Autumnal leaves: tales and sketches in prose and rhyme

by Lydia Maria Child

Such was their mutual product of character, when Mr. Barker was summoned to a jury, in a case involving life or death. He was vexed to be called away from his employments, and had never reflected at all upon the fearful responsibility of a juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a very young man, and his open, honest countenance gave no indication of capacity for crime; but he was accused of murder, and circumstantial evidence was strong against him. It was proved that a previous quarrel had existed between him and the murdered man; and that they had been seen to take the same road, the prisoner in a state of intoxication, the night the violent deed was committed. Most people thought there was no doubt of his guilt; others deemed the case by no means certain. Two of the jury were reluctant to convict him, and wished to find the evidence insufficient; the penalty was so dreadful, and their feelings were so much touched by the settled misery of his youthful countenance. Others talked sternly of justice, and urged that the Scripture demanded blood for blood. Of this number was Peter Barker. From the beginning, he was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded for him had once been employed in a law-suit against Mr. Barker, and had gained the cause for his client. The juryman cherished a grudge against him for his sarcastic eloquence on that occasion. Moreover, it so happened that neighbour Goodwin, who years ago had reproved his severity to the horse, took compassionate interest in the accused. He often consulted with his lawyer, and seemed to watch the countenances of the jury anxiously. It was a busy season of the year, and the jury were impatient to be at their workshops and farms. Mr. Barker would not have admitted it, even to himself, but all these circumstances helped to increase his hardness against the prisoner. By such inconceivably slight motives is the conduct of men often swayed on the most important occasions.

“If the poor young fellow really did commit the act,” said one of the jury, “it seems likely that he did it in a state of intoxication. I was once drunk myself; and they told me afterward that I had quarrelled with a man, and knocked him down a high flight of steps; but I had no recollection of it. If I had killed him, and they had hung me for it, what an awful thing it would have been for my poor father and mother. It taught me a good lesson, for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps this poor youth might profit by his dreadful experience, if a chance were allowed him. He is so young! and there is nothing bad in his countenance.”

“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker, “there is no trusting to that. The worst villains are not always the worst-looking. As for his being intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the story, for the sake of exciting compassion; and the witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe every thing strange in the prisoner’s conduct was the result of intoxication. Moreover, it won’t do to admit that plea in extenuation; for then, don’t you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has only to get drunk in the first place? If anybody killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I should want him to swing for it.”

By such remarks, urged in his vehement way, he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his own, without being fully aware of what he was doing. He was foreman of the jury; and when the awful moment arrived on which depended the life of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty,” in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale, and still, looking at him with such fixed despair. There was something in the face that moved him strongly. He turned quickly away, but the vision was before him; always, and everywhere before him. “This is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely done my duty. The law required it. I have done my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at him; always, and everywhere, it looked at him.

He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished not to know when the day of execution would arrive. But officious neighbours, ignorant of his state of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and when drawn into such discourse, he strove to fortify his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his efforts, the night preceding the execution, he had troubled dreams, in which that ghastly young face was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw it in the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed the fields, it stood before him on the threshold of his own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested came before him with painful distinctness. Could there be a doubt that the condemned had really committed murder? Was he intoxicated? Might he have happened to be intoxicated for the first time in his life? And he so young! But he drove these thoughts away; saying ever to himself, “The law required it. I merely did my duty.” Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale despairing face gazed at him forever.

For the first time in his manhood, he craved a companion in the darkness. Neighbours came in, and described the execution; and while they talked, the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a thousand pieces, and spoke never a word. They told how the youth had written a long letter to his mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,” said one; “they tell me she used to live in this neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the name of Mary Williams?”

The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker’s hand, as he gasped out, “Mary Williams! Was he her son? God forgive me! Was he her son?” And the strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.

There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious neighbour said, in a subdued tone, “I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t know she was a friend of yours.”

The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl; and it seems but yesterday that we used to go together to pick our baskets full of berries. And so she was his mother? I remember now there was something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”

Perhaps the mention of Mary’s beauty, or the melting mood, so unusual with her husband, might have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker. Whatever might have been the motive, she said, in her demure way, without raising her eyes from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enough to suppose the young man had a mother; and other mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel, as well as this Mary Williams.”