pay a fine. There is nothing to levy upon."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," replied Hortensia, "there are the purses of his friends; and let me tell you, my lord, he has many not only rich, but powerful friends. The Duke of Norfolk crossed the whole country four days ago, to give evidence on the trial for murder, and remained in Dorchester till that part of the matter was settled."
"Ay, that's the worst of the whole business," said Jeffries. "Were it not for that, we might content ourselves with levying a fine of ten or twenty thousand pounds--"
"Nay, nay!" exclaimed Hortensia, "say five."
"Ten at the least," said the judge, "ten at the least;" and he shook his head decidedly.
"Well, ten be it," replied the lady. "Do we understand each other?"
"Not quite," replied Jeffries; "for what's the use of saving his head from treason if it is to be touched for murder? Besides, it's only fair to tell you, putting all roundabouts aside, that the king will have Lord Woodhall satisfied in this matter. His son has been killed in a duel of a very irregular kind, and the old man is furious."
"Not so furious as he was," answered Hortensia. "His son has been killed, but not by Ralph Woodhall. The case would have failed against him, my lord, for there is evidence in this town to show that it was impossible he could have been on the spot where the duel took place for at least two hours after the occurrence."
"Ay, I thought there was something of that sort at the bottom of it," said Jeffries; "but what then? He will have to be tried for that, and these things are uncertain, my lady."
"If such evidence is laid before Lord Woodhall as to make him see clearly that the young gentleman is innocent, and he desires to desist from the prosecution, and even joins in our application for pardon in this other case, and if the same evidence convinces the attorney general that there is really no case to go to the jury, is there no means--"
"Oh yes," replied Jeffries, "Mr. Attorney can enter a nolle prosequi at any stage of the proceedings; but do you think that the old lord will really sue for his pardon? I saw him last night, and he was as fierce as ever."
"He did not know any thing of what he now knows, or will know in a few hours," replied Hortensia. "His heart is already melted, and if it is clearly proved to him that Ralph is in truth innocent, he will be the first to apply to the crown himself for a pardon."
A change came over Jeffries's face, and he muttered between his teeth, "We must stop that--that would never do."
Hortensia saw how her words affected him, and she hastened to take advantage of the impression. Leaning a little forward, she spoke a few words to Jeffries in a whisper, to which he replied in the same tone. Then she put some question to him again, and he answered aloud, "Oh, to my man Silas Jones. He was once a Presbyterian knave, but I have converted him into an honest Churchman. He dare not finger any thing that belongs to me; so pay it to him."
"And he will have the pardon ready?" said Hortensia.
"Ay, ay," answered the judge, "by half past nine of the morning; but remember, my lady, I must have Lord Woodhall's approval."
"That shall be done," answered Hortensia; for she had good hope that, even if the old lord remained obdurate, the judge, having been brought thus far, might, by the same means, be brought one step further. "Farewell, my good lord," she added, when about to retire; but Jeffries extended his hand, saying, "Let me kiss that lovely hand, divine Lady Danvers."
She repressed the inclination to shudder, and gave him her hand, over which he bent his head with a look of maudlin admiration.
"That is a lovely ring," said Jeffries, pointing to a remarkably large diamond which she wore upon her middle finger. Hortensia immediately took it off and presented it to him, saying, "Take it, my lord, and wear it in remembrance of this interview, in which you have been induced to show mercy; and whenever you look upon it, let the remembrance produce the same result."
Jeffries took it reverently, and placed it on his fat little finger; but I very much fear that it never reminded him of mercy with any result.
When Hortensia was gone, he returned to the table, and, sitting down by the mayor, soon turned the conversation with the good-natured magistrate to the subject of Ralph Woodhall; for I must pass over all the jests that took place with regard to his interview with a lady, and the allusions to the diamond ring upon his finger, which he rather encouraged than otherwise. Mr. Mayor again urged his remonstrances in regard to Ralph Woodhall, saying, "I do really, my lord, wish you would think of that case."
"Well, well, I will," replied Jeffries, "at your request, Mr. Mayor; but, if you get me to take compassion upon him, your worship will be the first mayor that ever moved George Jeffries."
"Had you not better respite him, my lord?" said the mayor.
"Ay, that can be done to-morrow," said Jeffries, "according as I determine. It won't do him any harm to have one day of hanging, drawing, and quartering. My life for it, he'll be seeing his bowels in the hands of the hangman all night long. But I'll think of it--I'll think of it, Mr. Mayor, for your sake. Now another glass, if you please, and that shall be the last, upon my honor--the last but four. Armitage, you dog, you are as dull as a swine to-night; there's a pardon for you, for that fat Presbyterian knave whom you convicted this morning of buying arms to supply the rebels. The fellow is an armorer by trade; but that makes no difference: he had no business to buy arms when there was rebellion in the land. He's rich, man, he's rich; and, if you understand coining, you may know him into five hundred or a thousand gold pieces, with the effigy of his blessed majesty upon them."
The servant again came in, and whispered something over the back of the lord chief justice's chair. "Who? who?" exclaimed Jeffries, with a scowl.
"Lord Woodhall, my lord," replied the servant, aloud.
"Oh, ask him in, by all means," said the mayor.
"On no account whatever," said Jeffries, rising at once; "this is private business; and I fear me much that it is to move me against your request concerning that young man Ralph. God help me! how we poor sinners are torn to pieces by opposite applications!"
"Attend to mercy, my lord, attend to mercy," said the mayor; but the judge was half way down the room by this time.
Jeffries was learned in the art, in which statesmen of our own day are not unlearned, of making one favor serve three or four applicants. When Lord Woodhall, therefore, urged his request that Ralph might be pardoned, Jeffries made innumerable difficulties, and seemed, at length, to yield only at the old nobleman's most pressing entreaties. He insisted, at the same time, that Lord Woodhall should undertake to express to the attorney general his full conviction that Ralph had no share in causing the death of his son, and request that he would enter a nolle prosequi when the case came again for trial. "There would be no pretense for pardoning him in this case," said Jeffries, "if we were to have another trial next day, and hang him for murder--waste of parchment, my lord, waste of parchment."
Lord Woodhall agreed to all that he demanded, and obtained, in return, a respite for Ralph before he left this admirable lord chief justice. He went away with a heart wonderfully eased. Four-and-twenty hours before, he could not have imagined that he should have felt any thing like satisfaction at saving the life of Ralph Woodhall; but now his feelings had taken a very different turn. "Every body says he did not do it," he thought; "the Duke of Norfolk says it was impossible. This Lady Danvers too--and the parson--all of them. I do not want to wrong an innocent man; but I will find out the murderer yet, and have vengeance upon him. Well, well, if Ralph is innocent--and I begin to fancy it may be so--he'll marry Lady Danvers, and Margaret will marry Robert, and we might all be happy again--but for the want of poor Henry!"
Poor old man, how completely he had forgotten, or how little must he have ever known of the feelings and passions of youth! The indifference of old age to those things of the heart which make the brightness of active existence, is one of age's greatest evils, considered as a stage of mere mortal life, but is, perhaps, a good preparation for parting with mortal things to enter upon life eternal.
Thus musing, as I have shown, Lord Woodhall approached the door of the inn, over which a great lantern was burning. When his foot was upon the step, a man came out and was passing; but he suddenly stopped, gazed at the old lord, and exclaimed, "Ah, persecutor of my unhappy boy, is that you?"
"Hush, man, hush!" cried Lord Woodhall, grasping old Mr. Woodhall's hand; "I have been in error--you are in error now. I am not persecuting your son--I have a respite for him in my pocket now, and the promise of a pardon."
Old Mr. Woodhall staggered back and would have fallen; but one of Lord Woodhall's servants caught him, and took him into the inn. An agitating scene followed, and Lord Woodhall, who was by nature a good-hearted and kindly man, rejoiced greatly that the life of his own cousin's son was not to be sacrificed. A short time passed in loose and rambling questions and answers; and at length Mr. Woodhall rose to go, saying, "I must see him, my lord, I must see him at once; for he must think that his father has forgotten him, and left him to his fate. I was detained upon the road by accident. But now, my lord, I may carry him good news. Is it not so?"
"You may assure him that he is safe," said the old nobleman. "Here, take the respite with you, man. That will be the best comfort you can give the boy;" and, taking it from his pocket, he put it in Mr. Woodhall's hands.
Engaging one of the horse-boys of the inn to guide him through the streets of a strange town, Ralph Woodhall's father found his way to the jail, and rang the great bell which hung at the gate. A moment after, a little panel, just large enough to frame a man's head, was drawn back, and the face of a jailer appeared behind an iron grating.
"What do you want?" said the man.
Mr. Woodhall explained his business, and demanded to see his son. A rude and abrupt refusal was his only answer. He insisted, and demanded, at all events, to see the governor of the prison. The jailer, however, said sullenly that the governor was absent, that the visiter was behind the hours, and that he should not have admission.
Mr. Woodhall then tried money; but, strange to say, even this proved in vain. The man refused it with real or affected indignation, and seemed about to close the wicket, when Ralph's father announced that he had a respite with him for the prisoner.
"Then hand it in here," said the jailer; "I suppose this means that he will be pardoned."
"Undoubtedly," returned Mr. Woodhall; "therefore there can be no objection to my seeing him."
"I won't break through the rules for any one," said the jailer, doggedly. "The jail is crammed full, and our orders are strict."
Sad and disappointed, Mr. Woodhall handed in the respite, calling up the boy who had accompanied him to witness its delivery, and desiring the jailer to announce the good tidings he bore at once to his son.
The man promised to do so; but, the moment he had retired into his lodge near the gate, he threw the paper upon a shelf with a laugh, saying, "Well, lay thou there. Thou sha'n't stop me getting my fifty pounds. Devil take the judges, they won't let a poor man earn any thing; they pocket it all themselves! I wonder how much this cost. A great deal more than I get, I dare say."
His words may seem somewhat mysterious without explanation, which only can be given by entering one of the prison cells, and displaying what had been passing within about half an hour before.
Ralph Woodhall was sitting alone, about an hour after the judge had passed sentence upon him, with his limbs heavily fettered, and a still heavier weight upon his heart. Strong resolution had borne him up through the terrible scenes which had lately passed; but all the bitterness of parting with life, at the very period of early joy, had been tasted in that last solitary hour. Suddenly the door opened, and a turnkey came in. He carried in his hand a small instrument; and closing the door carefully behind him, he put it in Ralph's hands, saying, in a low tone, and pointing to the fetters, "Work away and get them off. Leave them and the saw behind you."
Ralph gazed at him with astonishment, saying, "What do you mean?"
"Haven't I told you?" said the turnkey. "Hark ye! at one in the morning, be dressed and ready. However hard I lock that door just now, you will find it open then. Walk out. Turn to the right along the passage. You will come to a door; it will be open too. You will find a man beyond it who won't see you. Don't you see him. Walk straight on till you find another man, who'll go on before you. Follow him as far as he goes. There you'll find a horse and your people, and when they've paid the other two hundred, you can ride away."
He waited for no reply, but, turning away from the prisoner, quitted the cell, taking more than ordinary care in locking the door behind him, and making a good deal of noise about it.
On the following day, at about ten minutes before ten o'clock--when a good deal of bustle and excitement was visible in the prison, in consequence of the preparations for bringing the prisoners for trial rapidly into the court--the deputy sheriff presented himself at the gate and demanded to see Mr. Ralph Woodhall, announcing, with an important air, that a free pardon under the broad seal had been received by the high sheriff, and was then in his possession.
"Quick work, Master Deputy," said the turnkey, who was standing beside the porter; "condemned yesterday at seven, sentenced at nine, and pardoned this morning before ten. But come along; you'll like to give him the news yourself, I dare say, for you may get something for your pains. He doesn't want the stuff, and has paid well enough considering. We haven't been in this morning yet, for he said he'd like to sleep till twelve, seeing he'd a hard day's work of it yesterday."
Thus saying, he led him away along the passages of the prison to one of the condemned cells. When he put the key in the door, however, it would not turn, and he exclaimed, with a great oath, "Why, it's unlocked!"
So it proved, and the cell empty.
Nothing could exceed the horror and consternation expressed by the turnkey. He called the watchman who sat in the passage, and insinuated that he had unlocked the door and let the prisoner escape. The watchman repelled the charge with every appearance of indignation, asked how he could unlock the door when he hadn't the keys, and vowed he hadn't left the passage a minute except when he went to call the doctor for John Philips, who had fallen into a fit, and was screaming like a madman.
"Ay, he must have got out just then," said the turnkey. "How he picked the lock I don't know. I locked it fast enough last night, I'm sure."
"I saw and heard you," said the watchman.
"Ay, he's been well supplied from outside," said the turnkey, pointing to the fetters which lay upon the floor of the cell; "you see he has filed the irons right through."
The sheriff's deputy was not altogether satisfied, however. The governor was called; a search was instituted, and a rope-ladder was found thrown over the wall of the prison yard. As a pardon, however, had been received, the governor wisely thought that the less said about the matter the better; and the sheriff's deputy, who was his friend, agreed to take the same view of the case. Their plans were somewhat deranged, indeed, by the arrival of old Mr. Woodhall in the midst of their consultations; but, with great presence of mind, the deputy sheriff asserted boldly that the prisoner he inquired for had been set free upon pardon, and had departed more than an hour ago.