Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 8

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Your hearts divest of all vindictiveness,

And banish pleading pity from your breasts;

Then shall your free, unbiased minds be blank,

Unsullied tablets, on whose virgin white

Dark-hinting prejudice, or weak compassion,

Has writ no guiding notes; and so your verdict

Shall be as truth may find.

—(From Judges summing up in author's MS. drama "Constance.")

The surprise in York at the announcement that a college student preparing for the church had been arrested for forgery was intense; and the report caused a profound sensation among the prisoner's immediate friends. Now was the time to discover of what metal they were formed. Some few, among whom was George Darrell, remained firm in their belief in his innocence; but the majority shook their heads doubtfully, and stood aloof till the sunshine of prosperity should again smile upon him. Public opinion was against the prisoner. With its usual inconsistence, the populace jumped at the conclusion that the word of Gregson and the landlord of the Weavers' Arms was incontestible proof of guilt. But it was at home that the blow fell heaviest. Words are powerless to describe the consternation and anguish that shrouded the prisoner's family. Ten years at least seemed to have been added to the age of Dr. Sinclair. He had hitherto been remarkably erect, but now he stooped like a decrepit old man, and seemed scarcely to have strength to move about. His wife was thrown upon a sick bed, and lay dangerously ill. Miss Egerton's grief was no less acute; but, through her aunt's illness, the management of the house devolved upon her, and she had no time for demonstrative sorrow.

As Dr. Sinclair predicted, Percy was committed by the magistrates to stand his trial at the ensuing York Assizes; and as the sittings were so near, bail was refused. Dr. Sinclair succeeded in retaining Mr. Granville Dudley, the special pleader, and that gentleman returned with him from London. The time intervening between the committal and the day of trial was occupied by the counsel in the arduous task of studying the case and preparing the defence. The evidence against the prisoner was only circumstantial, and it had many weak points; but it was strong enough to convict him, unless the links could be broken; and Mr. Granville Dudley had a task before him worthy of his great reputation, and demanding his best efforts.

At length the day of trial arrived. It was beautifully clear and bright, and a striking contrast to the sad feelings of many who had those near and dear to them waiting to be arraigned for crimes of which, alas, too many were guilty. But not even guilt is able to sever the golden links of affection; and many a heart ached with hopeless dread as the hours drew on for the motley crowd of prisoners to be tried—those hearts aching the most that were only too well assured of the guilt of their friends. The uncouth savage, apprehended in the act of robbery with violence, was loved as devotedly, and mourned for as sincerely, by his ill-used wife and little ones, as was the gentlemanly bank clerk, charged with embezzlement. Is is only in adversity so great that the full strength of home ties can be realized.

The excitement caused by the trial of Mr. Percy Sinclair was so intense that, hours before the court opened, the streets adjacent were thronged with an eager crowd, anxious to secure seats. When the doors were thrown open, the police had much difficulty in checking the rush; and before a third had obtained entrance, the court was crowded to suffocation!

Mrs. Sinclair was still confined to her room, and Miss Egerton had to remain with her, so that neither were in court; but Dr. Sinclair was present. A sad wreck the trouble of the last few weeks had made of him! As he entered the court by a private door, he passed his son's friend, Mr. George Darrell, who whispered, 'Whatever be the result of to-day, I, for one, will never believe him guilty!' With a grateful pressure of the hand, the old gentleman passed on, his heart too full of grief for words, and took his seat beside the counsel for his son. A case that had been postponed from the previous day was on for consideration, before the one could be heard that had so aroused the public interest. The people in court sat out the hour it occupied with ill-concealed impatience. At last the case was disposed of by the burglar being convicted and sentenced to fifteen years penal servitude; and the next (Rex versus Sinclair) was called.

The low buzz of impatience ceased instantly; and in breathless silence the crowd waited the appearance of "the forger," as the foregone decision of public opinion had already designated the prisoner. Beyond the circle of his immediate friends, few held the hapless Percy innocent.

The prisoner entered the court escorted by two policemen, and took his place in the dock. He was very pale; and on his careworn features, were traces of intense mental suffering—evidences of guilt thought the prejudised crowd—but there was an air of calm resignation about him that seemed strangely at variance with his position. He stood proudly erect, and glanced round the court for a moment, as if anxious to discover his friends among the throng; and a hum of sympathy arose from the excited crowd. Though convinced of his guilt, had the crowd possessed the power of deciding the verdict, it would have acquitted him to a man. Yet no! In a front seat sat one who, had he been judge or jury, would have condemned even to the death. He was there to watch the progress of his vile plot, and gloat over the misery he was causing. Before him sat the grief-stricken father of the prisoner, breaking visibly under his load of sorrow. He regarded him for a moment with a curious glance, much as a surgeon experimenting in vivisection might have observed the symptoms of his subject. Then he turned his attention to the prisoner, and meeting his gaze, gave him a glance of unquenchable hate, and vindictive, triumph. "Ah," he muttered, "None may thwart my wishes, without being crushed out of my path! Bitterly shall you rue the day you interfered between me and Anne Egerton!"

How any human heart could thus glory in misery of its own making, is a problem in ethics that would puzzle a Plato.

The prisoner saw his father sitting near his counsel, but the old gentleman never raised his head. He sat gazing vacantly upon the heap of papers upon the table. He could not have borne up, had be met his son's eyes.

The Crown Prosecutor opened the case by briefly explaining the nature of the charge. He accused the prisoner with forging and uttering the cheque before the court, with intent to defraud Sir George Greville, of Farleigh Hall, of the sum of fifty pounds. He would not detain the jury with a long address, as the evidence was so simple and conclusive. In support of the charge, he would call witnesses to prove, first, that the cheque was a forgery, and secondly, that the prisoner paid it to one of the witnesses for a horse. The prisoner, then, would have the onus probandi of accounting for its possession; and, if he could not do so to the satisfaction of the jury, a verdict of "guilty" must be found.

Sir John Greville was the first witness called. He gave his evidence very reluctantly; for he was one of the few who refused to believe the prisoner guilty, whatever proof might be brought against him. But, on being pressed, he was compelled to swear that the signature was a forgery.

The prisoner's counsel had nothing to ask this witness, so he was sent down. The next witness called was Mr. Darby Gregson. No difficulty for the crown prosecutor here. The witness very readily described the sale of the horse, and gave his version of the settlement at the Weaver's Arms. In examining him, the crown prosecutor laid great stress upon the date of sale, and amount of purchase money corresponding exactly with the forged cheque. When Sir Thomas Beaumont finished questioning Darby Gregson, the witness turned to retire. Mr. Granville Dudley was on his feet in a moment. 'Stay a minute, Mr. Gregson! I have a question or two to ask, if you have no objection.'

Darby looked as if he had a very decided objection; but he returned to the box.

'Who was in the room, when the prisoner paid you this cheque?' the advocate asked.

'No one, only my mate Bow!' answered the witness.

'No one else then could have seen the prisoner hand you the cheque?'

'No! But Dora Hudson, the barmaid, came in just after; and she saw that he did give it to me,' replied Darby.

'No one, then, but yourself and your mate, saw the cheque in the prisoner's possession?'

'I don't know who saw it,' said the witness, sulkily. He did not like the line of questioning.

'Will you swear that anyone else did see the cheque in prisoner's possession?' asked Mr. Dudley, looking narrowly at the witness.

Darby Gregson hesitated a moment; but, feeling it scarcely safe to swear falsely just here, replied, 'No; I won't say that anyone did!'

'Were you ever in Cambridge?'

Darby hesitated again. It was not a question he wished to answer.

'You are on oath, recollect. The truth, mind! We can easily find you out, if you prevaricate,' said Mr. Dudley, sternly. 'Where you ever in Cambridge?'

'Yes!'

'How many times have you been there?'

'I don't know.'

'A dozen times, do you think?'

'No!'

'Half-a-dozen, then?'

'I can't say. P'r'aps I was.'

'That will do, Mr. Gregson. You may go down now,' Mr. Dudley said, as he resumed his seat, and made some notes.

Darby Gregson exchanged a triumphant glance with Mr. Clayton, and left the witness-box. He was glad the ordeal of cross-questioning was over, as he was fearful of contradicting himself.

The next witness-called was Bow. He shuffled into the witness-box in a state of great excitement, and glanced round the court with a frightened look, as if seeking for protection. Hubert Clayton caught his eye with a significant glance of warning. It seemed to bring him to himself at once; and his answers to the crown prosecutor's leading questions strengthened the evidence Darby Gregson had just given. Mr. Clayton smiled with satisfaction, as he heard Bow dismissed by the prosecuting counsel. Bow was the one weak point in his villainous scheme; but his restless eyes glittered with anger, as Mr. Granville Dudley rose, and politely requested the witness to remain.

'In what street was this horse-selling business transacted?' he asked, looking steadily at Bow.

'In Oxford-street,' the witness answered, trembling. He had just caught a glimpse of the prisoner's pale face, and, longed to tell of the foul conspiracy; but a warning-glance from the arch-villain restrained him, and in his confusion he scarcely knew what he was saying.

'At the Brown Bear Inn?' Mr. Dudley asked.

'No, sir. We was in the parlour of the Black Diamond Tavern.'

'Or the Weavers' Arms?'

'Yes, it was at the Weavers' Arms?'

'In what street did you say?' again asked the counsel for the defence. He saw the witness's confusion, and determined to make the most of it.

'Harper's Lane,' answered Bow.

'Are you sure it was Harper's Lane?'

'Yes; it—it—it was Oxford Lane,' stammered Bow.

'As you are so clear upon the locality, perhaps you can tell me the time this business took place?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well, then. What o'clock was it?'

'Just after breakfast, sir.'

'Yes, yes! But I wish to know the hour,' said Mr. Dudley.

'It, it was nearly two o'clock.'

'Two o'clock? How do you know it was two o'clock?'

'Cause Darby wanted to get to roost early.'

'O, indeed! Well, was it daylight or lamplight?'

Bow was completely confused. 'There was no lamps, only candles,' he said, helplessly.

'Had you had dinner at the time the prisoner settled for the horse.'

'No, sir; it was only just after breakfast.'

'And the lamps were burning?'

'No; there was only candles.'

'Very good!' Mr. Dudley said, as he jotted down some notes. 'Did you see the prisoner writing upon this cheque?'

'No sir.'

'Did you see it in his possession at all?'

'Yes! No! I went to ask for the paper. You did not see the forgery committed then?'

'No, sir.'

'Are you sure?'

'No sir.'

'That will do, Mr. Bow. You may go down now,' the lawyer said, resuming his seat. A satisfied smile about his lips showed that he was pleased with the result of the examination. As the witness tottered out of the box, Mr. Clayton gave him a glance that made his blood run cold—a glance full of relentless hate, which said plainly enough that Bow's life would be worth but little when Clayton should meet him alone.

Several other witnesses were called; but they only proved the sale of the horse, and that they saw the cheque in Darby Gregson's hands. These the prisoner's counsel declined to question. The examination of witnesses for the crown was concluded in about two hours. No witnesses for the defence were called, beyond a professor from Cambridge, who gave testimony to the prisoner's exemplary conduct at college, as the evidence for the crown was of a nature not to be rebutted by conflicting proof. The crowd in court, who had been wavering in their decision every five minutes during the examination, now settled themselves down to listen as the celebrated special pleader rose to address the jury.

Mr. Granville Dudley rose, and glancing anxiously at the prisoner, commenced his address.

'My Lord, and gentlemen of the jury—During the period that I have had the honour of practising in the law courts of my country, I have defended prisoners charged with every shade of guilt—from the revolting crime of infanticide, to the lesser but serious offence of burglary; but never before did I approach a case in which I was so firmly convinced of the innocence of the accused, or so doubtful of my ability to establish it. I am deeply impressed with the magnitude of the responsibility I have undertaken; for, should I fail, an innocent man must be convicted and condemned. I charge you, then, to throw aside whatever opinion you may have formed upon this case before entering these walls, and to follow me attentively, and without prejudice, while I go through the evidence against the prisoner at the bar, and demonstrate to you the possibility of his innocence. If I prove that this evidence is not inconsistent with the innocence of the accused, you are bound, as you respect your oaths, to give him the benefit of the doubt, and a verdict of acquittal. If there be the least possibility of the prisoner being guiltless, and you convict him, you yourselves will be committing the great—the awful crime of condemning a possibly innocent man! I admit that the cheque before the court is a forgery; but I deny that the prisoner either forged or uttered it. The evidence that would fasten the crime upon him is wholly presumptive—with the single exception of the testimony of Gregson; and you could not convict the prisoner upon the evidence of a man who has, according to the records of this court, been far oftener in the dock than the witness-box. And then this presumptive evidence tells as pointedly against the witness Gregson as it does against the prisoner. I do not charge Gregson with the crime, nor insinuate that he is in any way connected with it, though I have my own thoughts upon the subject; but if I show you that this evidence implicates the one as much as the other, you cannot reconcile your oaths with a verdict of "guilty" against the prisoner! In examining the witnesses, my learned friend laid much weight upon the fact of the prisoner, during his college terms, residing in the vicinity of Sir John Grenville, where, he presumed, the prisoner would have many opportunities of studying Sir John's signature. Now, the witness Gregson has had the same opportunities. He admits having visited Cambridge at least half a dozen times; and the cashier of the Bank of York has proved that, even here, in the witness's regular place of abode, specimens of Sir John's signature float about as negotiable paper. Thus far the presumptive evidence is as applicable to Gregson as the prisoner. Then, the forged cheque being dated on the day the prisoner purchased the horse, and its being filled in with the exact amount of the sale, appears to tell seriously against the prisoner. But here, again, it points as unerringly to the witness. Gregson swears the prisoner wrote upon the cheque, and then handed it to him in liquidation of the purchase-money. But his evidence here is totally unsupported; and I wish you to observe that it would have been possible for this witness to have pocketed the cash the prisoner paid him, and as soon as he had gone, to have entered the date and amount into a previously-forged cheque, for the purpose of defrauding his mate. The only witness whose testimony in any measure corroborates Gregson's in the matter of the forgery is the man Bow; and you must all have observed the strange hesitation with which he gave his evidence. He contradicted himself repeatedly; and, I ask you, did he not look like a man committing perjury for the first time? You can never find a verdict upon the evidence of a man who at one moment swears it was at two o'clock in the morning the forgery was committed, and the next that it was directly after breakfast—who cannot say, with certainty, whether it was by lamplight or daylight, whether it was in the Black Diamond Tavern or the Weaver's Arms—whether it was in Oxford-street or Harper's Lane! It was evident he had but half learnt his lesson. The evidence of the other witnesses for the Crown only proves that the forged cheque was in Gregson's possession, and, consequently, whatever weight may be attached to it, tells exclusively against him. No witnesses have been called for the defence, excepting Professor Harwick; as, under the peculiar circumstances of this case, heaven alone can prove the prisoner's innocence. But you have had his whole life before you; and Professor Harwick's testimony of his blameless and exemplary conduct at the university is borne out by your experience of him from boyhood here at York. I challenge your whole community to point out a single instance in which he ever did anything mean or dishonorable! And can any suppose that in the utter absence of motive, he could change so completely as to commit this crime. If he had been in debt, or was living in luxurious debauchery, such a crime might have been possible; but while living within his quarterly allowance, and knowing that to ask for extra money was to receive it; can any be so absurdly credulous as to believe that he could have been mad enough to risk punishment and disgrace for the purpose of indulging in what, in his instance, would have been as unnecessary as hazardous a crime. And now, gentlemen of the jury—if you are positive the evidence against the accused demonstrates the impossibility of any one else having forged this cheque; if you are certain that the prisoner, and no other, is guilty, you must, of necessity, convict him. But, if the merest shadow of a doubt is upon your minds; if you would hesitate for one moment to stake your salvation upon the truth of the prisoner's guilt—as you value your happiness in this world and the next—as you would yourselves be preserved from the most appalling of all calamities, an unjust conviction—you must acquit the prisoner! Look round upon this venerable gentleman, the father of the prisoner, who has lived a life of usefulness among you, and who is now fast breaking under the load of sorrow and disgrace, that this false charge against his only son has brought upon him. As you must meet Him before the bar of heaven, to answer for your verdict of to-day, be careful you do nothing that shall there condemn you for being unrighteous judges here. Think of the once happy home, now the abode of grief; where sorrowing mother and sisters are awaiting your decision in the anguish of suspense. Your verdict shall dispel the cloud of trouble that now enshrouds it, and light up with joy the sorrowing feature of the loved ones at home; or it shall cast the withering blight of disgrace, misery, and despair upon their hearts for ever! And think of yourselves. If you condemn the guilty, you perform your duty well. But, if you condemn the innocent, beware! "With whatever measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again."'

The secret of true eloquence lies not so much in what is said, as in the manner of saying it; and though, perhaps, there was nothing particularly affecting in Mr. Granville Dudley's address to the jury, of which the above is but an outline; yet the tone of thorough conviction and earnestness with which he pleaded, and his touching appeal on behalf of the prisoner's friends, won over the vacillating crowd; and, as he sat down there was scarcely a dry eye in the body of the court. After a silence of a few seconds, the Crown prosecutor rose, and replied at some length to the speech of the prisoner's counsel. He urged upon the jury the danger of being carried away by an appeal to their feelings, and charged them to view the evidence before them dispassionately. It was no concern of theirs what the result of the verdict might be; They were bound by their oaths to find a verdict upon evidence alone. The cheque had been traced to the prisoner, and he had not accounted for its possession, and the natural conclusion followed that he was guilty. Certainly, no one had seen the prisoner forge the cheque (what man would be idiot enough to admit witnesses to such a crime?) and no one had actually observed the prisoner place the cheque in Gregson's hand—he was too wary for that; but ample evidence had been adduced to establish, beyond a doubt, the fact of Gregson's receiving it from the prisoner. It is a wise provision of our criminal code, that the guilty shall not escape through their cunning in avoiding eye-witnesses to their crimes. If the evidence brings the crime to the door of the accused, and he fails to rebut it, he must be regarded as guilty. This crime has been brought to the door of the prisoner: he had so failed, and they must perform their painful, but imperative duty. He (Sir Thomas Beaumont) could not resume his seat without expressing his entire disapprobation of the treatment the witness Gregson had received from his learned friend. To establish the prisoner's innocence, not to attempt to shuffle the charge upon another, was the duty of the counsel for the defence.'

The crowd, always unstable as water, was again undecided in its opinions. The words ringing in its ears altogether effaced the effect of Mr. Granville Dudley's address, and "guilty" or "not guilty" was a problem that sorely puzzled it.

The judge briefly summed up, and concluded his charge to the jury with the usual caution to give the prisoner the benefit of any doubts it might entertain, and the jury retired to deliberate upon its verdict.

The two betting men, who had spoken to Darby Gregson at the Weaver's Arms, on the eventful morning, were among the crowd on the benches, and they soon made a book by offering to give three to one on "Conviction," and to take four to one on "Acquittal." Hubert Clayton laid no wager; but while waiting for the jury to return, he registered a vow to wreak a terrible vengeance upon the unfortunate Bow, if the prisoner should escape from his plot.

Who shall describe the agony of suspense endured by the venerable mourner at the table, or his anxious son in the dock, as they waited for the jury to return with its verdict.

After an absence of nearly a quarter of an hour (which appeared, to those most deeply concerned, a quarter of a century), the jury returned into court. Again the buzz of impatient expectation ceased, and the oppressive silence that followed was broken by the official voice of the clerk of arraigns, as he asked in a monotone, 'Gentlemen of the jury—How find you the prisoner, "guilty", or "not guilty"?'

'Guilty! with a strong recommendation to mercy!'

To the plotter, exultation; to the victim, despair!