‘One of the loveliest women I ever saw; I feel very sorry for her, poor soul.’
‘If you was on the jury, would you bring him in guilty?’ asked Mrs. Evitt.
‘I should be sorely perplexed. You see I should be called upon to find my verdict according to the evidence, and the evidence against him is very strong.’
Mrs. Evitt sighed, and turned her weary head upon her pillow.
‘Poor young man,’ she murmured, ‘he was always affable—not very free-spoken, but always affable. I should feel sorry if it went against him. It would be awful, wouldn’t it?’ she exclaimed, with sudden agitation, lifting herself up from her pillow, and gazing fixedly at the surgeon; ‘it would be awful for him to be hung, and innocent all the time; and a sweet young wife, too. I couldn’t bear it; no, I couldn’t bear it. The thought of it would weigh me down to my grave, and I don’t suppose it would let me rest even there.’
Gerard thought the poor woman was getting delirious. He laid his fingers gently on her skinny wrist, and held them there while he looked at his watch.
Yes, the pulse was a good deal quicker than it had been when he last felt it.
‘Is Jemima there?’ asked Mrs. Evitt, twitching aside the bed-curtain, and looking nervously round.
Yes, Jemima was there, sitting before the fire, darning a coarse gray stocking, and feeling very happy in being allowed to bask in the warmth of a fire, in a room where nobody threw saucepan lids at her.
George Gerard had rigged up what he called a jury curtain, to shelter the truckle bed from those piercing currents of air which find their way alike through old and new window frames.