“But, dear father,” said Ann, in the greatest perturbation, “the time is not yet over and past. Our time is not God’s time. He may wish to try us all, and may solve the enigma even at the last moment.”
“It may be so,” said Mr. Woodburn, gloomily; “but what does it mean where it says that if any man lose houses or land or wife or children for Christ’s sake, he shall receive tenfold more in this world of houses, land, and the rest of it, and in the world to come life everlasting? Now, Ann, I have heard of thousands being ruined, and even burnt and killed for Christ’s sake, but I never yet heard of one who received tenfold property for what he lost. These things make one believe the whole to be a cunningly devised fable. If the Gospels are not true altogether, they may not be true at all.”
Ann sat and wept bitterly for a long time; then getting up and throwing her arms round her father’s neck, and looking with her streaming eyes into his face, she said, “Oh, father, if you let go your faith in our dear Redeemer, you let go everything, and make us all miserable beyond words. Wait, wait a little, and I feel sure all will be well. For myself, I would rather lose life, liberty, fame, everything, than my trust in God.”
“But why should God,” added Mr. Woodburn, “treat his servants worse than the devil and the world treat theirs? I see continually those who neither think nor care about religion flourishing like green bay trees, and the good left to all sorts of troubles.”
“Oh, don’t talk in that manner!” exclaimed Ann. “Shall we expect an eternity of good, and shall we shrink from a trial for a few years? Shall we serve and trust in God only for selfish ends? Oh, no, indeed; we do need refining by fire. But, dear father, your mind and health are hurt by this confinement and suspense. But, I say, and ever will say, ‘Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.’ Remember God has an eternal recompense to offer for all our sorrows here, but the devil and the world have nothing to offer us after this little life.”
These moments of despair in Mr. Woodburn were the severest trial of all to his disconsolate family. But the March assizes were at hand, and the preparations which his friends were making for his defence tended to occupy his mind and relieve his spirits. Sir Henry Clavering never for a moment doubted of his instant and complete acquittal, and his steady, cheerful views and active exertions acted as a great solace to the Woodburns. He and George, assisted most zealously by Simon Degge, Mr. Heritage, and Mr. Fairfax, had arranged a considerable amount of evidence, which though it brought no nearer to the light the real perpetrator of the murder, if it were one, showed, they thought, sufficiently that no suspicion could fall on Mr. Woodburn.
The assizes had at length arrived. Mr. Baron Garrow had arrived and opened his commission. Mr. Woodburn’s case, as it occurred immediately after the midsummer assizes, was the first on the calendar. Vast was the excitement connected with it. The singular mystery of the affair, the character and position of the prisoner, were circumstances sure to awake a most lively interest. The town was crowded by people from all parts of the country round, and the county court was filled in a few minutes to repletion. Most of the families of distinction of the county and town were in the galleries. We will not go at great length into the details of the trial. Mr. Sergeant Giffard was the counsel for the crown against Mr. Woodburn, and he was defended by his old friend, Mr. Balguy of Derbyshire. Sir Henry Clavering had entreated him to have other and very celebrated counsel from London, but Mr. Woodburn steadily refused. He said, “No, he had perfect reliance on his friend Balguy; though he practised only as a provincial barrister, he was a man of the soundest judgment, one who had known him all his life, and could speak personally to his character. Besides, he would not have it imagined for a moment that his case required the subtle lights and arts of a brilliant oratory. He wanted merely a plain statement of plain facts.”
When Mr. Woodburn was brought in and placed in the dock, there was a silence like death throughout the court. The sensation was profound. He was attended by his son and Sir Henry Clavering, who were accommodated at each side of the dock; so that they could encourage him, and communicate for him with his counsel, seated just under him. Mr. Woodburn looked calm, but somewhat pale, and his intelligent, thoughtful, and amiable aspect was anything but that of a murderer. “That man,” said many a lady to her friend near her, “never committed a murder.” “No,” some gentleman replied, “one would not think it; but one cannot tell what a growing animosity may stir a man to, in some unguarded moment.”
The case was opened, the indictment read, and Mr. Serjeant Giffard rose. He called first witnesses to show that there had been a considerable and, as he termed it, a bitter feud betwixt the prisoner and Mr. Drury; he proved the unguarded expressions of Mr. Woodburn in the hay-field, and that the prisoner was the last man seen coming from the ferry where Mr. Drury was found, as he said, in his blood. In his address, which followed, he dwelt on these proofs of an animus in Mr. Woodburn’s mind against Mr. Drury, and treated his words only four days before the catastrophe as words of menace, or at least of a wish to have Mr. Drury put away. The catastrophe following on the immediate heels of these words, what could it be deemed but the direct result of them? Then the fact that no amount of inquiry, nor the offered reward of 300l., had been able to elicit a single atom of evidence implicating any other person, must be held, in his opinion, as most decisive. Why had no such evidence transpired? The answer in his own mind, said the counsel, was that no such evidence existed; and that the fair and damning inference was that the man, who was known to have a standing feud with the murdered man; who had uttered words of a vindictive and even minatory character; the man who was last seen coming from the fatal spot, and that only just before the discovery of the horrible circumstance, was the person guilty of that deadly crime. He had wished the country might be fortunately rid of the person so offensive to him, and there was the finale. He dwelt especially on the fact, that no robbery had been committed; it was clearly a case of vengeance in a mind where money offered no temptation.
It was with a deep and breathless feeling that the spectators saw the counsel for the defence rise. He observed that his learned friend had galloped to a conclusion, for which there was not a single atom of foundation. He had talked of a murder, yet there was no proof of a murder. An unhappy accident in crossing the ferry; a fright on the part of the horse, and a kick on the head of the unfortunate owner as he stooped to pull the chain, would probably explain it all. Now he had known Mr. Woodburn all his life from his school-days, and he would pledge his whole character, conscience, and existence to the jury, that Mr. Woodburn was as incapable of a murder as he was of flying. No, he would not tread on a worm if he knew it. He would call evidence to show that it was as improbable as it was, in fact, impossible. His learned friend had talked of a feud betwixt Mr. Woodburn and Mr. Drury. Why, this feud was of so mild a kind that the only son of Mr. Woodburn was on the point at the moment of the catastrophe of being married to the only daughter of Mr. Drury. His learned friend had left it to be inferred that Mr. Woodburn was the only man in the neighbourhood who felt any antagonism to Mr. Drury. He would bring forward proofs that Mr. Drury had made many bitter enemies, he would not say justly, but simply by the introduction of new machines, and new fashions of farming, and by his active, energetic, and, perhaps, somewhat peremptory and exacting character; he had made those enemies amongst the lower and more ignorant class, who were far more likely to commit an outrage in their revenge than a gentleman of Mr. Woodburn’s well-known character—than a gentleman whose family was on the very point of forming the most intimate ties with the family of Mr. Drury. As to the question of crossing the ferry, he would show that it was impossible that Mr. Woodburn could have been present at the catastrophe, for he had witnesses to prove that Mr. Drury did not leave the hay-meadow beyond the river till nearly half an hour after Mr. Woodburn was seated quietly with his family at tea in his own garden.