THE ORPHAN |
THE KNIFE.
What a pretty, fair, delicate-looking girl was Harriet Lynn! how well I remember her, with her small black silk bonnet, casting a deeper shadow on the light-brown hair that escaped in waves rather than curls from the bondage of her cap; the neat white handkerchief, the dark stuff dress, the full sleeves a little turned back from the slender wrist, and hands whose softness had been uninjured by their ordinary employment—that of plaiting the finest straw. Many a summer's evening have I seen her stand at the gate of the cottage-garden, over which hung a cherry-tree, the pride of her uncle; indeed, rather a source of congratulation to the village at large, so much was its size and fertility admired by strangers—so beautiful in spring, with its avalanche of white blossom—so rich in summer, with its multitude of crimson berries. There would Harriet stand, the shining straws passing with rapidity through her slight fingers; with a gentle smile and a kind word for all those passers-by whom she knew, and a deep blush and sudden attention to her work for all whom she knew not. Harriet was not a native of our part of the country; her parents’ death had thrown her on the kindness of an uncle and aunt, who, having no child of their own, were happy to adopt her. Some little roughness in that course which is said never to run smooth—very true love—would seem to be the worst history that could be connected with the pretty peasant. But not so: her arrival in our county was attended by one of those terrible incidents which make humanity shudder at itself, and which are awful in proportion to their rareness. It is taking nature in the worst possible point of view, to think that custom reconciles even to crime.
It was a sad morning when Harriet Lynn left her native village: she rose long before the appointed time. When at the stile by the beech-tree, she was to be taken up by John Dodd the carrier, who often gave a neighbour a lift to the next town. This stile was at the entrance of the churchyard—a sorrowful resting-place to one whose nearest and dearest were yet scarce cold in their tomb. Ever and anon did she enter and seek the far corner, where, beneath the shadow of an old yew-tree, was a grave: it held two tenants—they were her father and her mother, and she looked now on their place of rest for the last time. There is a strange mixture in our feelings; perhaps the consciousness that all her earnings had gone towards erecting the stone whose white surface bore the names of her parents, mingled a little satisfaction with her grief: and why should it not? The discharge of a duty from affection is the best solace for sorrow.
At length the cart appeared at some distance on the winding road; and in a few minutes Harriet Lynn began a journey, of whose length and difficulties she had the usually exaggerated notion of all young travellers. The gallantry of an English peasant rarely expands into words. John Dodd received her with a good-natured grin, and pushed on his way—for he was carrier of Donnington and some dozen parishes round; at each of which he duly deposited at least a score of packages or messages. His first pause was at a small shop situated on the east side of Donnington moor.
"None so deaf as those who won't hear. Now this plaguy old woman will keep me bawling for an hour; it's always so when I'm in a hurry."
Sure enough his vociferations obtained no answer; so, asking his companion to hold the reins, while he went to see if Dame Bird were dead or asleep, he jumped out of the cart, taking with him sundry square brown-paper parcels, from whose contents the various odours of tea, sugar, and tallow exhaled. The little garden gate was, as usual, open; and the first thing that struck the carrier was a quantity of currants trampled upon the brick walk,
"Somebody's pudding will be none the better for this; but it's a wonder the old woman has not been out broom in hand. I say, Dame Bird! you might sell your currants over again—none the worse for a little clean dirt."
At this moment he started back, with open eyes and gaping mouth:—what an odd thing it is, that the indications of terror are usually ludicrous! A narrow crimson line, like the wriggling of a red snake, wound slowly towards him: it was blood! For the first time in his life, John Dodd dropped a parcel from his hand, and ran into the shop. The narrow line widened; large red spots grew frequent; the crimson pool splashed beneath his feet—it evidently flowed from behind the counter; and there lay the poor old woman, her face uppermost, and her throat literally cut from ear to ear.
"Murder! thieves! Harriet Lynn, help!" cried the terrified carrier, rushing back to his cart and companion, as if even the girl and his horse were some security.
Harriet Lynn, who had heard his voice, was at the gate as soon as himself.
"What is the matter?"
"Come away; we shall be murdered!" was the answer, made almost inaudible by dread.
There is no denying the fact, that in all sudden emergencies a woman has ten times the presence of mind, or, to use the common expression, her wits more about her than a man. Harriet Lynn turned white as the ghastly idea suggested itself; but she proceeded to the shop, followed by her companion, who thought that as she went, he must go too. The sight was too fearful; and for a moment she walked again into the garden, till the fresh air restored her from her feeling of deadly sickness. Perhaps the distinction between the two witnesses was, that in the girl horror was the predominant sensation, while in the man it was terror.
"There is no likelihood of the murderer having hidden himself here; however, we must see." And she resolutely returned to the house.
Fright had quite paralysed John Dodd's faculties, and he went after her mechanically. The cottage was only one story high, and the small room behind the shop was where the old woman slept. Marks of violence were visible in every part; a cupboard had been forced open, and the contents of a chest of drawers were scattered about the room. The shop bore even more evident signs of spoliation—that reckless wastefulness which seems the constant companion of cruelty; but little of the grocery appeared to have been touched, excepting the sweet things.
"We must go," said Harriet, "and get assistance as fast as we can. Is Mr. March still our justice?"
The proposal of leaving was very welcome to the carrier, who expected every minute to be murdered too. Yet, Harriet would not leave till the shutters were barred and the door locked: the large key hung as usual behind it, and that she took with her. "No one can now get either in or out."
They drove with all possible speed to Mr. March’s, where they had instant admission. John Dodd had not yet recovered his senses; but his companion’s account was equally brief and clear. A messenger was forthwith despatched to the coroner, then at Newcastle, where the assizes were holding, about five miles distant: and Mr. March proceeded to the cottage, of which Harriet Lynn gave him the key. Being on horseback, he, and two neighbours who accompanied him, arrived at the place long before their train of curious and horrorstricken followers. They found every thing as had been described. The body was in a frightful state; the hands and arms of the poor old creature were covered with gashes; and a violent blow on the temple had probably occasioned her fall and stunned her, for the throat was cut with a degree of neatness and precision, which shewed that then at least the victim could not have struggled. Close to the corpse was found a small tortoise-shell penknife clotted with blood, evidently the instrument by which the wound had been inflicted. Neighbours now came hurrying in, and one after another missed some trifling article of property which the deceased was known to have possessed. There were three thin spoons, real silver, on which she greatly prided herself; they were gone. A large silver watch, together with a red silk shawl and a Bandana handkerchief, very regular parts of her Sunday attire, were also not to be found.
After the first burst of dismay was over, two subjects were universally started as topics of conversation; first, how every one had predicted that "a poor lone woman" was sure to be murdered; and, secondly, as to "who was the murderer?" Here there was an unusual coincidence of opinion. A gipsy and his wife had for the last week been in the neighbourhood, and their presence had been testified by innumerable small thefts. The man was dogged and sullen, apparently without occupation or motive for staying among them; the woman pretty, active, and with a great gift of fortune-telling. Many recollected seeing them both prowling about the little shop; and some, who came in last, stated that their encampment by the nut-tree wood was deserted. After the coroner's inquest, suspicion was sufficiently roused for a warrant to be issued for the apprehension of the prisoners. They were overtaken in a by-lane some miles distant, and brought to Newcastle, vehemently protesting their innocence.
The female was first examined. She evidently required to have the questions put to her in the simplest form, otherwise, from her imperfect knowledge of the English tongue, she could not comprehend them. All her replies were as simple as they were straight-forward. She was powerfully affected when the magistrate spoke to her of the cruelty of the deed; but it was, or seemed to be, a natural and womanly horror of so shocking a crime. Nothing could be elicited from her that excited suspicion; on the contrary, the effect she produced was a very favourable one.
It now came to the gipsy's own turn. Fierceness, defiance, and a shrewd and bold speech, characterised his answers. He was asked why he came into that part of the country?
"Because it is one of the very few places where there is a patch of green grass and an old tree whose shelter may be had without payment."
He was then interrogated—"Why, having such an advantage, he had abandoned it?"
"Because my habits are not as your habits. You dwell in houses, as if you were like the stock or the stone with which they are built; I wander as free and as far as the wind. Look ye! our faces are not as your faces, our speech is not as your speech; we have come from a distant country, over seas and mountains, over rough paths and smooth roads; we have numbered more miles than your whole island contains; and yet you ask us why we left one little village! I left it because it was my will to do so."
The pack which each carried was examined; and though convincing proofs of divers small thefts appeared, nothing was found that had been Mrs. Bird's property. Still, the general feeling was so strong against them, that they were committed for trial, which took place the following week.
Death never excites such sympathy as it does when it assumes the shape of murder. In a few days the little garden was stripped of every plant, rosemary, rue, currant, and gooseberry bush, potato and cabbage,—all that their possessors might have some relic of "the horrible murder;" and every one planted the spoil in the most conspicuous part of their own garden. The poor old woman had been universally liked; she had kept that shop forty years; nothing had induced her to leave it, though the original motive for settling there had long passed away. The "Great House," as it was wont to be called, where she had lived servant, and which had once been scarcely twice a stone’s throw from her home, had since been pulled down. Mrs. Bird had for many years been the sole chronicler of the glories of "the old family;" and her former connexion with it gave her still something of consequence in the eyes of her neighbours. The most scrupulous honesty, a cheerful temper, and a great love for children (a singularly popular quality), a regular attendance at church (on fine Sundays in the bright red shawl, on wet ones in a less bright red cloak), and a naturally good understanding, made her beloved, and her advice often both asked and taken. Many complained of the distance of her shop, but no one thought of going to another. All respected the feeling that made the old woman cling to the spot which had witnessed her youth, her marriage, and her old age. She had wedded, early in life, one of the gardeners of the "Great House," who, to use that common but most expressive phrase, had turned out "no better than he should do." Luckily, going home one night in a state of intoxication, he broke his neck—an event Mrs. Bird deplored much more than her neighbours thought necessary. However, it was not that sort of grief which requires consolation; and the widow was not tempted to forget the miseries of her first marriage in the happiness of a second. She never gave hope that triumph over experience, which Dr. Johnson so ungallantly declares a second wedding to be. Years after years rolled away, and Mrs. Bird and her shop seemed as much part of the moor as the stunted furze-bushes. No one dreamt of change till the morning of the murder, and then, as we have said, every body had foreseen what the old woman's living by herself, in such an out-of-the-way place, would come to.
Human nature is accused of much more selfishness than it really has; a thousand kindly emotions break in upon and redeem our daily and interested life. As Wordsworth beautifully says—
"The poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life,
When they can know and feel that they have been
Themselves the fathers and the dealers out
Of some small blessings—have been kind to such
As needed kindness; for this single cause.
That we have all of us one human heart."
And this old and solitary woman had been the rallying point for much good feeling, evinced in numerous little acts of common service. Many a young girl would give an hour's time to the sewing and darning to which Mrs. Bird's eyes were no longer equal—many a neighbour rose somewhat earlier to help her in her garden; and not a creature went to or from market without pausing for a few minutes with the "poor soul who must be so lonely." Nor was the old dame without her kindness and her favours to bestow in return. She had more than once accommodated a friend with a humble, but most serviceable loan; and would rather give very dubious credit for sugar and raisins at Christmas, than "that the poor children should go without their bit of plum-pudding once a-year." She was learned in decocting all kinds of herb-tea, infallible in curing burns, sprains, and scalds; and not a few pennyworths of gingerbread and paradise (for the latter she was very famous) went among her young customers, for which the till was never the richer. No wonder, therefore, that her most barbarous murder exasperated the peasantry almost to frenzy against the supposed criminals.
On the examination of the gipsies, nothing had been elicited from either in the slightest degree corroborative of the charge against them. The man was at first furious, struggled with the officers, boldly declared his innocence, and finally settled down into sullen silence. The woman was quiet and gentle, watching only her husband's eye, and confirming all his assertions. The prisoners attracted great attention; they were both singular and superior, evidently very different from the ignorant and simple villagers among whom they ordinarily moved. Rachel (such was the female's name) was perfectly beautiful, though in the peculiar style which belongs to her race: delicately made, with a mild and mournful cast of countenance, she seemed the last person in the world to have engaged in an act of violence; indeed, the most distant allusion to the murder drove the colour from her dark cheek, and convulsed her slight frame with a shudder of fear and loathing. There was something very remarkable in her devotion to her husband; it was a mixture of deference, tenderness, and submission. Her age appeared to be about twenty; and a general and strong sympathy was excited for a creature so young, so lovely, and so meek.
The man was obviously turned of forty; his black hair was mixed with gray, and the fine outline of his features was harsh with time and exposure to all weathers. He was tall, and his gait even commanding; his hands and feet were of that small and fine mould we are accustomed to attribute to gentle blood; the expression of his face was one which spoke both intellect and courage, though still more ferocity: he seemed to belong to some other time than the present, when human life was held but lightly, and when a shrewder wit or a stronger arm made man a chief among his fellow-savages.
We have seen that nothing was elicited on their examination. Still, taking all that could be discovered into consideration—first, that they had been observed speaking to the old woman the day before; secondly, the approximation of their encampment to the shop—for their tent was pitched in a small hazel-wood copse not a quarter of a mile distant from the place; thirdly, their abrupt departure; and, fourthly, that not a shadow of suspicion could attach to any but themselves:—on these grounds, as already mentioned, they had been ordered to be committed for trial to the county gaol. It was not till the female found she was to be parted from her husband (for each was, of course, to be confined in a separate cell) that she uttered a cry, or made a gesture of resistance: then, even the gaolers were touched by the passionate despair with which she clung to his knees, and implored him to let her remain, as if it depended solely on his will. His only answer consisted in holding out to her his manacled hands. It became necessary to separate them by force. Just as they bore her to the threshold, the gipsy suddenly asked permission to bid her farewell: he advanced towards her, and said something in a low voice and in a foreign tongue. Her struggles ceased; she made a brief reply in the same language, raised her hands with a very peculiar gesture above her head, and then pressed them to her heart. A look passed between them, and she was led quietly from the room.
During the week of her imprisonment, her humble and sad bearing won upon the hearts of all. The elderly clergyman exerted even more than his usual anxious care; but the holy eloquence which had subdued so many a sinner to repentance, and worked good out of evil, here utterly failed. The blessed truths of the Christian faith were poured fruitlessly into ears that evidently heard them for the first time, and were lost upon one whose belief was already given to the wild superstitions taught in childhood and youth. It was equally vain to question her about the crime for which they were committed to prison; her constant reply was, "He said he was innocent: why do you doubt him?"
Once and once only did she ask after her companion, and then instantly checked herself; more, it seemed, from a fear of giving him offence, than out of any regard to those around her. There was a singular character about the love she manifested towards him; it united the passionate devotedness of the mistress, the entire union of interests felt by the wife, the submission of the child, and something of the awe and homage paid by the vassal to his master. The gipsy's own conduct had been very different; he had contrived to make himself an object of fear and hate to every one who had approached him. But his fierce, sullen temper, and his great natural gifts, combined with a degree of knowledge surprising in his station, were principally called forth in his interviews with the clergyman, whose arguments were met either by ingenious sophistries and turned aside from their real meaning, or by vindictive reproaches and keen and bitter sneers. With regard to the crime, he never swerved from his assertion of innocence.
At length the day of trial arrived. Assuredly the English trial for murder is an awful assembling; the vague look of serious horror, which would be ludicrous under any other circumstances, is here redeemed by its fearful source. The grave costume of the bar, the dignified solemnity of the judge, the long robes, all differing from the ordinary apparel of daily life, have their full effect on at least two thirds of the spectators. Some may be too thoughtful, others too thoughtless, to have their imagination affected by all this "pomp of circumstance;" but this is far from being the feeling of the generality.
The court was crowded at an unusually early hour. Gradually the dense and silent mass gave way before the slow approach of the judge: he took his seat; the twelve jurymen followed—there was a slight stir as each one settled in his place, and then all was quiet as the grave.
There is a deep impression of awe produced by such a vast but silent crowd; we are at once conscious that the cause is terrible which can induce the unusual stillness. The issue of a trial on which hangs life or death, is indeed an appalling thing. We know that men are about to take away that which they cannot give—that a few words of human breath will deprive of breath one of the number for ever; and though we acknowledge that in this evil world punishment is the only security against crime, and that blood for blood has been a necessity from the beginning of time; still, we feel that the necessity is a dreadful one. A low murmur of execration—something like the dull sound of the sea, when the waves prophesy, as it were, of the coming storm—ran through the court as the prisoners were brought in.
"Order!" said the judge, in a clear, calm voice; and again the deepest stillness prevailed. The female came first, so wrapped in her cloak that both her face and figure were quite concealed. The gipsy himself advanced with as much indifference, and casting as careless glances around, as if he were but walking over a wild heath on a summer morning. He was dressed in a loose great-coat, fastened about his waist with a leathern belt, and wore round his throat a dingy crimson handkerchief; yet, in spite of his dress, he had that air of dignity which personal advantages always confer when attended by entire freedom and self-possession. His height, his firm step, his handsome features, attracted every one; but not an eye met his without shrinking from its keen and ferocious expression:—not a single individual present thought him innocent.
Both were placed at the bar; and on a sign from the judge, the officer at her side removed the muffling from the female prisoner's face: she appeared scarcely conscious of the action. The long black hair, utterly unconfined, fell down in a mass of dark ringlets, strongly contrasted by the bright red cloak; they hung back off the countenance, whose sweet and childish beauty was thus fully displayed. She had the small smooth features, the fresh colour, the unconscious smile, which belongs only to very early youth, and those large, soft, beseeching eyes with which we almost unawares connect the idea of helplessness and innocence. It was like sacrilege to Nature to suspect of crime a creature so lovely. Those opposite could observe that her whole attention was fixed on a beautiful nosegay placed on the bench near the judge. The season was too far advanced for the gardens to boast much bloom; and the rich bunch of purple and crimson flowers was from the hot-house of a gentleman noted for his rare collection of tropical plants. Her eyes filled with tears—was it possible that the spicy perfume and magnificent dyes of the bouquet before her recalled the associations of her childhood?
The prisoners were now required to plead guilty or not guilty.
"Not guilty!" replied the gipsy, with an air of mingled confidence and defiance.
His wife had not till that moment been aware of his presence. At the first tone of his voice, she sprang forward with a cry and look of intense delight, and throwing herself at his feet, embraced his knees, while joy and affection found vent in a passionate burst of tears. The gipsy seemed the least moved of any by the touching love of his wife; he rather suffered than returned her caresses, receiving them more as homage is accepted, than as fondness is requited.
How incomprehensible is woman's love!—it is not kindness that wins it, nor return that insures it; we daily see the most devoted attachment lavished on those who seem to us singularly unworthy. The Spectator shewed his usual knowledge of human nature, when, in speaking on this subject, he relates, that in a town besieged by the enemy, on the women being allowed to depart with whatever they held most precious, only one among them carried off her husband,—a man notorious for his tyrannical temper, and who had, moreover, a bad—or, as it turned out, a good—habit of beating his wife every morning. Well, all governments are maintained by fear—fear being our great principle of action; and fear, we are tempted to believe, heightens and strengthens the love of woman.
For a minute, even the judge interfered not with a display of emotion so earnest and so affecting; and before the officers approached to separate the prisoners, Rachel arose at her husband's bidding, and stood quietly and meekly at his side.
John Dodd, the first witness examined, contrived to throw into his story the confusion of his own ideas. Harriet Lynn came next, and was just as remarkable for the simplicity and clearness of her answers. Still, their evidence only proved the fact of the murder, not by whom it had been committed.
The fearless make their own way—and the male prisoner's bold bearing was not without its effect. The tide of opinion turned rapidly in his favour; people began to think that a man might have a profusion of black elf-like locks and a ferocious expression of countenance, and yet not be an actual murderer.
But we must go back to a period a little previous to the trial.
Among the barristers who went the northern circuit was a Mr. Harvey, as shrewd a counsel as had ever merged a life-time in law, save a few youthful reminiscences, which his compeers called folly, but to which, nevertheless, they themselves turned with great satisfaction. Mr. Harvey's birthplace was within a few miles of Newcastle, where he always arrived one day before the assizes commenced; which day was as invariably spent in riding about the country, visiting all his boyish haunts, and ended by a dinner with two or three old friends, at the same inn, where he had now regularly dined for the last twenty years. It was one of those beautiful days with which October abounds more than any other month; a soft west-wind expanded the few late flowers that yet made glad the more sheltered nooks; the oaks, beeches, and chestnuts (for the country was densely wooded), still wore their richest and darkest green; while the limes and sycamores contrasted them strongly with their bright red and vivid yellow. Haymaking and harvest had long been over; so that little of rustic employment remained in the fields, whose stillness was almost unbroken.
Now and then, as Mr. Harvey rode slowly along scenes so familiar to him, he was startled from his reverie by the sudden rise of a covey of birds in an adjacent field; or, in passing a secluded copse, the glossy plumage of the pheasant caught his eye, while the air was stirring with the sound of its loud and peculiar flight; and sometimes, faint and echoing in the distance, came the report of the solitary sportsman's gun, "few and far between."
It was in a little lonely lane, girded on one side by a thick wood almost entirely composed of young oaks, and on the other by a grass-field and then a garden, both belonging to a small farmhouse. There was an aspect of comfort and neatness, which spoke well for the inhabitants; a pear-tree covered the front that faced the road, and the porch was overgrown with Chinese roses, so delicate-looking, yet so hardy. Two children were standing close to the hedge, and their conversation accidentally caught Mr. Harvey's attention, who was riding along at that sauntering pace for which a green and shadowy lane seems especially made.
"Ah! grandfather will never bring you any thing again; I've got his scissors quite safe."
So saying, the little girl held up, with a great air of triumph, a shining pair of those feminine weapons, dangling by a piece of blue riband to her waist.
"I'll tell him all about it; and I shall be the favourite then, and not you, Master Jem."
"I'm sure, Mary," said the boy, "you need’nt talk; didn't I give you the string of birds' eggs I got for it?"
"Well, well," replied his tormentor, who seemed about nine—a year older than her brother, "a knife cuts love, they say; and your grandfather won’t love you no more, now you've sold the knife he gave you. I've got my scissors—I've got my scissors! and you've sold your penknife—your pretty tortoise-shell penknife!"
And the girl ran down the garden, singing her last words over and over, her brother following, with a look half of remorse and half of anger.
"Born with them—born with them: all alike! No pleasure equal to the pleasure of tormenting, to a woman. Well, my little maiden, some ten years hence your brother will not be the only person you'll plague."
So saying, the lawyer pushed his horse into a sort of discontented trot.
A brisk ride, however, was exceedingly beneficial; and both he and his friends did full justice to the fresh trout and small mutton, which, for a score of years, the same landlord had prepared, and the same guests partaken of, at the White Hart. After dinner they gathered round the large, bright coal fire, whose one neatly-cut log emitted a shower of sparkles at every touch of the poker,—talked of former times,—sipped some fine old port, with a cobweb dress as fragile and more precious than any blonde veil Chantilly ever produced,—and felt more and more convinced, that though the world was a very bad one, yet there were some few things in it worth living for.
All recollection of the children and of their conversation had faded from Mr. Harvey's memory; but when a small tortoise-shell penknife was produced on the trial,—with that cultivated acuteness which formed so large a part both of his natural and acquired character, the coincidence instantly struck him. He was not engaged on either side; so, leaving the court, he drove with all rapidity to the farm in the green and lonely lane. It was about five miles distant. The farmer was at home, and the barrister soon explained both his business and his plan.
The child was sent for—a little, frank, bold-looking boy, of eight years old.
"So, my fine fellow," said Mr. Harvey, "you sold your grandfather's penknife?"
Poor James had been very unhappy about this knife, and, on hearing the stranger's question, naturally concluded his grandfather had sent him; he therefore only replied by a violent burst of tears.
"Should you like to get the knife again?"
The boy's face cleared up instantly, and he rushed out of the room; but speedily returned with a wooden box, having a small slit in the top, ingeniously contrived for the admission though not for the egress of money. He rattled its contents.
"All my own, sir; all I have saved for Christmas. I will give it all to the man, if he will let me have my poor grandfather's knife back."
"What man?" asked the barrister.
"Oh, the gipsy: he gave me a string of birds’ eggs for it."
"Should you know the man now?"
"Oh, yes," said the boy; "he was so tall and black-looking."
"Well, if you will come with me, I think we may get your knife again."
The child looked wistfully at his father.
"May I go?" Of course permission was given. The farmer said he would accompany them; and a few minutes saw them driving at full speed back to the town.
Leaving his young witness outside, Mr. Harvey re-entered the court.
"How does the trial go on?" asked he of a friend.
"All in favour of the prisoners: there is no doubt of their innocence and of their acquittal."
At this moment, the counsel for the prosecution stated that he had new facts to communicate, and important evidence to examine; and Mr. Harvey entered the witness-box.
We have already narrated what he had to tell.
The child was next called, evidently all surprise at the crowd and the scene; and, when first questioned, apparently too much abashed to reply. But he was naturally a fearless little fellow, and soon gave the most simple and straight-forward answers. On being asked if he understood the difference between truth and falsehood, he said—
"Yes, he knew it was very wicked to tell stories, but that he never did it."
The knife was then shewn him, which he recognised with a cry of delight; and stated, in the most artless and positive manner, how he came to sell it. He had been peeling a hazel twig, which he had taken from the copse adjoining the gipsy's tent—had cut his finger, which made him angry with the knife—at that moment the gipsy had come out of his tent, and offered him a string of birds' eggs for it—and he had accordingly made the exchange on the spot.
The next question was, "Would he know the man with whom he made the exchange?"
To this he gave the same answer as he had before given to Mr. Harvey.
Unknown to the boy, who continued to look wistfully on the knife, though he made not the slightest attempt to take it, the gipsy had been so placed in court among others, as to be distinct, but not conspicuous. Little James was told to see if he could discover in the crowd the man with whom he bartered his knife.
At first he looked in the wrong direction; but the moment he turned, his eye fell upon the gipsy.
"There he is!" said he, pointing the prisoner out; and his whole frame trembling with eagerness, he clasped Mr. Harvey's hand, and exclaimed, "Oh, sir, you said I should perhaps get back my grandfather's knife: he may have all my money."
So saying, he produced his little box, which he had brought with him.
Not one in the court but marked the change of the gipsy's face when he caught sight of the child standing with the knife in his hand. He turned pale as death, and a shudder passed from head to foot. Whatever might be his feeling, it was checked and concealed almost instantly; and the look of terror was succeeded by one of such ferocity, fixed on the child, that he clung to Mr. Harvey, crying, "I do not want to have my knife again without paying."
On the female, the appearance of the child produced no effect. The testimony of James's father proved that the exchange had taken place the very day before the murder.
The chain of evidence was now complete, and the counsel for the prosecution stated that he had no more questions to put.
The prisoner was then asked whether he had aught to say in his defence, and especially in explanation of the remarkable fact so providentially brought to light? He sullenly owned to having bought the knife, but said he had dropped it out of his pocket the same day.
All were persuaded of the guilt of the man; but a strong feeling of the innocence of the woman prevailed: when suddenly the gipsy turned to his companion, and in a low voice said something in the unknown language he had before used. The effect of the words on the woman was fearful; her loud, long, heart-broken shriek rang through the court, and she sank on her knees, half, it seemed, in an attitude of supplication, half from inability to support herself. She stretched forth her arms towards the prisoner, whose face, for the first time, wore an expression of tenderness, as he gazed upon her and spoke in a singularly sweet and softly modulated tone. She rose from her knees; and whatever the last sentence was, it restored her to tranquillity. All this passed in a moment, for the prisoners were immediately surrounded, and all further communication cut off between them.
A breathless silence prevailed as the judge gave his charge to the jury. He spoke but briefly of the enormity of the crime—this murder of the aged, the defenceless, and the poor: the general horror which pervaded every one present shewed that amplification was unnecessary. The very brevity had its effect; it was as if the deed were too terrible to be dwelt upon in human hearing. He enlarged more on the folly of guilt, which is so frequently, and was in the present instance so unexpectedly awakened from its blind security, not by the chance of discovery against which it had successfully and yet vainly guarded, but by some little circumstance whose effects had never been feared. He then summed up the various facts which brought the murder home to the gipsy—the vicinity of his encampment—his hurried departure—the purchase of the knife—the clearness with which the child gave his account, and identified the prisoner—the singular carelessness which left the knife behind, as if fated that a discovery should be made—all was conclusive of the real criminal.
The guilt of the female was perhaps less indubitably proved; but when her entire subjection to her husband was taken into consideration—the impossibility of his having committed the murder without her knowledge—the secret speech which, even in the very hearing of the court, had been carried on between them—all these brought conviction of her knowledge of, if not participation in the bloody deed. If any doubt rested on the jury's mind in favour of the prisoners, it was their duty to give the suspected the full benefit of that doubt.
The jury retired; their deliberation was brief, but fatal; and a verdict of guilty was returned against both. The judge recorded the sentence, and pronounced the penalty—death.
"Death!" shrieked the female prisoner, and would have fallen with her face to the earth, but for the arm of the officer at her side. The gipsy himself burst into a torrent of blasphemies and revilings, amid which he was forced from the court.
A low moaning wind, a small sad rain, and a heavy louring sky, were meet accompaniments to the morning of execution. Slowly through the streets wound the gloomy procession; the windows, the pavement, the road, alike crowded with spectators: all the ordinary tasks of day were suspended—life pausing to gaze on death.
Her head bowed on her shoulder, as if it lacked strength to bear up its length of black hair; every shade of colour faded from both lip and cheek, till the face had the fixed and cold rigidity of a corpse, though still beautiful in feature; and the large dark eyes dilated with that look of bewildered terror you see in childhood,—the female seemed stupified and powerless from excess of dread.
The gipsy sat erect in the miserable cart, and every now and then his dark ferocious eye would single out some individual for a piercing and malignant gaze: that night many a pillow was haunted by his peculiar and evil look. He evidently enjoyed the terror of his victims; and but for his fetters, none would have guessed him to be the criminal whom but one short hour separated from eternity.
The gibbet had been erected within fifty yards of Mrs. Bird's shop, and a long and dreary way there was before the murderer could reach the place of his crime and of its punishment. The usually lonely moor was covered with people; and to the left the gallows, dimly seen through the thick fog, stood out every moment more distinctly, as the mist melted into rain. The prisoners were placed upon the scaffold, and their fetters knocked off: so great was the stillness, that almost every ear heard the clank of the chains as they fell to the ground.
Again the clergyman pressed forward to offer the holy, the only hope that can visit such an hour. The gipsy pushed him aside, and actually turned towards the hangman, who, silent and unmoved, waited to perform his dreadful duty.
Suddenly roused from the state of stupefaction to which fear had reduced her, the female filled the air with shrieks. Disengaging herself from the officers, and rushing towards her husband, she clung with all her strength to his arm, imploring him, with frantic violence, not to let them kill her. He led, or rather dragged her to the front of the scaffold.
At this moment, the wind, which had been rising for some time, broke away the thick clouds behind into a line of cold clear light, which threw out the forms of the prisoners into gigantic proportions; while, blowing in the face of the people, it carried every sound forwards with singular distinctness.
Supporting the shuddering, but now speechless creature, the gipsy held her forth to the crowd.
"May the curse," said he, in a wild, shrill voice—so shrill, it was more like a scream—"May the curse of the innocent blood ye will this day shed, rest among you for ever!"
Whispering something, in a tone so low as to be only audible to her, he gave his wife, without one caress or look, to the officer. She stretched her arms towards her husband, but sank back fainting.
The hangman approached.
"Her first," exclaimed the gipsy,—the only touch of human feeling he had shewn.
While the rope was putting round her long slender neck she was quite passive; but her dying struggles were terrible. A suppressed cry of sympathy, a strange low moan—only loud from being so general—rose from the spectators: it sank into silence as the executioner turned to the gipsy. He raised his hand with a fierce gesture of menace to the crowd below, then, allowing the rope to be adjusted with utter carelessness, was launched into the air, and died seemingly without a struggle.
The black cloud, which had been sailing on, now burst, the rain came down in torrents, the crowd rapidly dispersed; and in half an hour, the moor, which had been like a vast plain of human faces, was silent and solitary—there remained only the dark gibbet high in mid-air, and the two bodies swung violently to and fro by the fierce wind.
Towards evening the fitful gleam of the lantern, and the red glare of the torch, fell upon a small, sullen-looking group of the law's officials: the hangman was among them, and his harsh, malignant face given fully to view. Hastily they dug a hole, and at the foot of the gallows buried the wretched woman; but the body of the man was made fast in chains, and left for the scorching sun, the withering wind, and the birds of prey, to preserve or to destroy. The torches were extinguished; a flickering light from the lantern shone for a while over the scene—gradually diminishing, till it finally disappeared. Long was it before human step ventured across the dismal and deserted moor.
About a week after the execution, two circumstances occurred which tended greatly to criminate the man and exculpate his wife. All the missing articles of Mrs. Bird's property were found in a hollow tree, deep in the hazel thicket, tied up in an old yellow handkerchief, which the villagers remembered seeing the gipsy wear. One fact went far to prove Rachel's innocence. Some months after, a girl, who was in service, and had come home for a few days to be present at her sister's wedding, mentioned that she had the very morning of the murder set off early for the town of A . . . . ., where she was to meet the waggon—that she had had her fortune told by the woman, and had hurried away on seeing the husband approaching from the hazel thicket, she having always feared and disliked him. This was between seven and eight o'clock, just the time when the murder must have been committed; for John Dodd, the carrier, was there about half-past eight, and the body was then warm with recent life.
The belief in the innocence of the woman gave even a deeper horror to the moor: the shop went to ruins, the path was deserted, and even now, when the gallows-tree and the body have alike gone to decay, the tradition haunts the place fresh and fearful as ever. One trace remains of the little cottage-garden. In the midst of the bare or furze-covered moor are two or three stunted gooseberry bushes: it is years since they have borne fruit, or more than a few leaves on the grey and knotted boughs; but they are still pointed out as having grown in Mrs. Bird's garden.