University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE TRIAL.

We must now pass briefly
over the minor events of our
story, and come to those which
decided the fate of our hero.
Marian, in company with her
father or Mr. Warren, visited
Arthur some two or three
times a week; and though
they could give him little
hope of a full acquittal by
jury, yet they did much to
lighten the tedium of the
heavy hours. Arthur was no
longer misanthropical, but melancholy;
and now that he
had every desire to live, the
thought of what might be his
doom, preyed heavily upon
his spirits. While he believed
mankind false, he cared little
what they thought of him,
and the future gave him no
uneasiness—for he fancied he
had reached the ultima thule
of misery, and even death itself
was stripped of all terrors;
but since his first interview
with Marian—since he had
discovered how greatly he had
deceived himself—since he

had learned how truly he was
beloved for himself alone—
the case was entirely changed;
and he looked forward to that
point of time, which must
make certain an uncertainty,
with eagerness and fear, scarcely
with hope, for he dared not
hope. The long suspense now
became deeply trying; and no
longer able to find relief in
books, he grew dejected, and
gloomy, and thin, and haggard,
and fears were entertained by
his friends that his physical
powers would not sustain him
through the trial. Every thing
calculated to cheer, was told
him; and every thing likely
to produce an opposite effect,
carefully withheld. Daily he
made inquiries concerning his
mother, and daily was he informed
that her case was no
worse, and sometimes that it
was thought to be better,
though she had not yet fully
recovered her reason

The truth was, Arthur was
continually in the mind of
Mrs. Warren; she was ever
asking for him; and the physician
gave it as his opinion,
that if he could be restored to
her, freed from danger, she
would speedily recover—but
otherwise, he feared the worst.
Oh! what must have been the
feelings of the husband and
father! and with what painful
anxiety must he have looked
forward to the period that
would decide the fate of those
so dear to him! Should Arthur
be acquitted, all might
yet be well; happiness, like
the wandering dove, might
once more return to his ark;
but should Arthur be condemned,
then—oh! then—
alas! he dared not think what
might be then. He, like Arthur,
wasted away, grew thin
and haggard, spoke little,
grieved in silence and solitude,
and passed most of his nights
in prayer, and restless agony,
and the feverish sleep which
gives startling dreams. Already
his dark hair, which
time had left untouched, had
become quite gray with sorrow;
and it was believed by
his friends that he would not
long survive his family, but
sink into the grave, a broken-hearted
man.

Great was the sensation,
therefore, throughout the
country, where all these facts
were known, as the day appointed
for the trial of Arthur
Warren drew near. It came
at last, and Bertram was filled
with strangers, drawn hither
by business and curiosity, but
all eager to be present at the
trial. The court-house was a
two story wooden building, of
small dimensions, with a cupola,
and stood upon a slight
eminence, near the central
part of the village, surrounded
by a pleasant yard, enclosed
by a hewn post and rail fence.
This yard, at an early hour,
was crowded by anxious spectators;
and the entrance to the
court-house was so densely
blocked up by human beings,

that the sheriff and constables
had no little difficulty in forcing
a way for the court, and
those connected with the trial.
The court-room itself, being
small, was instantly crammed
almost to suffocation, more
than one person was injured
by the rush, and hundreds
without either went away disappointed,
or lingered around
the door, vainly hoping that
by some fortunate chance they
would yet gain admittance.
To avoid another scene of excitement,
the prisoner and his
friends were smuggled in by
a rear entrance—so that very
few of those without, who still
hung around the court-house,
for the purpose of getting a
sight of him, had their curiosity
gratified.

Arthur Warren entered the
court-room, accompanied by
his father, his counsel and the
sheriff, and taking his seat
within the bar, ran his eye
rapidly over the assemblage.
Those who had known him
previous to his confinement,
were struck with the alteration
in his appearance; and
some could hardly credit the
fact, that that thin, pale, haggard,
melancholy face, belonged
to the once gay,
sprightly, noble-hearted Arthur
Warren.

Ere the sensation caused
by the prisoner's entrance
had fairly subsided, it was renewed,
in degree, by the appearance
of Mr. Waldegrave,
accompanied by his wife and
Marian. The last mentioned
person leaned on her father's
arm, and advanced with a
tremulous step to a seat reserved
for her; but a double
veil concealed her features
from the most prying eyes,
and put curiosity at fault.
A buzz of speculation, however,
ran among the spectators,
which was finally
checked by the crier calling
out, in a loud voice:

“Silence in the court!”

The bench was composed
of three judges—the president
being a man advanced in
years, with gray hair, and a
dignified and benevolent countenance.
As he was known
to be a personal friend of the
proprietors of Walde-Warren,
some argued that he would
lean strongly to the side of
the prisoner; but they underrated
his character; for he
was a man of stern integrity,
and regarded not friendship
in the official discharge of
his duty.

Silence being restored, he
announced, in a calm, quiet
tone, that the court was now
ready to proceed with the
case of Arthur Warren, indicted
for the murder of one
Ernest Clifford; and he trusted
the spectators, whether
friends or otherwise of the
accused, would preserve strict
order and decorum, and not
seek, by any public manifestation,
to influence the

minds of those whose duty it
was to give the prisoner an
impartial trial.

The next thing in order,
was the empaneling of the
jury; and this, owing to a
great portion of those summoned
having expressed an
opinion on the subject, and
had therefore to be set aside,
occupied some two or three
hours; and on the last man
being sworn in, the court took
a recess of half an hour.

On the re-assembling of
the court, the indictment was
read, charging Arthur Warren
with having on a certain day,
between such and such hours,
at such a place, with malice
aforethought, and by means
of a certain sharp-pointed instrument
or instruments, feloniously
taken the life of
Ernest Clifford, et cetera, et
cetera. When the clerk had
finished reading this technical
paper:

“Arthur Warren,” said
Judge Whitmore, in a tone
of deep solemnity, amid a
breathless silence, that had in
it something awful, “you are
now put upon a trial for your
life; you have heard the accusation;
do you plead guilty
or not guilty?”

There was a moment of intense,
breathless suspense,
during which the accused,
who had risen to his feet,
seemed struggling with his
feelings; and then the words,
“Not guilty,” rang out clear,
distinct, and almost startling;
and the prisoner resumed his
seat amid a deep sensation.

“Let the trial proceed!”
said the Judge; and the prosecuting
attorney opened the
case, by a brief statement to the
jury of the facts he expected
to prove; but these facts,
being already known to the
reader, it is unnecessary for
us to recapitulate in detail.

The first witness called was
Mr. Nixon, who, being duly
sworn, proceeded to state that
he knew the deceased; that
he had first seen him in April
last, in company with the accused—both
having arrived
in Walde-Warren by the
stage at the same time; and
so forth, and so on. He was
upon the stand nearly an hour,
before he gave in the direct
evidence, which bore most
strongly upon the guilt of the
prisoner. When he came to
speak of how he had followed
Arthur; how he had seen
him and the deceased some
half a mile in advance of him,
and not far apart; how he had
quickened his pace, till he
came to the spot where the
fatal deed had been committed,
and in what position he had
found the accused; and in
short all that had been said
and done by either party,
together with a sickening
detail of the appearance of the
deceased: when he came to
speak of all this, we say, the
sensation in the court-room—
among the bench, jury, bar,
and spectators—was, to use

an expressive term, tremendous;
and it was thought by
many there was no possibility
of the prisoner being acquitted.
The knife being
produced, with which the
fatal deed had been committed,
it was identified by the witness
as the one he had seen
in the hand of the accused.

“And this knife, may it
please the court,” said the
attorney for the prosecution,
“we can, if necessary, prove
to be the property of the accused.”

“We shall not require you
to do so,” replied the counsel
for the prisoner, “since the
accused, openly through me,
acknowledges the fact, coupled
with the statement, that
the knife had not been in his
possession for more than a
month prior to the deed of
which he stands charged.”

The direct and cross examination
of Mr. Nixon occupied
the greater portion of
the afternoon session.

The next testimony called
was the coroner, who briefly,
but clearly stated in what
position and condition he had
found the deceased—described
his wounds, of which there
were three—and named the
articles that were on his person.

“Do you think the wounds
were all made with that
knife?” inquired the counsel
for defence, pointing to the
fatal weapon.

“I do.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because they were precisely
such wounds as such
an instrument make.”

“Do you speak knowingly
on the subject?

“I am, by profession, a
surgeon.”

“Could not the deceased
have inflicted them upon
himself?”

“I should judge not.”

“And why not?”

“Because he could not
have made the wound in the
abdomen, after stabbing himself
to the heart; and he
would hardly have had
strength to press the knife
through the heart, after stabbing
himself in the abdomen
—to say nothing of the third
wound on the thorax, which
he would not have been likely
to have made at all.”

“Was there any evidence
of there having been resistance
on the part of the deceased?”

“There was a slight fleshcut,
leading from the stab on
the thorax, as if the deceased
had turned quickly on being
struck there.”

The next witness called
was George Nixon, the son of
the inn-keeper, who repeated
what had passed between Arthur
Warren and himself on
the fatal morning.

“Did the prisoner seem excited
and angry?” inquired
the prosecution.

“Yes, sir—I thought he
was very angry from his
looks.”

On the conclusion of young
Nixon's testimony, the court
adjourned.

At an early hour on the following
morning, the courtyard
was again crowded by
hundreds of eager persons,
and the scene presented on the
opening of the Court was so
much like that of the preceding
day, that one description
will answer for both. The
appearance of Arthur was, if
any thing, more haggard and
downcast, than the day before.
No wonder, poor fellow!
for he had slept none
during the night.

The first witness called on
the second day, was one of
those who had been preseet
when the deceased struck
the accused. He briefly described
the event as it occurred,
repeated the words
that had passed between the
parties, and said he was
one of several present who
had interfered to separate
them.

“Did you observe the prisoner
closely,” inquired the
prosecution, “after he was
struck?”

“I did, for I had hold of
him.”

“How did he conduct himself?”

“Like a man insane with
passion.”

“You say he made use of
threatening language—will
you repeat his words?”

“`A blow!” he cried; `a
blow! the stigma of a blow can
only be effaced by blood! Oh,
he shall pay dearly for this!' ”
and the witness continued to
repeat much more that was
said of a like nature—with
which, however, we do not
think necessary to trouble the
reader—concluding with Arthur's
last words, as he drove
away: “ `Gentlemen, you
have succeeded in preventing
me chastising a villain now;
but we shall meet again, and
then let him beware!' ”

Several other witnesses
were now called in succession,
whose testimony was merely
corroborative of that just recorded.

“Much of this last evidence,
we might, perhaps,
have omitted,” said the prosecution;
“but we wished to
convince the jury of premeditation
on the part of the accused.
Much more testimony
of a like nature—all tending
to the same thing—all going
to prove—ay, gentlemen of
the jury, and proving, too, beyond
a cavil, malice aforethought,
we could produce,
and would produce, but that
we know our case requires it
not, and we do not wish to
trespass needlessly on your
valuable time. We will,
therefore, call only one witness
more; and, apropos—here
she comes.”

As this was said, all eyes
were turned to the door; and
quite a sensation was created,
by perceiving Marian
Waldegrave, deeply veiled,
as on the preceding day, leaning
heavily on her father's
arm, and advancing with a
tremulous step. On being conducted
to the stand, she appeared
greatly agitated, and
showed signs of fainting; and
it was not till she had drank
part of a glass of water which
was handed her, that she became
sufficiently collected to
go through the simple ceremony
of taking the oath.
Her veil was now partly
drawn aside; and the eagerness
of the spectators to get
a glimpse of her face, caused
an unusual commotion in the
court-room; and the words,
“Silence,” and “Order,” had
to be several times repeated,
ere the tumult subsided.
Those who did see the countenance
of Marian, were
struck by its loveliness, pallor,
and the anguish of its expression.

“Miss Waldegrave,” said
the attorney for the State,
when silence was again restored,
“we are informed that
the accused was with you at
an early hour—say before sun-rise—on
the morning of the
day on which the deceased
came to a violent death.”

“He was,” replied Marian,
in a tone scarcely audible.

“We shall spare you a
repetition of much that was
said at that interview—but
we wish you to state all that
was spoken concerning the
deceased.”

After a short pause, during
which Marian seemed to be
collecting her thoughts, and
nerving herself for the task,
she proceeded in a barely audible
tone, to repeat that portion
of the conversation between
Arthur and herself relative
to Ernest Clifford. As the
reader can refer to it himself,
in case it is forgotten, we
shall not record it here.

“You say,” pursued the
attorney, in the course of the
examination, “you urged the
accused not to see the deceased—why?—had
you any
fear of what subsequently
happened?”

“Not as it did happen,”
replied Marian; “my fear
was that the opposite party
would be the victim—for I
believed Arthur Warren incapable
of such a crime.”

This was spoken in a
louder and firmer tone than
any of the previous answers,
and being distinctly
heard, caused quite a sensation
among the audience.

“Are you of the same opinion
still, Miss Waldegrave?”
inquired the attorney, with a
slight curl of the lip, which
seemed to say, “It is perfectly
immaterial whether you
are or not.”

“We are here to listen to

facts, and not to the opinions
of witnesses,” interposed
Judge Whitmore.

“Nevertheless,” said Marian,
with unusual energy of
tone—roused to this by the
insidious sneer of the attorney,
which she had not failed
to perceive—while a bright
glow spread over lovely features,
making them radiant as
with a lofty purpose: “Nevertheless,
so may it please the
court, I will answer the question:
I am of the same opinion
still; and I here publicly pronounce
Arthur Warren innocent
of the murder of Ernest
Clifford.”

There was no tremor in the
voice of Marian as she said
this—her bearing had in it
all the majesty of a queen—
and the words rang out clear,
earnest and thrilling. A momentary
silence followed her
speech, during which you
might have heard the fall of
a pin; a feeling approaching
awe seemed to pervade the
entire assemblage; and bench,
bar, jury, and spectators, were
alike dumb with surprise.
Then a low murmur began
to run around the room, but
was quickly checked by the
sharp, angry voice of the attorney,
who said:

“You take a great responsibility
upon yourself madam;
may we know on what grounds
you so positively assert the innocence
of the prisoner?”

“Because he says he did
not do it,” answered Marian,
in a firm, quiet tone, still supported
by the lofty purpose
she had in view, that of defending
the character of him
she loved; “and I appeal to
all present—(here she took a
sweeping glance of the entire
auditory) ay, and to all
who know Arthur Warren—
I appeal to any, and to all,
to say they ever heard him
utter an untruth?”

“No, no! never—never!”
cried at least fifty voices,
amid great noise and confusion;
and it was some five
minutes, so intense was the
excitement, before order and
silence could again be restored.

On hearing the appeal of
her he loved, and the quick,
eager, simultaneous replies of
the spectators, amounting to a
regular shout, poor Arthur,
unable to control his emotions,
covered his face with a handkerchief,
and wept like a child.
As for Marian, the moment
she began to consider what
she had said, and the construction
that might be put upon
her singular proceeding and
language, she hastily drew her
veil over her face, overwhelmed
with shame and confusion,
and sunk half fainting upon
a seat, which a gentleman of
the bar kindly handed her.

“We must have no more
of this!” said Judge Whitmore,
in a severe tone, as soon
as he could make his voice
heard. “All persons, of whichever
sex, must henceforth confine

themselves within the
limits of propriety, or suffer
the penalty for contempt of
court.”

But few more questions were
asked Marian; and on the conclusion
of her testimony, the
prosecution said:

“We rest our case here.”

It being now somewhat late
in the afternoon, the court adjourned.