The examination of Stanhope took place on the next morning—and it was only then that I became fully aware of the terrible evidence against him. Indeed the chain of testimony was so thoroughly welded together in every link, that, for a moment, I not only despaired, but almost recanted my belief in the prisoner’s innocence. I am sure that I was the only one present who did not believe him guilty.
The evidence against him was much the same as that given on the morning after the murder. Many additional facts, however, were elicited, which materially strengthened the case for the prosecution. A purse which was found on Stanhope’s person at the time of his arrest was identified, by a passenger, as having been seen in Mr. Howard’s hands on the evening of the murder, when he paid for a bottle of wine which they drank together. Mr. Howard’s house-keeper also knew the purse. Neither of the passengers could recognise the murderer’s countenance; but both concurred in making oath that the figure of the murderer was similar to that of Stanhope. Here was a mass of testimony which was sufficient, if unanswered, to condemn any man; and when the personal interest which Stanhope had in Mr. Howard’s death was taken into consideration, was not his situation really alarming? And what had he to oppose to this? Nothing, positively nothing, except his oft repeated explanation, and his continued asseverations of innocence.
Meanwhile I spared no effort to elucidate the mystery which seemed to hang over this catastrophe. Believing, as I did, in Stanhope’s innocence, I longed for some clue which might lead to the detection of the real murderer. But in vain. As a last resort I wrote a letter to the most eminent counsel at the —— bar, earnestly urging him to join me in the case. He replied favorably.
“Speak to me freely, D——,” said Stanhope to me, the day before his trial, “for my wife is absent now, and I can hear the worst. Am I without hope? God knows it is hard enough to part with all you love; it is hard for an innocent man to die a felon’s death; it is hard to leave behind you a stain on your children’s name,—but yet, if it is to be, let me not be deceived. As you would, in my situation, wish to be done by, so do by me. Tell me frankly—tell me all.”
I hesitated; I evaded his question.
“It is enough, D——,” said he, with a quivering lip, “God help my wife and little ones,” and, overcome by his emotion, he buried his face in his hands. It was the first time I had seen him give way to his feelings. But it was soon past. He looked up, “This is weakness,—it is over now. My enemies shall not, at least, triumph in beholding my agony.”
This stoicism was even more affecting than his agitation. My eyes involuntarily filled with tears, and I pressed his hand in silence.
“God bless you,” said he, with renewed emotion, “except my poor family you are my only friend.”
The morning of the trial dawned without a cloud. Never had such an excitement pervaded the village. The atrocity of the deed; the standing of the parties; the high talent arrayed on the part of the prosecution; and a rumor which had got afloat that the prisoner intended to confess his guilt, had awakened such an intense interest, that, long before the hour of trial, the court-room was crowded to overflowing. The whole town seemed alive. From every lane and street, from every house and hovel, they poured along, rich and poor, old and young, crowding and jostling each other, until the court-room was densely packed with the spectators, and farther admittance was impossible. The windows were blocked up with the multitude; the bar, and even the bench were full of people; and hundreds of eager faces, peered one above another in the back-ground, until they terminated in the gallery above. The hall without was noisy with the populace, and crowds, unable to obtain an entrance, waited breathlessly in the yard to learn, by the murmurs from within, the fluctuations of the trial.
The prisoner entered with a firm, composed bearing, and bowing to the bench, glanced a moment round the room. There was a lofty pride in his demeanor which I shall never forget. A death-like silence pervaded the hundreds there, and scarcely an eye but quailed beneath that fearless glance. He then took his seat. A murmur ran around the room. The impression made by the prisoner’s demeanor was evidently favorable. Pity usurped the place of idle curiosity. His sweet wife’s presence did not lessen this favorable sentiment. She had insisted on being present during the whole of the trial, and she now sat beside her husband, clasping his hand in hers, and looking up into his face with a glance which told, that whatever others might think, she at least knew him to be innocent. Thank God! there is such a thing in this world as woman’s love.