"This only I will say: We men of the law, seeing nothing but meanness and crime, day after day, year after year, grow sometimes to despair of the world, to see nothing before it but a certain fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. Acts such as the prisoner's redress the balance. They show us once again the sense of tears in mortal things, the indestructible nobility of the human heart, the God in human nature. 'Through such souls alone God stooping shows sufficient of his light for us i' the dark to rise by.' Gentlemen, I should like to thank the prisoner.
"Call Lætitia Jane Smith."
Lettice stepped into the witness-box. She did not look at Gardiner, gazing at her with his haggard eyes as at a dream come true; nor at Dorothea, shrinking away like a child from the lash. Self-withdrawn and expressionless, she looked straight at the examining counsel, and to him alone she gave her evidence.
Yes, she had been staying at the prisoner's hotel on the night in question. She had gone there to meet her cousin, Mr. Merion-Smith. She had not told him that she meant to do so; she wanted to take him by surprise. She engaged a room on the ground floor of the west wing. She did not go in to dinner, nor did she try to see her cousin that evening, because she had a bad headache. She stayed in her room writing. About ten o'clock she went out for a breath of air. She came back at twenty-two minutes past ten. How did she know the time? Because she stopped to set her watch by the clock in the hall. Afterwards she went straight to her room. It was in darkness, but the room opposite, the prisoner's room, was lighted up. Her window and his were both open. She could see in clearly. The distance was not great. She had very good sight. "I can read the papers in your hand," said Lettice concisely. There were three persons in the room: her cousin, sitting by the window; the prisoner, at the table: and a third man, whom from a photograph she had since identified as Major Trent, leaning back against the mantelpiece. Major Trent was speaking. He seemed to be finishing some story. He was laughing. The prisoner did not laugh, nor did Mr. Merion-Smith. The latter leaned forward and spoke to the prisoner, and the prisoner answered. She could not hear what was said because they spoke in whispers. Her cousin seemed angry. "He was bristling all over," said Lettice. The prisoner then turned and addressed the deceased. Yes, she could hear that. What he said? He suggested it was getting late, and that Mrs. Trent would be tired. Was she sure he mentioned Mrs. Trent? Quite. Major Trent said, "Oh, my wife!" and burst out laughing. He came up to the table, leaned across to the prisoner, and added another sentence. Yes, she had heard every word. Yes, she remembered every word. Would she tell the court exactly what it was?
Lettice looked back at her questioner and answered him alone, isolating him and herself, as though judge, jury, prisoner, and spectators did not exist. She spoke with colorless precision:
"He said, 'Ever hear of what they call an interesting situation? Damn uninteresting I find it—especially to look at!'"
The truth was out. Useless for Hancock to cross-examine; not a soul in court but knew they had the facts at last. The jury made up their minds upon their verdict. As juries often do, they had set up among themselves a standard of rough justice, and neither the prisoner's own statement nor the judge's summing up could avail to change them. If Lettice had not spoken, they would have found the prisoner guilty; if he himself had not tried to evade justice, they would have found him innocent. As it was, their verdict was a compromise. Guilty of manslaughter, but very strongly recommended to mercy.
Mr. Justice Beckwith may have thought he was carrying out their recommendation in sentencing Gardiner to nine months' imprisonment in the second division.