The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
gesture, referring hardly to a note--traversed the statements of his
enemy and of the witnesses for his enemy; sentence by grave sentence, he
demonstrated to those twelve watchful faces, to the nine men and the
three women in the jury-box, that the crime---if crime it were--had been
committed on a sudden impulse, without motive, without malice, without
premeditation.
"Members of the jury, if we except the evidence of Maggie
Peterson--evidence which we now know to be one tissue of lies,--what
proof have we of motive or of malice aforethought? No proof, no proof
whatsoever. When counsel for the Crown dared to call my client an
adulteress, on what did he base his foul allegation? On the word of a
proved liar. I venture to tell him that, if any one fact has emerged
from the evidence which he has seen fit to put before you, it is the
fact of my client's fidelity to the blackguard whom she had the
misfortune to marry."
At that, fearfully, the "hanging prosecutor" craned forward in his seat;
and fearfully--as though it were of himself and not of the dead that
Ronnie spoke--his bloodshot eyes glanced up at the set, stern face of
counsel for the defense. But counsel for the defense deigned him never a
glance. Terribly, counsel for the defense went on:
"My lord, members of the jury, he, counsel for the Crown, is a
distinguished, perhaps our most distinguished advocate. Behind him are
all the resources of the public purse, of the public power. Yet I, the
humblest of pleaders, should not be doing my duty to my client did I not
tell him that this prosecution to which he has thought fit to add the
weight of his advocacy is a prosecution founded on false witness,
bolstered on perjury, a prosecution which no just advocate would have
dared to support."
With those words, unprofessional, unpremeditated--for now the sword of
oratory had outlunged Ronnie's self-control, so that he spoke from his
heart, careless of etiquette,--a shiver of excitement rippled the
gray-wigged heads behind. The wigged heads nodded toward one another,
whispering, "I say! Why the deuce don't Brunton protest!" But Brunton
did not protest. And counsel for the defense spoke on:
"Why he has so dared, is for my learned friend to explain. My learned
friend spoke of mercy. The poet tells us that the quality of mercy is
not strained. Did my learned friend ponder that saying when his hands
drew up the indictment against my client? Did any spirit of mercy move
him when his brain schemed the evidence which has been put before this
court? Is he merciful or merciless, truthful or truthless, when he asks
you to believe that this woman, this unfortunate Lucy Towers, is guilty
not only of murder but of adultery?"
Still Brunton did not protest. His eyes, the bloodshot eyes under the
wig awry, dared look no more upon his enemy. For now it seemed to Hector
Brunton as though Ronnie pleaded with him--as he had pleaded long
ago--not only for the freedom of the woman in the dock, but for the
freedom of Aliette.
"Adultery!" pleaded Ronnie. "Has my learned friend brought any proof of
that adultery? He has brought none. None. None. Has he brought any proof
of murder? Any proof of that malice aforethought without which--as he
himself has told you--there can be no murder? He has brought none. None.
None. Yet deliberately he has sought to twine"--one hand shot out,
pointing first at Brunton, then at the unmoving figure of Lucy
Towers--"the hangman's rope round the neck of this innocent woman. For
she is innocent! Innocent of murder as she is of adultery. Innocent--I
declare it to you in all solemnity!--innocent before the sight of man as
she is innocent before the sight of God--of any and of every charge that
counsel for the Crown has thought fit to bring against her. Of no
charge, not even of manslaughter, can she be found guilty! Is it
manslaughter to defend the defenseless? Is it manslaughter when a weak
woman protects the man she loves from the beast who makes her days and
her nights a living hell?
"A living hell!" For a second the flood of oratory ceased; for a second,
through the silence of bated breaths, it seemed to Ronald Cavendish as
though once again he caught the murmurs of the crowd without. But now
the crowd gave strength to his words.
"Members of the jury, _I_ do not ask for mercy. I ask only for justice.
I ask you, when you weigh your verdict, to remember what manner of man
was this William Towers. I ask you to look upon my client. I ask you to
think of this woman, faithful always, complaining never, enduring
always--year after hellish year--the bestial defilements of the drunken
reprobate into whose black heart, not of premeditation but in sheer and
sudden defense of a fellow-creature, she fired her fatal shot. Oh, yes,
Lucy Towers fired that shot. Lucy Towers and no other killed her
husband. That is the one truth in the tissue of lies which has been put
before you. But was that killing a crime? Is not the world well rid of
men like William Towers? Members of the jury, you, who have heard from
the lips of unbiased witnesses what were his cruelties, what his
drinkings and what his lecheries, will you not say to yourselves--as I
say to myself--when you come to consider your verdict: 'God save all
women from such a man.'"
And then, for the first time, Ronnie deigned one scornful look upon his
enemy.
"Yet, believe me, you men and you women on whose word depends life or
death for this woman I am defending, it is not on the ground of her
husband's cruelties that I ask you to let her go free. However degraded,
however debauched, however cruel; this man, this William Towers still
had the right to live. Neither by his lechery nor by his drunkenness did
he forfeit his life. Yet his life was forfeit. Why? Let me tell you why.
Let me tell you in one sentence. Because he sought to take the life of
another.
"Remember that. Never forget that. William Towers sought to take the
life of another!" Ronnie's voice slowed to emphasis. Subconsciously, he
knew himself at the very core of his defense. But consciously he knew
nothing. The faces of the judge, of the jury and the spectators--phantom
symbols whose intelligences his own intelligence must now
grapple--blurred to his sight. He swayed as he stood.
"Members of the jury, that is the issue; the whole simple issue before
this court. Dismiss from your minds all prejudice. That my learned
friend stooped to call false witnesses is for my learned friend's
conscience to excuse. You have not been summoned to decide the guilt of
Maggie Peterson. You are not here to weigh the sins of the dead. You
have been summoned to decide whether or no my client is guilty of any
crime. Judge--impartially yet compassionately--that single simple issue.
And, judging, keep before your minds this picture, the picture my client
herself painted for you in unshaken, unforgettable words, the picture of
the poor clean room in the tenement-house where Lucy Towers sits with
her cousin; with the armless man, whose arms (need I remind you?) were
sacrificed for your sake and for mine.
"Day by day Lucy Towers has visited that room; day by day her hands and
hers alone have ministered to its helpless, to its defenseless occupant.
Day by day she has brought him, despite her husband's threats, a little
money--food perhaps. Is that a crime? But to-day she has not even
brought money. She has only helped him--the piteousness of it!--to drink
his tea. They are cousins, these two. They are happy with one another;
not, as my learned friend would have you believe, guiltily happy, but
innocently happy. They love one another--as they themselves told you--in
the best, in the highest way, even as brother and sister love one
another.
"So, they are sitting. And then, without warning, comes the crash of a
stick-handle on the door. Startled, they look up. Startled, they see,
framed in the doorway, the cruel terrible face of a man, of this woman's
legal owner, of William Towers. In his hand this reprobate, this cruel
drunken reprobate, brandishes his stick. The stick is no ordinary
walking-stick. It is a weapon--a deadly weapon--a loaded stick. William
Towers grasps the loaded stick by the ferrule. He lifts it menacingly;
he makes as though to brain Robert Fielding--the armless, the helpless,
the defenseless man, Robert Fielding. Robert Fielding's cousin is
afraid; she fears this reprobate's violence, fears that he has been
drinking, fears his ungovernable temper. There is a revolver in the
cupboard. A revolver!
"A revolver!" Unconsciously, Ronnie's hand shot out, pointing at the
weapon.
"My client runs to the cupboard. She opens the cupboard. She sees the
revolver. Mad with fear, she grasps the revolver. She points it at
William Towers. And William Towers jeers at her, jeers at them both.
'I'll do you in. I'll do you both in, damn you!' shouts this madman,
this drunken madman who has made my client's life a living hell. And
again he brandishes his stick, threatening a defenseless man.
"And then? Even then, does Robert Fielding call upon his cousin to fire?
No. Remember that he knows himself in danger of his life; knows that one
pressure of his cousin's finger on the trigger will save his life. Yet
Robert Fielding does not call upon his cousin to fire. He warns the
man--the reprobate who is seeking to slay him; he cries, 'Look out,
Bill. The gun's loaded.' But William Towers only sneers. 'You can't
frighten me,' sneers William Towers, and once more he brandishes his
weapon, making as though to batter out Robert Fielding's life.
"To batter out Robert Fielding's life!" Now, irresistible, the sword of
the spoken word plunges to its peroration. "My lord, members of the
jury, was it murder, or a defense against murder, when my client, my
innocent client, maddened by fear--driven to desperation by the thought
of this foul crime which only she could prevent--pulled the trigger,
sped the bullet which sent William Towers to his account with God? My
lord, members of the jury, all you who listen to me in this court
to-day, is there any one of you who--fearful as my client was
fearful--provoked as my client was provoked--maddened as my client was
maddened, by the sight of an armless man, of the one creature she loved
in all the world, about to suffer death at the hands of a
reprobate--would not have done what Lucy Towers did, would not have torn
madly at the revolver trigger, would not have taken a life that a life
might live?
"Men and women in whose hands lies the fate of my client, it is on that
plea--on that plea alone--on the plea that the life she took was a life
already forfeit--that I ask you to set her free. Were I in France, were
I in America, I might plead the unwritten law. I do not plead it. By the
written statutes of England; by every precedent of British justice; by
the written law and by the written law alone; by that inalienable right
which every citizen of this country possesses, the right to kill in
another's defense, I ask you by your verdict to-day to manumit Lucy
Towers of all and every penalty, to let her go free from this court, to
acquit her at the hands of her fellow-men--as I, her advocate, am
convinced that she stands acquitted at the hands of God."
4
To Ronald Cavendish, the actual world--the judge, the jury, the
spectators, the motionless woman in the dock--were still blurred, a blur
of many faces. He knew only that he had made his effort; that he was
still on his feet; that he was tottering on his feet. His hands still
gripped the lapels of his robe. He could feel the sweat of his hands as
they gripped the black stuff; feel the sweat pouring down his body. He
knew that his body was twitching; twitching in every nerve. But his