Norman Leslie a tale of the present times |
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| 26. | CHAPTER XXVI. |
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 | CHAPTER XXVI. Norman Leslie |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
Hope dawns.
“But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair!”
—Collins.
“The gentleman appears peculiarly favoured by
the fair sex,” said Mr. Germain, half aloud.
“Is it another sister?” asked a juror.
“No,” replied the counsel, quickly, and, in a
voice too low to be distinctly heard, added something
which occasioned a laugh among those immediately
around him, and even from one or two
of the jurors.
The witness was narrowly scrutinized by all
eyes, and, though wrapped in her veil and bonnet,
was observed to shrink at thus appearing before
the public. Her step faltered; her voice, as she
replied to the judge's question concerning her
name, trembled, and was so low as to render her
reply at first unintelligible. She made a gesture,
too, of faintness, at the rude laugh directed apparently
against herself.
“Sit down, madam,” said Moreland, in a soothing
tone; “you have nothing to fear.”
“What is the young lady's name?” asked the
judge.
“Miss Temple—Flora Temple,” answered
her voice and composure.
An exclamation of surprise from the prisoner
announced that to him her name brought astonishment.
He stirred, changed his position, and leaned
forward.
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Temple,” said Mr.
Loring; “take your own time to reply. You are
a resident of New-York? You are daughter of Mr.
Herman Temple? You are acquainted with the
prisoner?”
These and one or two other similar interrogatories
were put by the careful counsel, in order to
lead the witness from her embarrassment. They
were answered, at first, in a voice almost inaudible.
“Louder, louder,” said Mr. Germain. “If the
young lady will have the goodness to speak louder,
we may at least hear what this wonderful secret
is.”
“You are acquainted with the prisoner?” said
Mr. Loring.
“I have known him for some years,” was the
reply, in a tone much more loud and distinct, but
so soft and full of music that a murmur of interest
was heard in her behalf.
“Are you related to him in any way?” asked
Germain.
“Not in the least.”
“Are you likely, or rather have you ever been
likely to be?” added Germain, bluntly, and with
another laugh.
“The witness is ours,” said Moreland; “and I
must again beg and entreat of the court protection
from derision.”
“Have you any interest in the result of this
cause?” asked Loring.
“Oh yes, yes!” was the answer.
“Then, may it please the court,” said Germain,
starting up, “I move that—”
“She is interested only, as we are all interested,
in the triumph of truth,” said Moreland.
“You are putting words into the witness's mouth,”
interrupted Germain.
A brisk interchange of elocution here took place,
too common in courts of justice, when every trivial
point is attacked and defended with the thunder of
battle-axe and the clash of swords, and the most
unjust devices of ingenuity (in other transactions
what would it be termed?) are not abandoned without
a skirmish. Lawyers' tongues are sharp as
soldiers' swords, and sometimes cut as deep; and
wo betide the modest, the pure, the defenceless,
who come between the “great opposites” in the
keen excitement of an interesting case. It would
not be fair to advance this charge against the whole
American bar, but there is too much truth in it.
Great is the praise, therefore, due to those who redeem
the character of the profession by a more
moderate and generous course, who pursue their
client's interest only as far as sanctioned by propriety
and honour; and who, in the most absorbing
interest of their pursuit, preserve a reverence for
truth, and never, never offend the delicacy due to
woman. Yet the most honest witness in a court
of justice frequently finds himself stung with sarcasms,
attacked with the bitterness of malice, flatly
charged with perjury, overwhelmed with odium,
and dismissed with disgrace from a station to which
the court has forced him, after delivering testimony,
perhaps, the most repugnant to his own private feelings;
and for this degradation, neither the law nor
the customs of society offer redress.
“Have you any personal, any pecuniary interest
in the event of this action?” asked the counsel.
“Oh no, no!” replied Miss Temple.
“And now,” said Mr. Loring, “pray tell the jury,
in a distinct voice, what you know of the prisoner.”
“I have met Mr. Leslie frequently in company,
and at my father's house. His manners have been
always gentle, and his character high and noble;
certainly the character of a man quite, quite incapable
of—”
Germain rose. Moreland rose also. The judge
sternly commanded both to be seated.
“You say you know the prisoner's character to
be good?”
“I do.”
“Were you acquainted with Rosalie Romain?”
“I was.”
“Familiarly?”
“Quite so.”
“What was her character?”
Flora looked down at the unhappy father, and
hesitated; but, remembering the imperative nature
of her duty, continued,—
“She was light, and very eccentric.”
“Do you believe her, from what you know, capable
of so remarkable a measure as eloping?”
“I do. She wanted steadiness of mind, and was
actuated by sudden impulses.”
“Were you familiarly acquainted with her features?”
“Quite familiarly. Her appearance and face
were very peculiar. She was tall, graceful, majestic,
and very beautiful.”
Mr. Romain, who had followed the testimony of
this witness with mute and strained attention, now
leaned his forehead on the table, wept, and murmured,
“My child, my child!”
“Go on,” said the judge.
“The afternoon on which she was said to have
been murdered, I was one of a party walking rather
late in the evening on the Battery. The gentleman
who happened to be my companion led me
from the rest towards the water-side, to behold an
effect of the light on the opposite shore.”
“Tell who the gentleman was,” said Mr. Germain.
“It was Mr. Leslie, the prisoner.”
“Oh ho! I see through this!” muttered Germain,
laughing and rubbing his hands knowingly.
“It was an uncommonly clear, moonlight evening;
and while we gazed at the light, I saw very
distinctly Rosalie Romain.”
“God of heaven!” cried Mr. Romain, rising suddenly;
“this has crossed me before. My blessed
young lady, are you sure?”
“Mr. Romain,” said the court, affected evidently,
but with an effort, “we must endeavour to suppress
these sudden bursts of feeling; they greatly impede
the proceedings.”
But the contagion of surprise had passed through
the whole audience. There was a general pause—
a movement and agitated commotion, quelled not
without some delay and difficulty.
“Proceed, Miss Temple,” said Mr. Loring.
“You saw Miss Romain?”
“Wrapped in a veil. She saw us, started, and
turned away.”
Mr. Loring rose. “I have produced this witness,
may it please the court, to establish beyond
the shadow of a doubt” (with that deliberate emphasis
familiar to lawyers) “the innocence of the
prisoner. She is an unimpeachable witness. We
rest our defence. I yield her to the ingenuity of
our learned opponents. They will, doubtless, endeavour
with unshaken confidence in the result of this important
testimony. Far from the prisoner's having
been guilty of murder, it appears that no murder
has been committed at all. The witness, gentlemen,
is yours.”
It is a painfully interesting moment when the witness,
whose testimony, if left as it has been delivered,
would certainly acquit the being trembling
with every tone of her voice for his life, is turned
over to the destroying malignity of the other party.
The fabric, apparently impregnable, in which the
persecuted, hunted-down prisoner has taken refuge,
becomes the scene of a furious attack. Blow after
blow, all the machinery of wit, cunning, and learning,
are brought to play upon it, till, yielding to fate,
its gates broken in, its foundations undermined, at
length it falls to the ground.
“This is a ghost-story,” said Germain, with an
incredulous smile. “Let us see, miss, if we cannot
unravel the mystery.”
And the lively interest of all present, including
Mr. Loring, notwithstanding his “unshaken confidence,”
acknowledged their strongly excited curiosity.
“You say,” said Germain, with a taunting, sneering
air, “that you were walking with the prisoner
when you beheld this apparition?”
“I have not referred to any apparition,” said the
witness, quietly.
“Oh ho! we congratulate your reviving spirits.
When you saw Rosalie Romain, then, if you prefer
that form of expression?”
“I said so, sir.”
“And pray what time was it?” with a look and
almost a wink at the jury.
“The clock had struck nine.”
“Ah, after nine at night! And the phantom was
accompanied by whom?”
“By another female.”
“You saw Rosalie Romain, after nine o'clock at
night, with another female! Well, upon my word,
young lady, this is a probable story! What was
she doing there? Riding on a broomstick?”
“She was doing nothing. She passed us.”
“Veiled?”
“Yes, sir, thickly veiled.”
“Your eyes, I presume,” with another sly wink
to the jury, “possess some extraordinary organic
power above those of common mortals, not gifted
with the privilege of seeing phantoms. So you recognised
Rosalie Romain through the folds of a thick
veil, and in the darkness of night! More men in
buckram, gentlemen.”
“Passing a lamp, the glare fell on her face. She
drew the veil aside a moment as she came near;
then covering herself again hastily, quickened her
step, and was immediately out of sight.”
“Oh, that was very kind in her, to let you see
her face, was it not? You have told a probable and
very interesting story — very romantic, at least.
What did the prisoner do all this time? Did he
say nothing?”
The witness was silent.
“Ah! he said something you are unwilling to
reveal. Come, what was it? Remember, you
are on oath—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth.”
“He said,” replied the witness, in a lower tone,
“that he did not think the person we had seen was
Miss Romain.”
“Oh ho! now you are coming to the crisis. So
the prisoner did not think the person you had seen
was Rosalie Romain?”
“No, sir.”
“And you did?”
“I did.”
“And do?”
“And do.”
“Who saw her first?”
“Mr. Leslie.”
“Ah ha! And pointed her out to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then immediately rejected the idea, as if
he knew the impossibility of her being there?”
“He exhibited no certainty; he said, indifferently,
it could not possibly be her.”
“Ah ha! so, so! As I said, you see, gentlemen.
Pray, madam, have you ever been contracted
in marriage?”
“No, sir.”
“You must excuse me if I enter a little into particulars.
Have you ever been under any engagement
of matrimony?”
“Never.”
“Perfectly free? Has Mr. Leslie never—”
Again Moreland interfered. Again Germain defended
his question.
“What do the prosecution wish to prove?” asked
the judge.
“That this worthy young lady,” said Germain,
“who may be honest enough in the ordinary affairs
of life, comes here now under the influence of
strong feelings of love, to save a man whom—”
“I protest!” said Moreland.
“I insist!” said Germain.
“Do you wish to impeach the testimony of this
witness?” asked the judge.
Flora trembled and shrank. The prisoner rose
again. His eyes flashed upon Germain a look of
moment beneath its fire.
Moreland begged the interference of the court.
“We wish to show, may it please the court,”
added Germain, “that the young lady is about as
disinterested a witness as the learned gentleman is
a counsel—the one testifying for her lover, the
other pleading for his friend.”
“Order, gentlemen,” cried the judge.
“And what,” resumed Germain, “is this love-sick
young lady and her affections, which the next
breeze will bear away—what are her pretty sensibilities
to the great cause and majesty of public
justice, to the proper administration of laws, and
to purging the commonwealth from black and
hateful crimes! I do not mean, may it please
your honour, to charge this young lady with perjury;
but I do mean to suggest that a sentiment
of love has existed, and still exists, between the
witness and the prisoner; that her feelings warp
her judgment, and have presented to her what
she desires to have seen rather than what she
saw. Some remote resemblance between a night-wandering
female on the Battery and the deceased,
struck her eye, and is now remembered in this
emergency. If there were probability in her
conjecture, probability even to seize upon the
memory of the wretched culprit himself, why has
this witness been delayed so long? Why was it
left to the discovery of accident? Why did not
the prisoner call upon her to advance? Why was
she not subpœnaed by the defence? A love-sick
girl, with her head full of novels, and her heart—”
The prisoner once more rose and interrupted the
speaker with a haughty and determined air, and,
in a voice deep and rich, that sounded strangely
impressive in the sudden hush, said,—
“Being here a defenceless man, I invoke the aid
of the court against these attacks upon my friends.
I solicit no sympathy or mercy on my own part.
I yield my blood to the demands of fate and of
mistaken justice. But, as the last request of a
doomed, a dying, and an innocent man, I entreat
that the malignity which animates the learned
gentlemen of the prosecution may pour out its exclusive
fury on my head. I entreat that those who
appear in my behalf may be protected from unjust
suspicion and wanton insult. There never has
been any such sentiment as the learned gentleman
so frequently refers to, exchanged between that
young lady and myself. On the contrary, she has
uniformly treated me with the utmost reserve, and
I am most unwilling that she should now suffer for
her magnanimity in appearing before a tribunal
where the modesty of woman is so little respected,
and in favour of one who to her has always been,
and must ever be, less than nothing.”
He sat down with flashing eyes, but a haughty
and proud demeanour; and there had been such a
fascination in the smooth, fierce, indignant flow of
his words, and in the deep vehemence, feeling,
and solemnity of his face, voice, and manner, and
such interest was universally experienced to hear
what he had to say, that he was not interrupted.
But immediately on his close, his interference was
pronounced out of order, and the stir following his
words was with some difficulty quieted. The witness
drew her veil closer at the sound of his voice,
but said nothing, and awaited motionless the next
interrogation.
“I have only one or two more questions,” said
Mr. Germain. “Can you swear, Miss Temple—
but,” he added abrupty, “I will thank you to put
without seeing her face.”
Miss Temple, after a moment of hesitation,
completely, and, for the first time, fully revealed to
the spectators the features of an exquisitely lovely
young creature, beautiful beyond description. Her
light auburn hair parted with simplicity on her
forehead, a pair of large, tender blue eyes, drooping
beneath the general gaze, and lifted only once,
as if to glance reproachfully upon the countenance
of the harsh querist. Modesty and sweetness
were expressed upon her face with the most graceful
and feminine charm. All eyes regarded her
with strong and new sympathy and admiration.
Some surprise was manifested at her extreme paleness.
The prisoner riveted his eyes on her a few
moments with an expression of deep melancholy,
and then leaned down his forehead upon his hand
in silence.
Germain, who, by his rudeness, had given the
unconsciously beautiful girl this decided advantage
over him, found himself in the situation of a
warrior, who, pressing his pursuit too eagerly, sinks
into some snare of the enemy. He was himself
slightly surprised and embarrassed at the sweetness
and refinement of her towards whom he had
exhibited so little tenderness, and it seemed that
his conscience smote him.
“You will pardon my abruptness, my dear
young lady,” he said; “I am truly sorry that duty
compels me to put painful questions. You must
inform the jury whether you have been always
entirely free from matrimonial engagements with
the prisoner.”
“The question is not painful,” she replied, in a
mild and slightly tremulous tone. “Nothing of
the kind has ever taken place between Mr. Leslie
understood that Mr. Leslie was attached to Miss
Romain.”
“And do you believe it?”
“I do.”
“One more question—and remember, young
lady, you are on your oath, and the Creator of
all things sees your heart. Tell me now, solemnly,
are you prepared to swear actually, absolutely, and
positively, that the person you saw, on the night
of the supposed murder, was Rosalie Romain? can
you swear to this to a certainty?”
“I can swear to nothing,” replied the witness,
“with actual certainty; but—”
“She cannot swear with certainty!” cried Germain,
triumphantly, turning to the jury.
“She cannot swear with certainty!” echoed
one.
“She cannot swear with certainty!” reiterated
another.
“But I clearly think so,” cried the witness,
with a faint attempt not to be borne down by the
undiscriminating vehemence of her opponents.
“She only thinks—she only fancies,” interrupted
Germain; “it is precisely as I thought, a mere
conjecture. You see, gentlemen, after all, this
important witness is nothing—nothing whatever.”
Some other questions were advanced in turn by
either party, but nothing new was elicited. After
the examination of two or three witnesses, to settle
and define minor points, the evidence was
closed, and the counsel for the defence addressed
the jury.
It rarely happens that two advocates upon the
same evidence can frame appeals very different
from each other. Yet perhaps few instances could
be produced where speeches were made more
the two counsel for the prisoner. Mr. Loring was
cool, technical, and wary. He examined the
proof, item after item, with a cautious hand and a
keen eye, but yet with a sophistry which his opponent
knew how to counteract by similar weapons.
Moreland took a higher ground; and the contagious
sympathy and confidence which he had now
fully imbibed himself, kindled a kindred fire in the
bosoms of his hearers. He did not fail also to
persuade reason by deliberate examination of the
proof, but it was with the ardour of one who felt
and believed what he asserted. His able and eloquent
discourse was listened to with the profoundest
attention. The jurors sometimes nodded their
heads in acquiescence, and sometimes, by their
countenance, expressed surprise and pleasure at
the unexpected inferences which, under his acute
and ingenious intelligence, many points in proof
were made to yield. Several facts, apparently
most fatal to the prisoner, were now presented in
a light so new as to elucidate his innocence; and
long before he had finished with a technical consideration
of the testimony, he had awakened in
every breast a lively confidence in the innocence
of the prisoner, and had thrown about him a kind
of interest like the halo of a martyr.
Horse-racing, theatres, and gambling, enchain
men by their excitement; but it may be questioned
whether any can exceed the interest with which a
mind fully understanding the bearings of a case,
and interested from affection, or even ordinary
sympathy, follows the perpetual and sudden vicissitudes
in the course of such a trial. It presents
a continued and striking series of changes; rapid
and shifting alternations of light and shadow, of
ebb and flow of hope. The future changes, and
brightens, and sinks in gloom, as facts break
through the mist, and melt away again with the
breath of the witness, or the magic of the orator.
The truth resembles a mountain-peak enveloped
in clouds: now the billowy vapours bury its
sharp outlines in gloom; again the breeze wafts
them away, and leaves its airy and unbroken summit
shining in the sun. Thus had the prospect of
the prisoner, his character and his crime, appeared
to the spectators and jury, till, under the transforming
wand of Moreland, they beheld the darkness
vanish. The prisoner himself was softened.
His noble and handsome face yielded to the illumination
of hope and joy. Mr. Romain went up
to him and spoke words of kindness; and the
sister and father hung breathless and almost gasping
upon the music and the magic of the speaker's
lips.
“Gentlemen,” continued the orator, “at length,
at this late hour, exhausted as you must be with
your arduous duties, perhaps I should desist from
further trespassing upon your time. But I remember
with a shudder that mine are the last
words of defence and of hope which the prisoner
at the bar may ever hear. I start at the tremendous
responsibility, and almost sink beneath it.
But faith, hope, justice, and mercy whisper me to
proceed. The life of an innocent human being, of
an amiable and affectionate son, of a beloved brother,
of a citizen of this republic, is at stake. It is
my sacred duty to defend; it is your solemn province
to judge. A word from your lips launches
him into eternity. If he be guilty, I do not ask his
life. Though his sister's heart will break at the
blow,—though his father's silvery forehead will
youth, invested with a thousand noble qualities,
will be cut off from repentance and hope for ever,
—yet, if he be guilty, I do not ask his life. But,
by your own hopes as fathers, as friends, as men—
by the peace which you love on your pillow and in
your dying hour—by the sanctity of innocence and
the rebuking anger of Heaven—I conjure you to
pause and tremble ere you do find him guilty. It
has been alleged against me this day that I am
privately a friend to the prisoner. It has been
charged upon me as an odium, in ridicule and
scorn. I appeal to your own bosoms: who so
well as a friend should be able to judge of his character?
who so well know his ways of thinking and
acting? Is friendship to be a stigma—as we have
this day beheld the heart-broken love of a sister—
a jest, and a mockery?
“As for my own belief, I solemnly declare before
you, and before Him who knows all hearts,
that, after the most indefatigable examination of the
circumstances during a much longer period of
time than you have been able to devote, I believe
the accused totally innocent. When you consider,
gentlemen, the extraordinary facts of the case; the
character of the prisoner; the accidental and public
nature of the fatal and mysterious ride; his
demeanour subsequently; the fact that Miss Temple
saw Rosalie Romain in the evening;—you
must acknowledge that his guilt is doubtful. The
blackest doubt still hangs upon the whole affair.
It is doubtful whether the murder has been committed;
it is doubtful whether the prisoner is the
perpetrator. Miss Romain might have fallen by
another hand; she may have perished by her own;
she may have fled. The law commands you only
to find a verdict in case of certainty; are you cer
is dead? Who has identified the body? Is there
a single person who can prove her decease? Miss
Romain, at some future time, may reappear before
you. What horror would shade your future years!
I call upon you now, while yet in your power, to
save your souls from such a grievous burden. I
warn you of the innocence of the prisoner. In a
few moments you will be compelled to decide.
The doom of death, gentlemen, is mighty, is tremendous,
is irrevocable. You may extinguish a
light which can never be relumed; you may, in
one moment, perpetrate an action which all the
years of your future life may be too short and too
few to sufficiently regret. Before I yield the floor
to my adversaries, let me also warn you against
their ardour and their sophistry. They possess the
prerogative of directing against you the last appeal.
I tremble lest the cunning of art and eloquence
may baffle and blind the truth. I have already
shuddered to hear the noblest virtues derided.
They have already told you that education, refinement,
a warm heart, and an unspotted character,
are the attributes of crime and the signals for suspicion.
I watch the progress of their insidious attacks
upon your reason with the most unalloyed
and intolerable solicitude and distress. Error,
gentlemen, may lurk on either side: but the error
of one is ghastly and fatal, damning to yourselves
and all concerned; while that of the other—if, indeed,
error there be—would, even in its fallacy, approach
the benign spirit of that Redeemer who
looked with pity upon the woes of earth, and who
said, even unto the most abandoned, `Go, and sin
no more.”'
| CHAPTER XXVI. Norman Leslie | |