Chapter Forty Seven.
In which our Hero proves Game to the very Last.
Mary returned to Exeter. The trial of our hero was expected to come on on the following day. She preferred being with Joey to witnessing the agony and distress of Mrs Austin, to whom she could offer no comfort; indeed, her own state of suspense was so wearing, that she almost felt relief when the day of trial came on. Mr Trevor had once more attempted to reason with Joey, but our hero continued firm in his resolution, and Mr Trevor, when he made his appearance in the court, wore upon his countenance the marks of sorrow and discontent; he did not, nevertheless, fail in his duty. Joey was brought to the bar, and his appearance was so different from that which was to be expected in one charged with the crime of murder, that strong interest was immediately excited; the spectators anticipated a low-bred ruffian, and they beheld a fair, handsome young man, with an open brow and intelligent countenance, whose eye quailed not when it met their own, and whose demeanour was bold without being offensive. True that there were traces of sorrow on his countenance, and that his cheeks were pale; but no one who had any knowledge of human nature, or any feeling of charity in his disposition, could say that there was the least appearance of guilt. The jury were empannelled, the counts of the indictment read over, and the trial commenced, and, as the indictment was preferred, the judge caught the date of the supposed offence.
“What is the date?” said the judge; “the year, I mean?”
Upon the reply of the clerk, his lordship observed, “Eight years ago!” and then looking at the prisoner, added, “Why, he must have been a child.”
“As is too often the case,” replied the prosecuting counsel; “a child in years, but not in guilt, as we shall soon bring evidence to substantiate.”
As the evidence brought forward was the same, as we have already mentioned, as given on the inquest over the body, we shall pass it over; that of Furness, as he was not to be found, was read to the court. As the trial proceeded, and as each fact came forth more condemning, people began to look with less compassion on the prisoner: they shook their heads, and compressed their lips.
As soon as the evidence for the Crown was closed, Mr Trevor rose in our hero’s defence. He commenced by ridiculing the idea of trying a mere child upon so grave a charge, for a child the prisoner must have been at the time the offence was committed. “Look at him now, gentlemen of the jury; eight years ago the murder of the pedlar, Byres, took place; why, you may judge for yourselves whether he is now more than seventeen years of age; he could scarcely have held a gun at the time referred to.”
“The prisoner’s age does not appear in the indictment,” observed the judge.
“May we ask his age, my lord?” demanded one of the jury.
“The prisoner may answer the question if he pleases,” replied the judge, “not otherwise; perhaps he may not yet be seventeen years, of age. Do you wish to state your age to the jury, prisoner?”
“I have no objection, my lord,” replied Joey, not regarding the shakes of the head of his counsel: “I was twenty-two last month.”
Mr Trevor bit his lips at this unfortunate regard for truth in our hero, and, after a time, proceeded, observing that the very candour of the prisoner, in not taking advantage of his youthful appearance to deceive the jury, ought to be a strong argument in his favour. Mr Trevor then continued to address the jury upon the vagueness of the evidence, and, as he proceeded, observed—“Now, gentlemen of the jury, if this case had been offered to me to give an opinion upon, I should, without any previous knowledge of the prisoner, have just come to the following conclusion—I should have said (and your intelligence and good sense will, I have no doubt, bear me out in this supposition), that, allowing that the pedlar, Byres, did receive his death by the prisoner’s hand—I say, gentlemen, that allowing such to have been the case, for I deny that it is borne out by the evidence—that it must have been that, at the sudden meeting with the pedlar, when the lad’s conscience told him that what he was doing was wrong, that the gun of the prisoner was discharged unintentionally, and the consequence was fatal; I should then surmise, further, that the prisoner, frightened at the deed which he had unintentionally committed, had absconded upon the first impulse. That, gentlemen I believe to be the real state of the case; and what was more natural than that a child under such circumstances should have been frightened, and have attempted to evade the inquiry which must have eventually ensued?”
“You state such to be your opinion, Mr Trevor; do you wish me to infer that the prisoner pleads such as his defence?” asked the judge.
“My lord,” replied Mr Trevor, in a hesitating way, “the prisoner has pleaded not guilty to the crime imputed to him.”
“That I am aware of, but I wish to know whether you mean to say that the prisoner’s defence is, not having anything to do with the death of the pedlar, or upon the plea of his gun going off by accident?”
“My lord, it is my duty to my client to make no admission whatever.”
“I should think that you would be safe enough, all circumstances considered, if you took the latter course,” observed the judge, humanely.
Mr Trevor was now in a dilemma; he knew not how to move. He was fearful, if he stated positively that our hero’s gun went off by accident, that Joey would deny it; and yet if he was permitted to assert this to be the case, he saw, from the bearing of the judge, that the result of the trial would be satisfactory. It hardly need be observed that both judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and everybody in court, were much astonished at this hesitation on the part of the prisoner’s counsel.
“Do you mean to assert that the gun went off by accident, Mr Trevor?” asked the judge.
“I never fired the gun, my lord,” replied Joey, in a calm steady voice.
“The prisoner has answered for me,” replied Mr Trevor, recovering himself; “we are perfectly aware that by making a statement of accidental murder, we could safely have left the prisoner in the hands of an intelligent jury; but the fact is, my lord, that the prisoner never fired the gun, and therefore could not be guilty of the murder imputed to him.”
Mr Trevor had felt, upon our hero’s assertion, that his case was hopeless; he roused up, however, to make a strong appeal to the jury; unfortunately, it was declamation only, not disproof of the charges, and the reply of the prosecuting counsel completely established the guilt of our hero upon what is called presumptive evidence. The jury retired for a few minutes after the summing up of the judge, and then returned a verdict against our hero of Guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Although the time to which we refer was one in which leniency was seldom extended, still there was the youth of our hero, and so much mystery in the transaction, that when the judge passed the sentence, he distinctly stated that the royal mercy would be so far extended, that the sentence would be commuted to transportation. Our hero made no reply; he bowed, and was led back to his place of confinement, and in a few minutes afterwards the arms of the weeping Mary were encircled round his neck.
“You don’t blame me, Mary?” said Joey.
“No, no,” sobbed Mary; “all that the world can do is nothing when we are innocent.”
“I shall soon be far from here, Mary,” said Joey, sitting down on the bedstead; “but, thank Heaven! it is over.”
The form of Emma Phillips rose up in our hero’s imagination, and he covered up his face with his hands.
“Had it not been for her!” thought he. “What must she think of me! a convicted felon! this is the hardest of all to bear up against.”
“Joey,” said Mary, who had watched him in silence and tears, “I must go now; you will see her now, will you not?”
“She never will see me! she despises me already,” replied Joey.
“Your mother despise her noble boy? Oh, never! How can you think so?”
“I was thinking of somebody else, Mary,” replied Joey. “Yes, I wish to see my mother.”
“Then I will go now; recollect what her anxiety and impatience must be. I will travel post to-night, and be there by to-morrow morning.”
“Go, dear Mary, go, and God bless you! hasten to my poor mother, and tell her that I am quite—yes—quite happy and resigned. Go now, quickly.”
Mary left the cell, and Joey, whose heart was breaking at the moment that he said he was happy and resigned, for he was thinking of his eternal separation from Emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he could no longer repress.