The next morning, at ten o'clock, the court was again crowded. The judge was again on his bench, prepared for patient endurance; and Lord Killtime and Sir Gregory Hardlines were alongside of him. The jury were again in their box, ready with pen and paper to give their brightest attention—a brightness which will be dim enough before the long day be over; the counsel for the prosecution were rummaging among their papers; the witnesses for the defence were sitting there among the attorneys, with the exception of the Honourable Undecimus Scott, who was accommodated with a seat near the sheriff, and whose heart, to tell the truth, was sinking somewhat low within his breast, in spite of the glass of brandy with which he had fortified himself. Alaric was again present under the wings of Mr. Gitemthruet; and the great Mr. Chaffanbrass was in his place. He was leaning over a slip of paper which he held in his hand, and with compressed lips was meditating his attack upon his enemies; on this occasion his wig was well over his eyes, and as he peered up from under it to the judge's face, he cocked his nose with an air of supercilious contempt for all those who were immediately around him.
It was for him to begin the day's sport by making a speech, not so much in defence of his client as in accusation of the prosecutors. 'It had never,' he said, 'been his fate, he might say his misfortune, to hear a case against a man in a respectable position, opened by the Crown with such an amount of envenomed virulence.' He was then reminded that the prosecution was not carried on by the Crown. 'Then,' said he, 'we may attribute this virulence to private malice; that it is not to be attributed to any fear that this English bride should lose her fortune, or that her French husband should be deprived of any portion of his spoil, I shall be able to prove to a certainty. Did I allow myself that audacity of denunciation which my learned friend has not considered incompatible with the dignity of his new silk gown? Could I permit myself such latitude of invective as he has adopted?'—a slight laugh was here heard in the court, and an involuntary smile played across the judge's face—'yes,' continued Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'I boldly aver that I have never forgotten myself, and what is due to humanity, as my learned friend did in his address to the jury. Gentlemen of the jury, you will not confound the natural indignation which counsel must feel when defending innocence from the false attacks, with the uncalled-for, the unprofessional acerbity which has now been used in promoting such an accusation as this. I may at times be angry, when I see mean falsehood before me in vain assuming the garb of truth—for with such juries as I meet here it generally is in vain—I may at times forget myself in anger; but, if we talk of venom, virulence, and eager hostility, I yield the palm, without a contest, to my learned friend in the new silk gown.'
He then went on to dispose of the witnesses whom they had heard on the previous day, and expressed a regret that anexposéshould have been made so disgraceful to the commercial establishments of this great commercial city. It only showed what was the effect on such establishments of that undue parsimony which was now one of the crying evils of the times. Having thus shortly disposed of them, he came to what all men knew was the real interest of the day's doings. 'But,' said he, 'the evidence in this case, to which your attention will be chiefly directed, will be, not that for the accusation, but that for the defence. It will be my business to show to you, not only that my client is guiltless, but to what temptations to be guilty he has been purposely and wickedly subjected. I shall put into that bar an honourable member of the House of Commons, who will make some revelations as to his own life, who will give us an insight into the ways and means of a legislator, which will probably surprise us all, not excluding his lordship on the bench. He will be able to explain to us—and I trust I may be able to induce him to do so, for it is possible that he may be a little coy—he will be able to explain to us why my client, who is in no way connected either with the Scotts, or the Golightlys, or the Figgs, or the Jaquêtanàpes, why he was made the lady's trustee; and he will also, perhaps, tell us, after some slight, gentle persuasion, whether he has himself handled, or attempted to handle, any of this lady's money.'
Mr. Chaffanbrass then went on to state that, as the forms of the court would not give him the power of addressing the jury again, he must now explain to them what he conceived to be the facts of the case. He then admitted that his client, in his anxiety to do the best he could with the fortune entrusted to him, had invested it badly. The present fate of these unfortunate bridge shares, as to which the commercial world had lately held so many different opinions, proved that: but it had nevertheless been abona fideinvestment, made in conjunction with, and by the advice of, Mr. Scott, the lady's uncle, who thus, for his own purposes, got possession of money which was in truth confided to him for other purposes. His client, Mr. Chaffanbrass acknowledged, had behaved with great indiscretion; but the moment he found that the investment would be an injurious one to the lady whose welfare was in his hands, he at once resolved to make good the whole amount from his own pocket. That he had done so, or, at any rate, would have done so, but for this trial, would be proved to them. Nobler conduct than this it was impossible to imagine. Whereas, the lady's uncle, the honourable member of Parliament, the gentleman who had made a stalking-horse of his, Mr. Chaffanbrass's, client, refused to refund a penny of the spoil, and was now the instigator of this most unjust proceeding.
As Mr. Chaffanbrass thus finished his oration, Undy Scott tried to smile complacently on those around him. But why did the big drops of sweat stand on his brow as his eye involuntarily caught those of Mr. Chaffanbrass? Why did he shuffle his feet, and uneasily move his hands and feet hither and thither, as a man does when he tries in vain to be unconcerned? Why did he pull his gloves on and off, and throw himself back with that affected air which is so unusual to him? All the court was looking at him, and every one knew that he was wretched. Wretched! aye, indeed he was; for the assurance even of an Undy Scott, the hardened man of the clubs, the thrice elected and twice rejected of Tillietudlem, fell prostrate before the well-known hot pincers of Chaffanbrass, the torturer!
The first witness called was Henry Norman. Alaric looked up for a moment with surprise, and then averted his eyes. Mr. Gitemthruet had concealed from him the fact that Norman was to be called. He merely proved this, that having heard from Mrs. Woodward, who was the prisoner's mother-in-law, and would soon be his own mother-in-law, that a deficiency had been alleged to exist in the fortune of Madame Jaquêtanàpe, he had, on the part of Mrs. Woodward, produced what he believed would cover this deficiency, and that when he had been informed that more money was wanting, he had offered to give security that the whole should be paid in six months. Of course, on him Mr. Chaffanbrass exercised none of his terrible skill, and as the lawyers on the other side declined to cross-examine him, he was soon able to leave the court. This he did speedily, for he had no desire to witness Alaric's misery.
And then the Honourable Undecimus Scott was put into the witness-box. It was suggested, on his behalf, that he might give his evidence from the seat which he then occupied, but this Mr. Chaffanbrass would by no means allow. His intercourse with Mr. Scott, he said, must be of a nearer, closer, and more confidential nature than such an arrangement as that would admit. A witness, to his way of thinking, was never an efficient witness till he had his arm on the rail of a witness-box. He must trouble Mr. Scott to descend from the grandeur of his present position; he might return to his seat after he had been examined—if he then should have a mind to do so. Our friend Undy found that he had to obey, and he was soon confronted with Mr. Chaffanbrass in the humbler manner which that gentleman thought so desirable.
'You are a member of the House of Commons, I believe, Mr. Scott?' began Mr. Chaffanbrass.
Undy acknowledged that he was so.
'And you are the son of a peer, I believe?'
'A Scotch peer,' said Undy.
'Oh, a Scotch peer,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, bringing his wig forward over his left eye in a manner that was almost irresistible—'a Scotch peer—a member of Parliament, and son of a Scotch peer; and you have been a member of the Government, I believe, Mr. Scott?'
Undy confessed that he had been in office for a short time.
'A member of Parliament, a son of a peer, and one of the Government of this great and free country. You ought to be a proud and a happy man. You are a man of fortune, too, I believe, Mr. Scott?'
'That is a matter of opinion,' said Undy; 'different people have different ideas. I don't know what you call fortune.'
'Why I call £20,000 a fortune—this sum that the lady had who married the Frenchman. Have you £20,000?'
'I shall not answer that question.'
'Have you £10,000? You surely must have as much as that, as I know you married a fortune yourself,—unless, indeed, a false-hearted trustee has got hold of your money also. Come, have you got £10,000?'
'I shall not answer you.'
'Have you got any income at all? Now, I demand an answer to that on your oath, sir.'
'My lord, must I answer such questions?' said Undy.
'Yes, sir; you must answer them, and many more like them,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'My lord, it is essential to my client that I should prove to the jury whether this witness is or is not a penniless adventurer; if he be a respectable member of society, he can have no objection to let me know whether he has the means of living.'
'Perhaps, Mr. Scott,' said the judge, 'you will not object to state whether or no you possess any fixed income.'
'Have you, or have you not, got an income on which you live?' demanded Mr. Chaffanbrass.
'I have an income,' said Undy, not, however, in a voice that betokened much self-confidence in the strength of his own answer.
'You have an income, have you? And now, Mr. Scott, will you tell us what profession you follow at this moment with the object of increasing your income? I think we may surmise, by the tone of your voice, that your income is not very abundant.'
'I have no profession,' said Undy.
'On your oath, you are in no profession?'
'Not at present.'
'On your oath, you are not a stock-jobber?'
Undy hesitated for a moment.
'By the virtue of your oath, sir, are you a stock-jobber, or are you not?'
'No, I am not. At least, I believe not.'
'You believe not!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass—and it would be necessary to hear the tone in which this was said to understand the derision which was implied. 'You believe you are not a stock-jobber! Are you, or are you not, constantly buying shares and selling shares—railway shares—bridge shares—mining shares—and such-like?'
'I sometimes buy shares.'
'And sometimes sell them?'
'Yes—and sometimes sell them.'
Where Mr. Chaffanbrass had got his exact information, we cannot say; but very exact information he had acquired respecting Undy's little transactions. He questioned him about the Mary Janes and Old Friendships, about the West Corks and the Ballydehob Branch, about sundry other railways and canals, and finally about the Limehouse bridge; and then again he asked his former question. 'And now,' said he, 'will you tell the jury whether you are a stock-jobber or no?'
'It is all a matter of opinion,' said Undy. 'Perhaps I may be, in your sense of the word.'
'My sense of the word!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'You are as much a stock-jobber, sir, as that man is a policeman, or his lordship is a judge. And now, Mr. Scott, I am sorry that I must go back to your private affairs, respecting which you are so unwilling to speak. I fear I must trouble you to tell me this—How did you raise the money with which you bought that latter batch—the large lump of the bridge shares—of which we were speaking?'
'I borrowed it from Mr. Tudor,' said Undy, who had prepared himself to answer this question glibly.
'You borrowed it from Mr. Alaric Tudor—that is, from the gentleman now upon his trial. You borrowed it, I believe, just at the time that he became the lady's trustee?'
'Yes,' said Undy; 'I did so.'
'You have not repaid him as yet?'
'No—not yet,' said Undy.
'I thought not. Can you at all say when Mr. Tudor may probably get his money?'
'I am not at present prepared to name a day. When the money was lent it was not intended that it should be repaid at an early day.'
'Oh! Mr. Tudor did not want his money at an early day—didn't he? But, nevertheless, he has, I believe, asked for it since, and that very pressingly?'
'He has never asked for it,' said Undy.
'Allow me to remind you, Mr. Scott, that I have the power of putting my client into that witness-box, although he is on his trial; and, having so reminded you, let me again beg you to say whether he has not asked you for repayment of this large sum of money very pressingly.'
'No; he has never done so.'
'By the value of your oath, sir—if it has any value—did not my client beseech you to allow these shares to be sold while they were yet saleable, in order that your niece's trust money might be replaced in the English funds?'
'He said something as to the expediency of selling them, and I differed from him.'
'You thought it would be better for the lady's interest that they should remain unsold?'
'I made no question of the lady's interest. I was not her trustee.'
'But the shares were bought with the lady's money.'
'What shares?' asked Undy.
'What shares, sir? Those shares which you had professed to hold on the lady's behalf, and which afterwards you did not scruple to call your own. Those shares of yours—since you have the deliberate dishonesty so to call them—those shares of yours, were they not bought with the lady's money?'
'They were bought with the money which I borrowed from Mr. Tudor.'
'And where did Mr. Tudor get that money?'
'That is a question you must ask himself,' said Undy.
'It is a question, sir, that just at present I prefer to ask you. Now, sir, be good enough to tell the jury, whence Mr. Tudor got that money; or tell them, if you dare do so, that you do not know.'
Undy for a minute remained silent, and Mr. Chaffanbrass remained silent also. But if the fury of his tongue for a moment was at rest, that of his eyes was as active as ever. He kept his gaze steadily fixed upon the witness, and stood there with compressed lips, still resting on his two hands, as though he were quite satisfied thus to watch the prey that was in his power. For an instant he glanced up to the jury, and then allowed his eyes to resettle on the face of the witness, as though he might have said, 'There, gentlemen, there he is—the son of a peer, a member of Parliament; what do you think of him?'
The silence of that minute was horrible to Undy, and yet he could hardly bring himself to break it. The judge looked at him with eyes which seemed to read his inmost soul; the jury looked at him, condemning him one and all; Alaric looked at him with fierce, glaring eyes of hatred, the same eyes that had glared at him that night when he had been collared in the street; the whole crowd looked at him derisively; but the eyes of them all were as nothing to the eyes of Mr. Chaffanbrass.
'I never saw him so great; I never did,' said Mr. Gitemthruet, whispering to his client; and Alaric, even he, felt some consolation in the terrible discomfiture of his enemy.
'I don't know where he got it,' said Undy, at last breaking the terrible silence, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.
'Oh, you don't!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, knocking his wig back, and coming well out of his kennel. 'After waiting for a quarter of an hour or so, you are able to tell the jury at last that you don't know anything about it. He took the small trifle of change out of his pocket, I suppose?'
'I don't know where he took it from.'
'And you didn't ask?'
'No.'
'You got the money; that was all you know. But this was just at the time that Mr. Tudor became the lady's trustee; I think you have admitted that.'
'It may have been about the time.'
'Yes; it may have been about the time, as you justly observe, Mr. Scott. Luckily, you know, we have the dates of the two transactions. But it never occurred to your innocent mind that the money which you got into your hands was a part of the lady's fortune; that never occurred to your innocent mind—eh, Mr. Scott?'
'I don't know that my mind is a more innocent mind than your own,' said Undy.
'I dare say not. Well, did the idea ever occur to your guilty mind?'
'Perhaps my mind is not more guilty than your own, either.'
'Then may God help me,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, 'for I must be at a bad pass. You told us just now, Mr. Scott, that some time since Mr. Tudor advised you to sell these shares—what made him give you this advice?'
'He meant, he said, to sell his own.'
'And he pressed you to sell yours?'
'Yes.'
'He urged you to do so more than once?'
'Yes; I believe he did.'
'And now, Mr. Scott, can you explain to the jury why he was so solicitous that you should dispose of your property?'
'I do not know why he should have done so, unless he wanted back his money.'
'Then he did ask for his own money?'
'No; he never asked for it. But if I had sold the shares perhaps he might have asked for it.'
'Oh!' said Mr. Chaffanbrass; and as he uttered the monosyllable he looked up at the jury, and gently shook his head, and gently shook his hands. Mr. Chaffanbrass was famous for these little silent addresses to the jury-box.
But not even yet had he done with this suspicious loan. We cannot follow him through the whole of his examination; for he kept our old friend under the harrow for no less than seven hours. Though he himself made no further statement to the jury, he made it perfectly plain, by Undy's own extracted admissions, or by the hesitation of his denials, that he had knowingly received this money out of his niece's fortune, and that he had refused to sell the shares bought with this money, when pressed to do so by Tudor, in order that the trust-money might be again made up.
There were those who blamed Mr. Chaffanbrass for thus admitting that his client had made away with his ward's money by lending it to Undy; but that acute gentleman saw clearly that he could not contend against the fact of the property having been fraudulently used; but he saw that he might induce the jury to attach so much guilt to Undy, that Tudor would, as it were, be whitened by the blackness of the other's villany. The judge, he well knew, would blow aside all this froth; but then the judge could not find the verdict.
Towards the end of the day, when Undy was thoroughly worn out—at which time, however, Mr. Chaffanbrass was as brisk as ever, for nothing ever wore him out when he was pursuing his game—when the interest of those who had been sweltering in the hot court all the day was observed to flag, Mr. Chaffanbrass began twisting round his finger a bit of paper, of which those who were best acquainted with his manner knew that he would soon make use.
'Mr. Scott,' said he, suddenly dropping the derisive sarcasm of his former tone, and addressing him with all imaginable courtesy, 'could you oblige me by telling me whose handwriting that is?' and he handed to him the scrap of paper. Undy took it, and saw that the writing was his own; his eyes were somewhat dim, and he can hardly be said to have read it. It was a very short memorandum, and it ran as follows: 'All will yet be well, if those shares be ready to-morrow morning.'
'Well, Mr. Scott,' said the lawyer, 'do you recognize the handwriting?'
Undy looked at it, and endeavoured to examine it closely, but he could not; his eyes swam, and his head was giddy, and he felt sick. Could he have satisfied himself that the writing was not clearly and manifestly his own, he would have denied the document altogether; but he feared to do this; the handwriting might be proved to be his own.
'It is something like my own,' said he.
'Something like your own, is it?' said Mr. Chaffanbrass, as though he were much surprised. 'Like your own! Well, will you have the goodness to read it?'
Undy turned it in his hand as though the proposed task were singularly disagreeable to him. Why, thought he to himself, should he be thus browbeaten by a dirty old Newgate lawyer? Why not pluck up his courage, and, at any rate, show that he was a man? 'No,' said he, 'I will not read it.'
'Then I will. Gentlemen of the jury, have the goodness to listen to me.' Of course there was a contest then between him and the lawyers on the other side whether the document might or might not be read; but equally of course the contest ended in the judge's decision that it should be read. And Mr. Chaffanbrass did read it in a voice audible to all men. 'All will yet be well, if those shares be ready to-morrow morning.' We may take it as admitted, I suppose, that this is in your handwriting, Mr. Scott?'
'It probably may be, though I will not say that it is.'
'Do you not know, sir, with positive certainty that it is your writing?'
To this Undy made no direct answer. 'What is your opinion, Mr. Scott?' said the judge; 'you can probably give an opinion by which the jury would be much guided.'
'I think it is, my lord,' said Undy.
'He thinks it is, said Mr. Chaffanbrass, addressing the jury. 'Well, for once I agree with you. I think it is also—and how will you have the goodness to explain it. To whom was it addressed?'
'I cannot say.'
'When was it written?'
'I do not know.'
'What does it mean?'
'I cannot remember.'
'Was it addressed to Mr. Tudor?'
'I should think not.'
'Now, Mr. Scott, have the goodness to look at the jury, and to speak a little louder. You are in the habit of addressing a larger audience than this, and cannot, therefore, be shamefaced. You mean to tell the jury that you think that that note was not intended by you for Mr. Tudor?'
'I think not,' said Undy.
'But you can't say who it was intended for?'
'No.'
'And by the virtue of your oath, you have told us all that you know about it?' Undy remained silent, but Mr. Chaffanbrass did not press him for an answer. 'You have a brother, named Valentine, I think.' Now Captain Val had been summoned also, and was at this moment in court. Mr. Chaffanbrass requested that he might be desired to leave it, and, consequently, he was ordered out in charge of a policeman.
'And now, Mr. Scott—was that note written by you to Mr. Tudor, with reference to certain shares, which you proposed that Mr. Tudor should place in your brother's hands? Now, sir, I ask you, as a member of Parliament, as a member of the Government, as the son of a peer, to give a true answer to that question.' And then again Undy was silent; and again Mr. Chaffanbrass leant on the desk and glared at him. 'And remember, sir, member of Parliament and nobleman as you are, you shall be indicted for perjury, if you are guilty of perjury.'
'My lord,' said Undy, writhing in torment, 'am I to submit to this?'
'Mr. Chaffanbrass,' said the judge, 'you should not threaten your witness. Mr. Scott—surely you can answer the question.'
Mr. Chaffanbrass seemed not to have even heard what the judge said, so intently were his eyes fixed on poor Undy. 'Well, Mr. Scott,' he said at last, very softly, 'is it convenient for you to answer me? Did that note refer to a certain number of bridge shares, which you required Mr. Tudor to hand over to the stepfather of this lady?'
Undy had no trust in his brother. He felt all but sure that, under the fire of Mr. Chaffanbrass, he would confess everything. It would be terrible to own the truth, but it would be more terrible to be indicted for perjury. So he sat silent.
'My lord, perhaps you will ask him,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass.
'Mr. Scott, you understand the question—why do you not answer it?' asked the judge. But Undy still remained silent.
'You may go now,' said Mr. Chaffanbrass. 'Your eloquence is of the silent sort; but, nevertheless, it is very impressive. You may go now, and sit on that bench again, if, after what has passed, the sheriff thinks proper to permit it.'
Undy, however, did not try that officer's complaisance. He retired from the witness-box, and was not again seen during the trial in any conspicuous place in the court.
It was then past seven o'clock; but Mr. Chaffanbrass insisted on going on with the examination of Captain Val. It did not last long. Captain Val, also, was in that disagreeable position, that he did not know what Undy had confessed, and what denied. So he, also, refused to answer the questions of Mr. Chaffanbrass, saying that he might possibly damage himself should he do so. This was enough for Mr. Chaffanbrass, and then his work was done.
At eight o'clock the court again adjourned; again Charley posted off—for the third time that day—to let Gertrude know that, even as yet, all was not over; and again he and Alaric spent a melancholy evening at the neighbouring tavern; and then, again, on the third morning, all were re-assembled at the Old Bailey.
Or rather they were not all re-assembled. But few came now, and they were those who were obliged to come. The crack piece of the trial, that portion to which, among the connoisseurs, the interest was attached, that was all over. Mr. Chaffanbrass had done his work. Undy Scott, the member of Parliament, had been gibbeted, and the rest was, in comparison, stale, flat, and unprofitable. The judge and jury, however, were there, so were the prosecuting counsel, so were Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Younglad, and so was poor Alaric. The work of the day was commenced by the judge's charge, and then Alaric, to his infinite dismay, found how all the sophistry and laboured arguments of his very talented advocate were blown to the winds, and shown to be worthless. 'Gentlemen,' said the judge to the jurors, after he had gone through all the evidence, and told them what was admissible, and what was not—'gentlemen, I must especially remind you, that in coming to a verdict in the matter, no amount of guilt on the part of any other person can render guiltless him whom you are now trying, or palliate his guilt if he be guilty. An endeavour has been made to affix a deep stigma on one of the witnesses who has been examined before you; and to induce you to feel, rather than to think, that Mr. Tudor is, at any rate, comparatively innocent—innocent as compared with that gentleman. That is not the issue which you are called on to decide; not whether Mr. Scott, for purposes of his own, led Mr. Tudor on to guilt, and then turned against him; but whether Mr. Tudor himself has, or has not, been guilty under this Act of Parliament that has been explained to you.
'As regards the evidence of Mr. Scott, I am justified in telling you, that if the prisoner's guilt depended in any way on that evidence, it would be your duty to receive it with the most extreme caution, and to reject it altogether if not corroborated. That evidence was not trustworthy, and in a great measure justified the treatment which the witness encountered from the learned barrister who examined him. But Mr. Scott was a witness for the defence, not for the prosecution. The case for the prosecution in no way hangs on his evidence.
'If it be your opinion that Mr. Tudor is guilty, and that he was unwarily enticed into guilt by Mr. Scott; that the whole arrangement of this trust was brought about by Mr. Scott or others, to enable him or them to make a cat's-paw of this new trustee, and thus use the lady's money for their own purposes, such an opinion on your part may justify you in recommending the prisoner to the merciful consideration of the bench; but it cannot justify you in finding a verdict of not guilty.'
As Alaric heard this, and much more to the same effect, his hopes, which certainly had been high during the examination of Undy Scott, again sank to zero, and left him in despair. He had almost begun to doubt the fact of his own guilt, so wondrously had his conduct been glossed over by Mr. Chaffanbrass, so strikingly had any good attempt on his part been brought to the light, so black had Scott been made to appear. Ideas floated across his brain that he might go forth, not only free of the law, but whitewashed also in men's opinions, that he might again sit on his throne at the Civil Service Board, again cry to himself 'Excelsior,' and indulge the old dreams of his ambition.
But, alas! the deliberate and well-poised wisdom of the judge seemed to shower down cold truth upon the jury from his very eyes. His words were low in their tone, though very clear, impassive, delivered without gesticulation or artifice, such as that so powerfully used by Mr. Chaffanbrass; but Alaric himself felt that it was impossible to doubt the truth of such a man; impossible to suppose that any juryman should do so. Ah me! why had he brought himself thus to quail beneath the gaze of an old man seated on a bench? with what object had he forced himself to bend his once proud neck? He had been before in courts such as this, and had mocked within his own spirit the paraphernalia of the horsehair wigs, the judges' faded finery, and the red cloth; he had laughed at the musty, stale solemnity by which miscreants were awed, and policemen enchanted; now, these things told on himself heavily enough; he felt now their weight and import.
And then the jury retired from the court to consider their verdict, and Mr. Gitemthruet predicted that they would be hungry enough before they sat down to their next meal. 'His lordship was dead against us,' said Mr. Gitemthruet; 'but that was a matter of course; we must look to the jury, and the city juries are very fond of Mr. Chaffanbrass; I am not quite sure, however, that Mr. Chaffanbrass was right: I would not have admitted so much myself; but then no one knows a city jury so well as Mr. Chaffanbrass.'
Other causes came on, and still the jury did not return to court. Mr. Chaffanbrass seemed to have forgotten the very existence of Alaric Tudor, and was deeply engaged in vindicating a city butcher from an imputation of having vended a dead ass by way of veal. All his indignation was now forgotten, and he was full of boisterous fun, filling the court with peals of laughter. One o'clock came, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and still no verdict. At the latter hour, when the court was about to be adjourned, the foreman came in, and assured the judge that there was no probability that they could agree; eleven of them thought one way, while the twelfth was opposed to them. 'You must reason with the gentleman,' said the judge. 'I have, my lord,' said the foreman, 'but it's all thrown away upon him.' 'Reason with him again,' said the judge, rising from his bench and preparing to go to his dinner.
And then one of the great fundamental supports of the British constitution was brought into play. Reason was thrown away upon this tough juryman, and, therefore, it was necessary to ascertain what effect starvation might have upon him. A verdict, that is, a unanimous decision from these twelve men as to Alaric's guilt, was necessary; it might be that three would think him innocent, and nine guilty, or that any other division of opinion might take place; but such divisions among a jury are opposed to the spirit of the British constitution. Twelve men must think alike; or, if they will not, they must be made to do so. 'Reason with him again,' said the judge, as he went to his own dinner. Had the judge bade them remind him how hungry he would soon be if he remained obstinate, his lordship would probably have expressed the thought which was passing through his mind. 'There is one of us, my lord,' said the foreman, 'who will I know be very ill before long; he is already so bad that he can't sit upright.'
There are many ludicrous points in our blessed constitution, but perhaps nothing so ludicrous as a juryman praying to a judge for mercy. He has been caught, shut up in a box, perhaps, for five or six days together, badgered with half a dozen lawyers till he is nearly deaf with their continual talking, and then he is locked up until he shall die or find a verdict. Such at least is the intention of the constitution. The death, however, of three or four jurymen from starvation would not suit the humanity of the present age, and therefore, when extremities are nigh at hand, the dying jurymen, with medical certificates, are allowed to be carried off. It is devoutly to be wished that one juryman might be starved to death while thus serving the constitution; the absurdity then would cure itself, and a verdict of a majority would be taken.
But in Alaric's case, reason or hunger did prevail at the last moment, and as the judge was leaving the court, he was called back to receive the verdict. Alaric, also, was brought back, still under Mr. Gitemthruet's wing, and with him came Charley. A few officers of the court were there, a jailer and a policeman or two, those whose attendance was absolutely necessary, but with these exceptions the place was empty. Not long since men were crowding for seats, and the policemen were hardly able to restrain the pressure of those who pushed forward; but now there was no pushing; the dingy, dirty benches, a few inches of which had lately been so desirable, were not at all in request, and were anything but inviting in appearance; Alaric sat himself down on the very spot which had lately been sacred to Mr. Chaffanbrass, and Mr. Gitemthruet, seated above him, might also fancy himself a barrister. There they sat for five minutes in perfect silence; the suspense of the moment cowed even the attorney, and Charley, who sat on the other side of Alaric, was so affected that he could hardly have spoken had he wished to do so.
And then the judge, who had been obliged to re-array himself before he returned to the bench, again took his seat, and an officer of the court inquired of the foreman of the jury, in his usual official language, what their finding was.
'Guilty on the third count,' said the foreman. 'Not guilty on the four others. We beg, however, most strongly to recommend the prisoner to your lordship's merciful consideration, believing that he has been led into this crime by one who has been much more guilty than himself.'
'I knew Mr. Chaffanbrass was wrong,' said Mr. Gitemthruet. 'I knew he was wrong when he acknowledged so much. God bless my soul! in a court of law one should never acknowledge anything! what's the use?'
And then came the sentence. He was to be confined at the Penitentiary at Millbank for six months. 'The offence,' said the judge, 'of which you have been found guilty, and of which you most certainly have been guilty, is one most prejudicial to the interests of the community. That trust which the weaker of mankind should place in the stronger, that reliance which widows and orphans should feel in their nearest and dearest friends, would be destroyed, if such crimes as these were allowed to pass unpunished. But in your case there are circumstances which do doubtless palliate the crime of which you have been guilty; the money which you took will, I believe, be restored; the trust which you were courted to undertake should not have been imposed on you; and in the tale of villany which has been laid before us, you have by no means been the worst offender. I have, therefore, inflicted on you the slightest penalty which the law allows me. Mr. Tudor, I know what has been your career, how great your services to your country, how unexceptionable your conduct as a public servant; I trust, I do trust, I most earnestly, most hopefully trust, that your career of utility is not over. Your abilities are great, and you are blessed with the power of thinking; I do beseech you to consider, while you undergo that confinement which you needs must suffer, how little any wealth is worth an uneasy conscience.'
And so the trial was over. Alaric was taken off in custody; the policeman in mufti was released from his attendance; and Charley, with a heavy heart, carried the news to Gertrude and Mrs. Woodward.
'And as for me,' said Gertrude, when she had so far recovered from the first shock as to be able to talk to her mother—'as for me, I will have lodgings at Millbank.'
Mrs. Woodward remained with her eldest daughter for two days after the trial, and then she was forced to return to Hampton. She had earnestly entreated Gertrude to accompany her, with her child; but Mrs. Tudor was inflexible. She had, she said, very much to do; so much, that she could not possibly leave London; the house and furniture were on her hands, and must be disposed of; their future plans must be arranged; and then nothing, she said, should induce her to sleep out of sight of her husband's prison, or to omit any opportunity of seeing him which the prison rules would allow her.
Mrs. Woodward would not have left one child in such extremity, had not the state of another child made her presence at the Cottage indispensable. Katie's anxiety about the trial had of course been intense, so intense as to give her a false strength, and somewhat to deceive Linda as to her real state. Tidings of course passed daily between London and the Cottage, but for three days they told nothing. On the morning of the fourth day, however, Norman brought the heavy news, and Katie sank completely under it. When she first heard the result of the trial she swooned away, and remained for some time nearly unconscious. But returning consciousness brought with it no relief, and she lay sobbing on her pillow, till she became so weak, that Linda in her fright wrote up to her mother begging her to return at once. Then, wretched as it made her to leave Gertrude in her trouble, Mrs. Woodward did return.
For a fortnight after this there was an unhappy household at Surbiton Cottage. Linda's marriage was put off till the period of Alaric's sentence should be over, and till something should be settled as to his and Gertrude's future career. It was now August, and they spoke of the event as one which perhaps might occur in the course of the following spring. At this time, also, they were deprived for a while of the comfort of Norman's visits by his enforced absence at Normansgrove. Harry's eldest brother was again ill, and at last the news of his death was received at Hampton. Under other circumstances such tidings as those might, to a certain extent, have brought their own consolation with them. Harry would now be Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, and Linda would become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove; Harry's mother had long been dead, and his father was an infirm old man, who would be too glad to give up to his son the full management of the estate, now that the eldest son was a man to whom that estate could be trusted. All those circumstances had, of course, been talked over between Harry and Linda, and it was understood that Harry was now to resign his situation at the Weights and Measures. But Alaric's condition, Gertrude's misery, and Katie's illness, threw all such matters into the background. Katie became no better; but then the doctors said that she did not become any worse, and gave it as their opinion that she ought to recover. She had youth, they said, on her side; and then her lungs were not affected. This was the great question which they were all asking of each other continually. The poor girl lived beneath a stethoscope, and bore all their pokings and tappings with exquisite patience. She herself believed that she was dying, and so she repeatedly told her mother. Mrs. Woodward could only say that all was in God's hands, but that the physicians still encouraged them to hope the best.
One day Mrs. Woodward was sitting with a book in her usual place at the side of Katie's bed; she looked every now and again at her patient, and thought that she was slumbering; and at last she rose from her chair to creep away, so sure was she that she might be spared for a moment. But just as she was silently rising, a thin, slight, pale hand crept out from beneath the clothes, and laid itself on her arm.
'I thought you were asleep, love,' said she.
'No, mamma, I was not asleep. I was thinking of something. Don't go away, mamma, just now. I want to ask you something.'
Mrs. Woodward again sat down, and taking her daughter's hand in her own, caressed it.
'I want to ask a favour of you, mamma,' said Katie.
'A favour, my darling! what is it? you know I will do anything in my power that you ask me.'
'Ah, mamma, I do not know whether you will do this.'
'What is it, Katie? I will do anything that is for your good. I am sure you know that, Katie.'
'Mamma, I know I am going to die. Oh, mamma, don't say anything now, don't cry now—dear, dear mamma; I don't say it to make you unhappy; but you know when I am so ill I ought to think about it, ought I not, mamma?'
'But, Katie, the doctor says that he thinks you are not so dangerously ill; you should not, therefore, despond; it will increase your illness, and hinder your chance of getting well. That would be wrong, wouldn't it, love?'
'Mamma, I feel that I shall never again be well, and therefore—' It was useless telling Mrs. Woodward not to cry; what else could she do? 'Dear mamma, I am so sorry to make you unhappy, but you are my own mamma, and therefore I must tell you. I can be happy still, mamma, if you will let me talk to you about it.'
'You shall talk, dearest; I will hear what you say; but oh, Katie, I cannot bear to hear you talk of dying. I do not think you are dying. If I did think so, my child, my trust in your goodness is so strong that I should tell you.'
'You know, mamma, it might have been much worse; suppose I had been drowned, when he, when Charley, you know, saved me;' and as she mentioned his name a tear for the first time ran down each cheek; 'how much worse that would have been! think, mamma, what it would be to be drowned without a moment for one's prayers.'
'It is quite right we should prepare ourselves for death. Whether we live, or whether we die, we shall be better for doing that.'
Katie still held her mother's hand in hers, and lay back against the pillows which had been placed behind her back. 'And now, mamma,' she said at last, 'I am going to ask you this favour—I want to see Charley once more.'
Mrs. Woodward was so much astonished at the request that at first she knew not what answer to make. 'To see Charley!' she said at last.
'Yes, mamma; I want to see Charley once more; there need be no secrets between us now, mamma.'
'There have never been any secrets between us,' said Mrs. Woodward, embracing her. 'You have never had any secrets from me?'
'Not intentionally, mamma; I have never meant to keep anything secret from you. And I know you have known what I felt about Charley.'
'I know that you have behaved like an angel, my child; I know your want of selfishness, your devotion to others, has been such as to shame me; I know your conduct has been perfect: oh, my Katie, I have understood it, and I have so loved you, so admired you.'
Katie smiled through her tears as she returned her mother's embrace. 'Well, mamma,' she said, 'at any rate you know that I love him. Oh, mamma, I do love him so dearly. It is not now like Gertrude's love, or Linda's. I know that I can never be his wife. I did know before, that for many reasons I ought not to wish to be so; but now I know I never, never can be.'
Mrs. Woodward was past the power of speaking, and so Katie went on.
'But I do not love him the less for that reason; I think I love him the more. I never, never, could have loved anyone else, mamma; never, never; and that is one reason why I do not so much mind being ill now.'
Mrs. Woodward bowed forward, and hid her face in the counterpane, but she still kept hold of her daughter's hand.
'And, mamma,' she continued, 'as I do love him so dearly, I feel that I should try to do something for him. I ought to do so; and, mamma, I could not be happy without seeing him. He is not just like a brother or a brother-in-law, such as Harry and Alaric; we are not bound to each other as relations are; but yet I feel that something does bind me to him. I know he doesn't love me as I love him; but yet I think he loves me dearly; and if I speak to him now, mamma, now that I am—that I am so ill, perhaps he will mind me. Mamma, it will be as though one came unto him from the dead.'
Mrs. Woodward did not know how to refuse any request that Katie might now make to her, and felt herself altogether unequal to the task of refusing this request. For many reasons she would have done so, had she been able; in the first place she did not think that all chance of Katie's recovery was gone; and then at the present moment she felt no inclination to draw closer to her any of the Tudor family. She could not but feel that Alaric had been the means of disgracing and degrading one child; and truly, deeply, warmly, as she sympathized with the other, she could not bring herself to feel the same sympathy for the object of her love. It was a sore day for her and hers, that on which the Tudors had first entered her house.
Nevertheless she assented to Katie's proposal, and undertook the task of asking Charley down to Hampton.
Since Alaric's conviction Charley led a busy life; and as men who have really something to do have seldom time to get into much mischief, he had been peculiarly moral and respectable. It is not surprising that at such a moment Gertrude found that Alaric's newer friends fell off from him. Of course they did; nor is it a sign of ingratitude or heartlessness in the world that at such a period of great distress new friends should fall off. New friends, like one's best coat and polished patent-leather dress boots, are only intended for holiday wear. At other times they are neither serviceable nor comfortable; they do not answer the required purposes, and are ill adapted to give us the ease we seek. A new coat, however, has this advantage, that it will in time become old and comfortable; so much can by no means be predicted with certainty of a new friend. Woe to those men who go through the world with none but new coats on their backs, with no boots but those of polished leather, with none but new friends to comfort them in adversity.
But not the less, when misfortune does come, are we inclined to grumble at finding ourselves deserted. Gertrude, though she certainly wished to see no Mrs. Val and no Miss Neverbends, did feel lonely enough when her mother left her, and wretched enough. But she was not altogether deserted. At this time Charley was true to her, and did for her all those thousand nameless things which a woman cannot do for herself. He came to her everyday after leaving his office, and on one excuse or another remained with her till late every evening.
He was not a little surprised one morning on receiving Mrs. Woodward's invitation to Hampton. Mrs. Woodward in writing had had some difficulty in wording her request. She hardly liked asking Charley to come because Katie was ill; nor did she like to ask him without mentioning Katie's illness. 'I need not explain to you,' she said in her note, 'that we are all in great distress; poor Katie is very ill, and you will understand what we must feel about Alaric and Gertrude. Harry is still at Normansgrove. We shall all be glad to see you, and Katie, who never forgets what you did for her, insists on my asking you at once. I am sure you will not refuse her, so I shall expect you to-morrow.' Charley would not have refused her anything, and it need hardly be said that he accepted the invitation.
Mrs. Woodward was at a loss how to receive him, or what to say to him. Though Katie was so positive that her own illness would be fatal—a symptom which might have confirmed those who watched her in their opinion that her disease was not consumption—her mother was by no means so desponding. She still thought it not impossible that her child might recover, and so thinking could not but be adverse to any declaration on Katie's part of her own feelings. She had endeavoured to explain this to her daughter; but Katie was so carried away by her enthusiasm, was at the present moment so devoted, and, as it were, exalted above her present life, that all that her mother said was thrown away upon her. Mrs. Woodward might have refused her daughter's request, and have run the risk of breaking her heart by the refusal; but now that the petition had been granted, it was useless to endeavour to teach her to repress her feelings.
'Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward, when he had been some little time in the house, 'our dear Katie wants to see you; she is very ill, you know.'
Charley said he knew she was ill.
'You remember our walk together, Charley.'
'Yes,' said Charley, 'I remember it well. I made you a promise then, and I have kept it. I have now come here only because you have sent for me.' This he said in the tone which a man uses when he feels himself to have been injured.
'I know it, Charley; you have kept your promise; I knew you would, and I know you will. I have the fullest trust in you; and now you shall come and see her.'
Charley was to return to town that night, and they had not therefore much time to lose; they went upstairs at once, and found Linda and Uncle Bat in the patient's room. It was a lovely August evening, and the bedroom window opening upon the river was unclosed. Katie, as she sat propped up against the pillows, could look out upon the water and see the reedy island, on which in happy former days she had so delighted to let her imagination revel.
'It is very good of you to come and see me, Charley,' said she, as he made his way up to her bedside.
He took her wasted hand in his own and pressed it, and, as he did so, a tear forced itself into each corner of his eyes. She smiled as though to cheer him, and said that now she saw him she could be quite happy, only for poor Alaric and Gertrude. She hoped she might live to see Alaric again; but if not, Charley was to give him her best-best love.
'Live to see him! of course you will,' said Uncle Bat.
'What's to hinder you?' Uncle Bat, like the rest of them, tried to cheer her, and make her think that she might yet live.
After a while Uncle Bat went out of the room, and Linda followed him. Mrs. Woodward would fain have remained, but she perfectly understood that it was part of the intended arrangement with Katie, that Charley should be alone with her. 'I will come back in a quarter of an hour,' she said, rising to follow the others. 'You must not let her talk too much, Charley: you see how weak she is.'
'Mamma, when you come, knock at the door, will you?' said Katie. Mrs. Woodward, who found herself obliged to act in complete obedience to her daughter, promised that she would; and then they were left alone.
'Sit down, Charley,' said she; he was still standing by her bedside, and now at her bidding he sat in the chair which Captain Cuttwater had occupied. 'Come here nearer to me,' said she; 'this is where mamma always sits, and Linda when mamma is not here.' Charley did as he was bid, and, changing his seat, came and sat down close to her bed-head.
'Charley, do you remember how you went into the water for me?' said she, again smiling, and pulling her hand out and resting it on his arm which lay on the bed beside her.
'Indeed I do, Katie—I remember the day very well.'
'That was a very happy day in spite of the tumble, was it not, Charley? And do you remember the flower-show, and the dance at Mrs. Val's?'
Charley did remember them all well. Ah me! how often had he thought of them!
'I think of those days so often—too often,' continued Katie. 'But, dear Charley, I cannot remember too often that you saved my life.'
Charley once more tried to explain to her that there was nothing worthy of notice in his exploit of that day.
'Well, Charley, I may think as I like, you know,' she said, with something of the obstinacy of old days. 'I think you did save my life, and all the people in the world won't make me think anything else; but, Charley, I have something now to tell you.'
He sat and listened. It seemed to him as though he were only there to listen; as though, were he to make his own voice audible, he would violate the sanctity of the place. His thoughts were serious enough, but he could not pitch his voice so as to suit the tone in which she addressed him.
'We were always friends, were we not?' said she; 'we were always good friends, Charley. Do you remember how you were to build a palace for me in the dear old island out there? You were always so kind, so good to me.'
Charley said he remembered it all—they were happy days; the happiest days, he said, that he had ever known.
'And you used to love me, Charley?'
'Used!' said he, 'do you think I do not love you now?'
'I am sure you do. And, Charley, I love you also. That it is that I want to tell you. I love you so well that I cannot go away from this world in peace without wishing you farewell. Charley, if you love me, you will think of me when I am gone; and then for my sake you will be steady.'
Here were all her old words over again—'You will be steady, won't you, Charley? I know you will be steady, now.' How much must she have thought of him! How often must his career have caused her misery and pain! How laden must that innocent bosom have been with anxiety on his account! He had promised her then that he would reform; but he had broken his promise. He now promised her again, but how could he hope that she would believe him?
'You know how ill I am, don't you? You know that I am dying, Charley?'
Charley of course declared that he still hoped that she would recover.
'If I thought so,' said she, 'I should not say what I am now saying; but I feel that I may tell the truth. Dear Charley, dearest Charley, I love you with all my heart—I do not know how it came so; I believe I have always loved you since I first knew you; I used to think it was because you saved my life; but I know it was not that. I was so glad it was you that came to me in the water, and not Harry; so that I know I loved you before that.'
'Dear Katie, you have not loved me, or thought of me, more than I have loved and thought of you.'
'Ah, Charley,' she said, smiling in her sad sweet way—'I don't think you know how a girl can love; you have so many things to think of, so much to amuse you up in London; you don't know what it is to think of one person for days and days, and nights and nights together. That is the way I have thought of you, I don't think there can be any harm,' she continued, 'in loving a person as I have loved you. Indeed, how could I help it? I did not love you on purpose. But I think I should be wrong to die without telling you. When I am dead, Charley, will you think of this, and try—try to give up your bad ways? When I tell you that I love you so dearly, and ask you on my deathbed, I think you will do this.'
Charley went down on his knees, and bowing his head before her and before his God, he made the promise. He made it, and we may so far anticipate the approaching end of our story as to declare that the promise he then made was faithfully kept.
'Katie, Katie, my own Katie, my own, own, own Katie—oh, Katie, you must not die, you must not leave me! Oh, Katie, I have so dearly loved you! Oh, Katie, I do so dearly love you! If you knew all, if you could know all, you would believe me.'
At this moment Mrs. Woodward knocked at the door, and Charley rose from his knees. 'Not quite yet, mamma,' said Katie, as Mrs. Woodward opened the door. 'Not quite yet; in five minutes, mamma, you may come.' Mrs. Woodward, not knowing how to refuse, again went away.
'Charley, I never gave you anything but once, and you returned it to me, did you not?'
'Yes,' said he, 'the purse—I put it in your box, because——'
And then he remembered that he could not say why he had returned it without breaking in a manner that confidence which Mrs. Woodward had put in him.
'I understand it all. You must not think I am angry with you. I know how good you were about it. But Charley, you may have it back now; here it is;' and putting her hand under the pillow, she took it out, carefully folded up in new tissue paper. 'There, Charley, you must never part with it again as long as there are two threads of it together; but I know you never will; and Charley, you must never talk of it to anybody but to your wife; and you must tell her all about it.'
He took the purse, and put it to his lips, and then pressed it to his heart. 'No,' said he, 'I will never part with it again. I think I can promise that.' 'And now, dearest, good-bye,' said she; 'dearest, dearest Charley, good-bye; perhaps we shall know each other in heaven. Kiss me, Charley, before you go,' So he stooped down over her, and pressed his lips to hers.
Charley, leaving the room, found Mrs. Woodward at the other end of the passage, standing at the door of her own dressing-room. 'You are to go to her now,' he said. 'Good-bye,' and without further speech to any of them he hurried out of the house.
None but Mrs. Woodward had seen him; but she saw that the tears were streaming down his cheeks as he passed her, and she expressed no surprise that he had left the Cottage without going through the formality of making his adieux.
And then he walked up to town, as Norman once had done after a parting interview with her whom he had loved. It might be difficult to say which at the moment suffered the bitterest grief.