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White Hood and Blue Cap: A Christmas Bough with Two Branches

Chapter VI

page 40

Chapter VI.

The trial came on. The Grand Jury found a true bill, and Jim, looking more pale and haggard than ever, was placed in the dock. He was unrepresented by counsel, and when called upon to plead he answered, “Not Guilty.” Then he looked around with a weary, listless expression, which suddenly changed when he observed, amongst the multitude who thronged the Court, to “assist” at the performance of the human tragedy about to be enacted—Mary Austin!

He cast one long despairing look on her, and she returned his gaze, with terror and commiseration depicted on her features. He trembled slightly as their eyes met, then drew himself up and betrayed no further sign of weakness. If it must needs be, he would cheerfully encounter a shamèd death for her sake, but why, he asked himself, had she come thither to witness the sacrifice?

The Crown Prosecutor was a man of great forensic ability, and much honesty. He entirely believed that Jim was guilty, and, in consequence, exerted himself to secure a conviction. In his opening speech he detailed with great accuracy and precision all the evidence that had been garnered by Sergeant Corcoran, who had already achieved the coveted “stripe” in reward for his vigilance. The suspicious circumstances, wherewith you have already been made aequainted, were impressively set forth. Then the learned gentleman went on to say:—

“Gentlemen of the Jury, it is my duty to tell you that, in his dying moments, the murdered man made a page 41 statement, not on oath, to the Magistrate, that the prisoner was not the perpetrator of the offence wherewith he is charged. But that statement was made during a brief interval of semi-consciousness, between a period of delirium, and another and subsequent period, when the dying man was in a comatose condition; and it is at least doubtful whether he was sufficiently sensible to understand the effect of the questions then put to him, or of the answers which he gave. But, gentlemen, there is a species of unspoken evidence to which exception cannot be taken. Men and women may, and sometimes do, give untrustworthy and false evidence in a Court of Justice, either from mistake, or, as in some instances from malice—wilfully; but circumstances cannot lie, and I shall put witnesses in the box to prove a circumstance which is, to my mind, conclusive as to the guilt of the prisoner. When the body of George Gifford was being prepared for burial, there was found in his right hand a small strand of white woollen yarn. A small strand, gentlemen—not more than one inch and a half in length—but yet long enough and strong enough to form a noose wherewith to hang the murderer. For, gentlemen, that small piece of wool formed a portion of a peculiar head-dress, termed, I believe, a hood, worn by a young lady, whom I shall also produce, and respecting whom, feelings of rivalry existed between the prisoner and the murdered man. And I shall further bring before you a witness who will be able to give evidence of the fact, that on the morning of the murder, some hours after the discovery of the deed, the accused was seen to deposit, underneath a rock in the vicinity, a white hood, or head-dress, from which is missing just that very strand of yarn that was found in the hand of the murdered man. That hood will be produced before you; and you will find that it is saturated with blood—human blood, as will be shown by the evidence of professional experts, and corresponding with the blood-stains discovered on the shirt and trousers worn by the prisoner on the night when the page 42 crime of which he stands accused was committed. Gentlemen, the issues of life and death are in your hands. God forbid that by any words of mine you should be induced to convict an innocent man; but it seems to me impossible that upon the evidence which I shall bring before you in this case, you can arrive at any other conclusion than that the prisoner at the bar is guilty. I will now call the first witness.”

During the delivery of that portion of the Crown Prosecutor's address which I have quoted, Jim had quite made up his mind as to the course he would pursue. He was willing to give his life for the woman he loved; but that she should appear as a witness against him was more than he could bear. No; she should not add to the guilt already on her soul by committing perjury. He could, and would save her from that. And she looked so innocent all the time! “Good God!” he thought, “are all women like that, I wonder.”

“You needn't trouble to call any witnesses,” he said. “My lord—your Honour, I plead Guilty!”

The Judge—than whom a more humane man never occupied the judicial Bench—expostulated with him thus—“I think, prisoner, you should allow the case to go to the jury.”

“No, your honour: I plead Guilty.”

There was a murmur of dissatisfaction amongst the spectators. They were about to be deprived of the spectacle they had come forth to witness; and they felt as a Roman audience might have done, when gladiators refused to butcher each other, or tigers hesitated to tear the flesh of martyrs. So they turned their thumbs downwards.

“Prisoner,” again remonstrated the Judge, “you are charged with having committed “Wilful Murder,” and there is also a second count against you, charging you with the lesser offence of manslaughter. If you acknowledge the more heinous crime of murder, the penalty is death. But if you had a quarrel with the deceased man, George Gifford, and slew him in the heat page 43 of passion, the law regards such an offence as manslaughter only, and provides that the punishment shall be imprisonment for such a term as may fitly meet the circumstances of the case. I ask you, therefore, to which of these offences do you desire to plead guilty?”

“I don't know,” said Jim, “I plead guilty.”

“Do you know that you are throwing away your life by the course you are taking?”

“I don't know. I plead guilty.”

“Then it is my painful duty to instruct the jury to bring in a verdict accordingly.”

And the jury hastened to obey the instruction. They also had been deprived of the anticipated entertainment of listening to the particulars of this interesting case, and were correspondingly displeased.

There was a commotion in the Court. Mary Austin had fainted, and had to be taken out. When order had been restored, the Judge said:—

“This is a very extraordinary case, and I am inclined to doubt the prisoner's sanity. The verdict of the jury will be recorded; but I shall remand the prisoner for sentence, and meantime I shall cause a medical examination of his mental condition to be made.”

The medical examination” resulted in a colourless report. To all questions Jim obstinately refused answer, sheltering his reticence under the accustomed phrase—“I don't know.” The puzzled medicos could make nothing of “the case.” They reported that the prisoner was “sullen and taciturn,” and hesitated an opinion that he was suffering from mental depression nearly akin to dementia, which might possibly be the result of remorse for the crime he had committed. But on the other hand, they said, the crime might have resulted from dementia. Which was the cause and which the effect they were unable positively to declare.

Then the clergy took him in hand, with an equally profitless outcome. In vain they talked to him of his soul, and painted the terrors of eternal judgment, after page 44 the most approved ecclesiastical fashion. He paid little heed to their exhortations, although seven good men of different denominations offered him the free loan of their own private latch-keys to the gates of Heaven. “I don't know nothing about it, and I don't want to,” said the “hardened sinner,” who was yielding up his life for another. The parsons sighed in concert, and agreed that it was “a most melancholy case;” and being tender of heart and compassionate, they vigorously bestirred themselves to save him from the hangman's knot. Sentence of death had been pronounced, almost as a matter of form; for the learned Judge was himself convinced that there was something unexplained, and he leaned to merey's side. The end of it was, that after Jim had resigned himself to quit this life and all the misery of it, he was respited, and his sentence was commuted to “imprisonment for life,” which meant about eleven years as the prison regulations then stood, providing his conduct was good. Strange to say, he was not at all grateful for the concession. When the gaol chaplain, who had been indefatigable in his exertions on Jim's behalf, communicated the news to him, he turned upon him with more fire than he had ever before shown, and asked—“Why didn't you leave me alone? I don't want to live!” And the horrified chaplain evacuated the cell in despair.

Very different was his demeanour when, later on, in the same day, the doors of the cell were thrown open for the admission of Ned and Mary Austin. This was the most painful trial he had yet been called upon to endure. He did not reason about it. He thought instinctively—‘How cruel women are! Could she not be satisfied without coming to gloat over her victim?—and she looked so fair, and fresh, and innocent!’

Yet the pain was mingled with pleasure. ‘It was good of her,’ was his second thought ‘to come into that gloomy place, and console him with her bright presence and sweet words. She knew, of course, that he was voluntarily suffering the penalty which, by right, she page 45 should herself have suffered. And she wanted to show her sympathy with him—her gratitude to him. Yes; that was it.’

“It is very kind of you, Miss Mary,” he said.

Ah! the rainbow ever spans the sky, let the tempest rage as it will.

Brief was the time allowed for the interview; and, after the first salutation, Ned considerately withdrew, leaving his sister alone with Jim.

“Dear old Jim!”—said the girl, and she knelt before him, as he sat on the bed of his wretched pallet.—“Why did you do it?”

He looked down into the blue depths of her lustrous eyes, which met his own unshrinkingly, and wondered with exceeding wonder how so much guile could be harboured in that frail fair form. His lips twitched convulsively, but for a time he was unable to utter a word. At last he cried out—“Oh, Mary! because I love you.” And further speech was drowned in convulsive sobs.

She tried to check this burst of anguish—to stay those tears which came from the heart, through the medium of the eyes. She held him in her arms, and kissed him tenderly; and in that supreme moment, spurning the conventional usages of civilized hypocrisy, she confessed—

“And I love you, Jim. I always did love you. I never thought to say so, but I cannot help it. Oh! my love,—my life! How could you do such a thing?”

You see, these two were playing at cross purposes.

When Mary asked—‘Why did you do it?’ she meant—‘Why did you shoot him?’ But Jim, being fully persuaded of her guilt, understood her to mean—‘Why did you plead guilty, being innocent?’

Prison rules are pitiless. Had these two only been allowed five minutes' further intercourse, the mischief afterwards wrought would probably have been avoided. But the heavy key of the warder harshly grated in the Jock; and Mary, drying her eyes as best she could, was page 46 compelled to quit the cell, leaving Jim in a state of glorified bewilderment. What cared he that she had committed the crime which it had fallen to his lot to expiate? What was it to him even that her hand were blood-stained? “She loves me! was his one exultant thought. And in the presence of that thought, her great offence was condoned, and the record obliterated. From that hour his demeanour changed, his sulleness ceased, and he became cheerful. He was uplifted and ennobled by the knowledge of his loved one's love.

So Jim Trevanna wore the felon's garb and wrought on Bell Hill with other convicts;—“among the faithless, faithful only he.” And Mary went back to the Terrace with her brother Ned.

At the worst it was only eleven years' servitude. Eleven of the best years of his life it is true; but he rejoiced in the thought that it was for the sake of Mary, and bore his punishment bravely.

“For her sake!”—he said to himself every morning, as he went forth to his toil. “For her sake!”—he repeated every night, as he cast his weary form on his pallet.