“And she told you the cause of it, my dear, I suppose?” said Fairbrother, in an easy, and, as one may say, an inductive sort of tone.
“I am sorry to interrupt my brother,” said the Crown Counsel, rising; “but I am in your Lordships’ judgment, whether this be not a leading question?”
“If this point is to be debated,” said the presiding Judge, “the witness must be removed.”
For the Scottish lawyers regard with a sacred and scrupulous horror every question so shaped by the counsel examining, as to convey to a witness the least intimation of the nature of the answer which is desired from him. These scruples, though founded on an excellent principle, are sometimes carried to an absurd pitch of nicety, especially as it is generally easy for a lawyer who has his wits about him to elude the objection. Fairbrother did so in the present case.
“It is not necessary to waste the time of the Court, my Lord since the King’s Counsel thinks it worth while to object to the form of my question, I will shape it otherwise.—Pray, young woman, did you ask your sister any question when you observed her looking unwell?—take courage—speak out.”
“I asked her,” replied Jeanie, “what ailed her.”
“Very well—take your own time—and what was the answer she made?” continued Mr. Fairbrother.
Jeanie was silent, and looked deadly pale. It was not that she at any one instant entertained an idea of the possibility of prevarication—it was the natural hesitation to extinguish the last spark of hope that remained for her sister.
“Take courage, young woman,” said Fairbrother.—“I asked what your sister said ailed her when you inquired?”
“Nothing,” answered Jeanie, with a faint voice, which was yet heard distinctly in the most distant corner of the Court-room,—such an awful and profound silence had been preserved during the anxious interval, which had interposed betwixt the lawyer’s question and the answer of the witness.