The trail of the serpent
his advocate, and at which the prisoner staked his life.
There was but one opinion in that vast assemblage; and that was, that
the accused would lose in this dreadful game, and that he well deserved
to lose.
There had been betting in Slopperton on the result of this awful
hazard. For the theory of chances is to certain minds so delightful,
that the range of subjects for a wager may ascend from a maggot-race
to a trial for murder. Some adventurous spirits had taken desperate
odds against the outsider “Acquittal;” and many enterprising gentlemen
had made what they considered “good books,” by putting heavy sums on
the decided favourite, “Found Guilty.” As, however, there might be a
commutation of the sentence of death to transportation for life, some
speculators had bet upon the chance of the prisoner being found guilty,
but not executed; or, as it had been forcibly expressed, had backed
“Penal Servitude” against “Gallows.”
So there were private interests, as well as a public interest, among
that swelling ocean of men and women; and Richard had but very few
backers in the great and terrible game that was being played.
In a corner of the gallery of the court, high up over the heads of the
multitude, there was a little spot railed off from the public, and
accessible only to the officials, or persons introduced by them. Here,
among two or three policemen, stood our friend Mr. Joseph Peters, with
his mouth very much on one side, and his eyes fixed intently upon the
prisoner at the bar. The gallery in which he stood faced the dock,
though at a great distance from it.
If there was one man in that vast assembly who, next to the prisoner,
was most wretched, that man was the prisoner’s counsel. He was young,
and this was only his third or fourth brief; and this was, moreover,
the first occasion upon which he had ever been intrusted with an
important case. He was an intensely nervous and excitable man,
and failure would be to him worse than death; and he felt failure
inevitable. He had not one inch of ground for the defence; and, in
spite of the prisoner’s repeated protestations of his innocence, he
believed that prisoner to be guilty. He was an earnest man; and this
belief damped his earnestness. He was a conscientious man; and he felt
that to defend Richard Marwood was something like a dishonest action.
The prisoner pleaded “Not guilty” in a firm voice. We read of this
whenever we read of the trial of a great criminal; we read of the
firm voice, the calm demeanour, the composed face, and the dignified
bearing; and we wonder. Would it not be more wonderful were it
otherwise? If we consider the pitch to which that man’s feelings have
been wrought; the tension of every nerve; the exertion of every force,
mental and physical, to meet those five or six desperate hours, we
wonder no longer. The man’s life has become a terrible drama, and he
is playing his great act. That mass of pale and watchful faces carries
him through the long agony. Or perhaps it is less an agony than an
excitement. It may be that his mind is mercifully darkened, and that
he cannot see beyond the awful present into the more awful future. He
is not busy with the vision of a ghastly structure of wood and iron;
a dangling rope swinging loose in the chill morning air, till it is
tightened and strained by a quivering and palpitating figure, which so
soon grows rigid. He does not, it is to be hoped, see this. Life for
him to-day stands still, and there is not room in his breast--absorbed
with the one anxious desire to preserve a proud and steady outward
seeming--for a thought of that dreadful future which may be so close at
hand.
So, Richard Marwood, in an unfaltering voice, pleaded “Not guilty.”
There was among that vast crowd but one person who believed him.
Ay, Richard Marwood, thou mightest reverence those dirty hands, for
they have spelt out the only language, except that of thy wretched
mother, that ever spoke conviction of thy innocence.
Now the prisoner, though firm and collected in his manner spoke in
so low and subdued a voice as to be only clearly audible to those
near him. It happened that the judge, one of the celebrities of the
bench, was afflicted with a trifling infirmity, which he would never
condescend to acknowledge. That infirmity was partial deafness. He was
what is called hard of hearing on one side, and his--to use a common
expression--_game_ ear happened to be nearest Richard.
“Guilty,” said the judge. “So, so--Guilty. Very good.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” said the counsel for the defence, “the prisoner
pleaded _not_ guilty.”
“Nonsense, sir. Do you suppose me deaf?” asked his lordship; at which
there was a aught titter among the habitués of the court.
The barrister gave his head a deprecatory shake. Of course, a gentleman
in his lordship’s position could not be deaf.
“Very well, then,” said the judge, “unless I am deaf, the prisoner
pleaded guilty. I heard him, sir, with my own ears--my own ears.”
The barrister thought his lordship should have said “my own ear,” as
the _game_ organ ought not to count.
“Perhaps,” said the judge, “perhaps the prisoner will be good enough to
repeat his plea; and this time he will be good enough to speak out.”
“Not guilty,” said Richard again, in a firm but not a loud voice--his
long imprisonment, with days, weeks, and months of slow agony, had
so exhausted his physical powers, that to speak at all, under such
circumstances, was an effort.
“Not guilty?” said the judge. “Why, the man doesn’t know his own mind.
The man must be a born idiot--he can’t be right in his intellect.”
Scarcely had the words passed his lordship’s lips, when a long low
whistle resounded through the court.
Everybody looked up towards a corner of the gallery from which the
sound came, and the officials cried “Order!”
Among the rest the prisoner raised his eyes, and looking to the
spot from which this unexampled and daring interruption proceeded,
recognized the face of the man who had spelt out the words “Not
guilty” in the railway carriage. Their eyes met: and the man signalled
to Richard to watch his hands, whilst with his fingers he spelt out
several words slowly and deliberately.
This occurred during the pause caused by the endeavours of the
officials to discover what contumacious person had dared to whistle at
the close of his lordship’s remark.
The counsel for the prosecution stated the case--a very clear case it
seemed too--against Richard Marwood.
“Here,” said the barrister, “is the case of a young man, who, after
squandering a fortune, and getting deeply in debt in his native town,
leaves that town, as it is thought by all, never to return. For seven
years he does not return. His widowed and lonely mother awaits in
anguish for any tidings of this heartless reprobate; but, for seven
long years, by not so much as one line or one word, sent through any
channel whatever, does he attempt to relieve her anxiety. His townsmen
believe him to be dead; his mother believes him to be dead; and it is
to be presumed from his conduct that he wishes to be lost sight of by
all to whom he once was dear. But at the end of this seven years, his
uncle, his mother’s only brother, a man of large fortune, returns from
India and takes up his temporary abode at the Black Mill. Of course
all Slopperton knows of the arrival of this gentleman, and knows also
the extent of his wealth. We are always interested in rich people,
gentlemen of the jury. Now, it is not very difficult to imagine, that
through some channel or other the prisoner at the bar was made aware of
his uncle’s return, and his residence at the Black Mill. The fact was
mentioned in every one of the five enterprising journals which are the
pride of Slopperton. The prisoner may have seen one of these journals;
he may have had some former boon companion resident in Slopperton, with
whom he may have been in correspondence. Be that as it may, gentlemen,
on the eighth night after Mr. Montague Harding’s arrival, the prisoner
at the bar appears, after seven years’ absence, with a long face and a
penitent story, to beg his mother’s forgiveness. Gentlemen, we know the
boundless power of maternal love; the inexhaustible depth of affection
in a mother’s breast. His mother forgave him. The fatted calf was
killed; the returned wanderer was welcomed to the home he had rendered
desolate; the past was wiped out; and seven long years of neglect and
desertion were forgotten. The family retired to rest. That night,
gentlemen, a murder was committed of a deeper and darker dye than guilt
ordinarily wears: a murder which in centuries hence will stand amongst
the blackest chapters in the gloomy annals of crime. Under the roof
whose shelter he had sought for the repose of his old age, Montague
Harding was cruelly and brutally murdered.
“Now, gentlemen, who committed this outrage? Who was the monster in
human form that perpetrated this villanous, cowardly, and bloodthirsty
deed? Suspicion, gentlemen of the jury, only points to one man; and
to that man suspicion points with so unerring a finger, that the
criminal stands revealed in the broad glare of detected guilt. That
man is the prisoner at the bar. On the discovery of the murder, the
returned wanderer, the penitent and dutiful son, was of course sought
for. But was he to be found? No, gentlemen. The bird had flown. The
affectionate son, who, after seven years’ desertion, had returned to
his mother’s feet--as it was of course presumed never again to leave
her--had departed, secretly, in the dead of the night; choosing to
sneak out of a window like a burglar, rather than to leave by the door,
as the legitimate master of the house. Suspicion at once points to him;
he is sought and found--where, gentlemen? Forty miles from the scene
of the murder, with the money rifled from the cabinet of the murdered
man in his possession, and with his coat-sleeve stained by the blood
of his victim. These, gentlemen, are, in brief, the circumstances of
this harrowing case; and I think you will agree with me that never did
circumstantial evidence so clearly point out the true criminal. I
shall now proceed to call the witnesses for the crown.”
There was a pause and a little bustle in the court, the waves of the
human sea were agitated for a moment. The backers of the favourites,
“Guilty” and “Gallows,” felt they had made safe books. During this
pause, a man pushed his way through the crowd, up to the spot where the
prisoner’s counsel was seated, and put a little dirty slip of paper
into his hand. There was written on it only one word, a word of three
letters. The counsel read it, and then tore the slip of paper into the
smallest atoms it was possible to reduce it to, and threw the fragments
on the floor at his feet; but a warm flush mounted to his face,
hitherto so pale, and he prepared himself to watch the evidence.
Richard Marwood, who knew the strength of the evidence against him,
and knew his powerlessness to controvert it, had listened to its
recapitulation with the preoccupied air of a man whom the proceedings
of the day in no way concerned. His abstracted manner had been noticed
by the spectators, and much commented upon.
It was singular, but at this most important crisis it appeared as if
his chief attention was attracted by Joseph Peters, for he kept his
eyes intently fixed upon the corner where that individual stood. The
eyes of the people, following the direction of Richard’s eyes, saw
nothing but a little group of officials leaning over a corner of the
gallery.
The crowd did not see what Richard saw, namely, the fingers of Mr.
Peters slowly shaping seven letters--two words--four letters in the
first word, and three letters in the second.