Arthur Seaham, as he proceeded, could not but experience the happy consciousness of success, could not doubt from the air of satisfied approving attention pervading the large assembly in the midst of which he stood, that whatever might be the verdict of the jury as regarded his client, he was at any rate doing well for himself—that he had not overrated his own powers and abilities; at all events he possessed one great gift of genius, the key to the hearts of men, that he had only to push bravely forward to win himself rank amongst an Eldon or an Erskine. The sun shone full upon a glaring court, upon many approving, admiring, nay, upon many tearful faces; for there were many in court who had known young Seaham from a boy, and whose countenance held an affectionate place in their hearts and memories; and yet, perhaps, there were but three among them all, who made any distinct and individual impression on his senses during the time, and these three inspiring feelings quite distinct from any self-pride, from any ambition in his heart.
One was the prisoner herself—that pale, patient face turned on him with such a meek and quiet confidence, as if on him she had reposed all she felt of trust in human power; her eyes fixed on him, her human counsellor—but her heart resting upon another alone able to defend—even on Him who had said:
"I will never leave you, nor forsake you,"
and in whom, though he were to slay her, she would still surely trust.
The other two we may easily imagine were the faces so striking in their contrast—those two fair members of the court, who occupied convenient places behind the judge's chair, their eyes fixed upon him; the one all bright and beautiful in her excitement—the other becoming paler and paler from the intense and painful interest in which something in the case itself seemed more and more to enthral her.
At this juncture then, Arthur Seaham had arrived; he had but just said that he had hoped for the appearance of one witness whose evidence might have thrown some important light upon the subject, and to whom he had made too late application, when a bustle was heard outside the court, and murmurs arose that this very witness had just that moment arrived.
Another instant, and Eugene Trevor made his way into the court, pale, eager, agitated; bearing every mark of a long and hasty journey. He approached the bench and spoke with Arthur Seaham apart, as he might have done with any other member of the bar, professionally, as if he had never spoken to him on such different matters, and in such a different character as in their interview at the London Hotel.
The young barrister returned to his seat with altered countenance, and addressing the judge, announced that the gentleman just arrived in court, had not come in the character of a witness; but to declare facts, which at once cleared his client from all further imputations. Mr. Trevor then sworn in, declared as follows:
He had come at the dying request of the mother of the accused, to state her confession as to having delivered the forged notes to her daughter, that daughter she declared—having solemnly taken her oath of secresy upon the Bible, being in entire ignorance of the real nature of the relief bestowed upon her, or the reason for the secresy imposed. He then produced certificates from the medical attendants as to the dying condition of the real offender.