Such was the effect now produced upon Roland Cashel. The array of circumstances, so formidably marshalled by his accuser, had completely overwhelmed him; the consciousness of innocence failed to support him against the feeling which he saw spreading like a mist around him. Against the accusation—against its fearful penalty—his own stout heart could sustain him; but how bear up against the contempt and the abhorrence of his fellow-men! Under the crushing weight of this shame he was sinking fast, when a stray glance—a chance expression of interest, like sunlight piercing a dark cloud—gave promise that all was not lost. He felt that there were yet some who wished to believe him guiltless, and that all sympathy for him had not yet died out.
“Does the prisoner desire to avail himself of the privilege he possesses to call witnesses to character?” asked the judge.
“No, my Lord,” said Cashel, firmly, but respectfully. “Since my accession to fortune, my life has been passed for the most part in what is called the 'fashionable world;' and from what I have seen of it, the society does not seem rich in those persons whose commendations, were they to give them, would weigh heavily with your Lordship. Besides, they could say little to my praise, which the learned counsel has not already said to my disparagement,—that I had the command of wealth, and squandered it without taste and without credit.”
Few and insignificant as were these words, the easy and fearless mode of their delivery, the manly energy of him who spoke them, seemed to produce a most favorable impression throughout the court, which as rapidly reacted upon Cashel; for now the embers of hope were fanned, and already glowed into a slight flicker.
“The prisoner having waived his privilege, my Lord,” said the Attorney-General, “I beg to observe that the case is now closed.”
“Is it too late, then, my Lord, for me to address a few words to the jury?” asked Roland, calmly.
“What say you, Mr. Attorney-General?” asked the judge.
“Your Lordship knows far better than I, that to address the Court at this stage of the proceedings, would be to concede the right of reply—and, in fact, of speaking twice; since the prisoner's not having availed himself of the fitting occasion to comment on the evidence, gives him not the slightest pretension to usurp another one.”
“Such is the law of the case,” said the judge, solemnly.
“I have nothing to observe against it, my Lord,” said Cashel. “If I have not availed myself of the privilege accorded to men placed as I am, I must only submit to the penalty my pride has brought upon me,—for it was pride, my Lord. Since that, however, another, and I hope a higher pride has animated me, to vindicate my character and my fame; so that, at some future day—a long future, it may be—when the true facts of this dark mystery shall be brought to light, a more cautious spirit will pervade men's minds as to the guilt of him assailed by circumstantial evidence. It might be, my Lord, that all I could adduce in my own behalf would weigh little against the weight of accusations which even to myself appear terribly consistent. I know, for I feel, how hard it would be to accept the cold unsupported narrative of a prisoner, in which many passages might occur of doubtful probability, some of even less credit, and some again of an obscurity to which even he himself could not afford the clew; and yet, with all these difficulties, enhanced tenfold by my little knowledge of the forms of a court, and my slender capacity, I regret, my Lord, that I am unable to address the few words I had intended to the jury,—less, believe me, to avert the shipwreck that awaits myself, than to be a beacon to some other who may be as solitary and unfriended as I am.”