True womanhood a tale |
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| 22. | CHAPTER XXII. |
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 | CHAPTER XXII. True womanhood |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
The judge reappeared after a few minutes.
“Call your next witness, Mr. Fay,” said he, as he seated himself.
“It would be very desirable to have this matter finished
to-day.”
The remark was well-received by the prosecutor — by the
bar — and even by Mr. Fay himself — though it was understood
by no two persons alike, perhaps.
“Mr. Bayard, will you please take the stand,” said Mr. Fay.
Friend William arose without uncovering, and faced the
crowd. All eyes were turned toward him, with a look of
wonder and pleasure. The benevolent repose — the serene,
hopeful, earnest, intelligent look of the venerable Quaker, with
his abundant white hair, and gentle gravity, appeared to prepossess
all hearts in his favor, and to prepare the way for a
kindlier judgment of the prisoner himself.
“Take off your hat, Sir, if you please, and hold up your
hand,” said the clerk.
“Thee'll excuse me, I hope,” said the witness, appealing with
a significant look, to the bench.
The judge interfered with a smile, such as had not been seen
upon his face before; and the clerk, who, as it happened, being
a new comer, had never been fairly confronted in a court of
justice with a resolute follower of George Fox, gave up the oath,
and consented to take the affirmation of the witness, “under the
pains and penalties of perjury,” without more ado.
“God bless him!” cried Miss Wentworth, from the midst of
a group of listening and trembling women, just loud enough to
reach the ear of the judge, who held up his hand in rebuke, as
friend William prepared to take the stand.
“Mr. Bayard may give his testimony from the place he has
been occupying at the table,” suggested the prosecutor.
“The witness will be better heard by the jury where he is, I
think,” replied Mr. Fay.
“But perhaps he would like a chair,” continued the prosecutor,
determined to prepossess the witness if he could — “Mr.
Officer, hand a chair to the gentleman, if you please.”
“No, I thank thee,” said the witness, nodding to the prosecutor,
and pushing away the offered chair, and glancing at the
judge, whose countenance underwent a sudden change just then,
as if he had that moment, and for the first time, recognized in
William Bayard, an old acquaintance. It was even so; in their
boyhood, they had been much together, and in their early manhood,
when both were fashionable, and rather fast, they had
occasionally met, in Philadelphia and Baltimore, and then lost
sight of each other, as if the earth had opened and swallowed
them both up. The judge was the younger looking man —
though somewhat older in fact — and each seemed astonished
at the appearance of the other — and then a look of earnest
recognition passed between them, and they were both carried
back to the days of their boyhood again, and both left wondering
at themselves, that they should not have instantly known
each other “at sight.”
At this moment, and just as Mr. Fay was about propounding
the first question, with all eyes upon him, an officer in attendance
pushed through the crowd, and gave the witness a folded paper.
The good man having run over it, appeared greatly moved.
He lifted his eyes, and half raised his locked hands, while the
prosecutor frowned, the judge looked somewhat displeased, and
even Mr. Fay — the imperturbable Mr. Fay — who up to this
moment, had borne himself with unchangeable serenity, showed
signs of uneasiness.
“The counsel for the prisoner,” said the judge, with a serious,
and somewhat peremptory air, “will proceed.”
“Maybe thee'd better look at this paper first, friend Winthrop,”
said the witness, handing it over to him.
Mr. Fay took the paper with a show of unwillingness, and
a look of impatience; but instantly recovered himself — and
a sort of transfiguration, as if a great burden had been
suddenly lifted from his heart, or a heavy cloud from his pathway.
The change was so abrupt, and so startling, even to
those who knew him best, that when he turned to the bench
and begged to be excused for a few moments — and then to the
witness, praying him to be seated — there was a stirring and
whispering over the whole house — growing louder and louder,
and more and more portentous, like a rising wind in the tops of
the trees, till the judge found it necessary to interfere.
That no time should be lost, however, he had no sooner quelled
the whispering, and assented to Mr. Fay's request, than he ordered
the docket to be called, and in that off-hand, business-like
way which had always distinguished him, notified the parties in
no less than five different cases, to be prepared for trial.
Here was another symptom — and in the judgment of the
older practitioners, a very favorable symptom; for however the
prosecution and the defence might differ in their interpretation
of looks, or of words let fall from the bench as obiter dicta, one
thing was now clear to both — and to all — and that was, that
the judge himself had begun to see the end of the case, whatever
the end might be.
Mr. Fay returned with a countenance no longer illuminated,
as with inward light, and assured promise, but rigid as death,
and very pale. There was evidently a crisis at hand.
“Call your witness, Mr. Fay,” said the judge. “We have no
time to lose.”
“Your honor will pardon me — but another witness we have
long been waiting for, and hoping for, has but just arrived, and
with submission, we should like to call him first. Mr. Officer,
call Charles Parry.”
The Major started up from his chair, and seemed utterly
amazed — Mr. Bayard overjoyed — and a faint scream from
Julia, showed that while Arthur stood as if thunderstruck, she
was so far mistress of herself, as to understand what was meant,
and feel in a measure prepared for the apparition.
“Charles Parry! Charles Parry! — pass the word there!”
shouted the officer; “Charles Parry!” and the cry was repeated,
and crowded antechambers, in the deathlike stillness that followed,
like a summons from another world, as Julia cast herself
into the arms of her aunt Elizabeth, and Arthur knelt
before his mother, and took both her hands into his; and there
they all sat, holding their breath, and waiting in speechless expectation,
with their eyes all fixed upon the large doors.
At last, a heavy trampling was heard afar off — the crowd
began to surge away from the chief entrance — a strong peremptory
tread came nearer and nearer, sounding like a threat — and
a pale, haughty face appeared, with a prodigious quantity of
black hair flowing away from it, like the shadow of death —
head and shoulders above all that were nigh, like Saul among
the princes of Israel; and lo! Charles Parry — the loved and
lost — came forward, with a large, heavy book under his arm,
such as you see in banking-houses, and making his way up to
the table where his uncle stood waiting his approach, as if expecting
a message from the departed.
“Uncle George!” said he, offering both hands, with the
straightforward manliness and simplicity which had always characterized
him in the day of his strength, “I have wronged you!
forgive me! This is no time — no place — for explanations;
but hereafter” — and then, stopping abruptly, he turned to Mr.
Bayard, who sat eyeing him with evident surprise and pleasure,
and said to him, so as to be heard by all the by-standers, and
court and jury, “I could not come before — but I have lost no
time, I assure you. Here is the book you wanted — and now,
I am ready to answer all your questions — whatever they may
be.”
Mr. Fay was not a little astonished; the judge looked puzzled
— and the white-headed conventionalities below, stared; but
calm and self-possessed, and wholly unmoved by the bustle he
had occasioned, and the questioning looks of the bar, the new
witness continued standing, and facing the crowd, as if to satisfy
himself — and them — that he was where he had a right to be,
and well prepared for whatever might happen, and no longer
liable to be misunderstood or misrepresented, till Mr. Bayard
whispered to Mr. Fay — and Mr. Fay answered with a smile,
and then, “may it please the court,” he added in the next breath,
“I pray the witness may be sworn.”
“Let the witness be sworn,” said the judge.
The oath being administered, Charles took the stand, carrying
the large book with him.
“What book have you there?” said Mr. Fay.
“A book of entries belonging to my late uncle Harper Maynard,
of the house of Maynard & Co., of London.”
“How came it in your possession?”
“I found it among other books, in Philadelphia, where most
of them were left on our first arrival here, last October.”
“Please look at this paper,” continued Mr. Fay, holding up
the list of bank-notes already testified to by Arthur, “and tell
us, if you have any recollection of having seen it before.”
“Yes, I have. It is all in my own handwriting — and this,”
touching the bottom of a page with his forefinger, “is my signature;
and this my uncle's, and this my cousin Arthur's.”
“Please detail the circumstances under which the list was
made out.”
The witness began, as Arthur did, at the beginning; and went
over the whole ground, step by step, corroborating him throughout,
until he happened to say something which made the older
practitioners prick up their ears — the judge lean forward —
Mr. Fay clutch Mr. Bayard's wrist — and the Major hold his
breath.
“Please repeat that,” said the prosecutor — “I want to have
it down in the very words of the witness.”
“Repeat what, Sir?”
“What you just said about your being with your late uncle, at
the time he received the parcel.”
“I was with him, Sir. It was handed to him in my presence,
with a letter, just as we rose from dinner. My uncle made a
sign for me to follow him; and we went together into a little
private room he had reserved for himself, when he had business
to do out of banking hours; and there he opened the parcel in
my presence — and we examined the notes together, and compared
them with a list that accompanied them; and after we
wanted very early on the morrow, or perhaps during the night;
as he must have another list made out by me, and verified by
both of us.”
“Well, Sir — what followed?”
“After this, he requested me to enter the notes with the marks
and numbers in this book.”
“What do you call that book, Sir?”
“A book of entries — or memorandum-book. We have no
proper name for it in our business.”
“A blotter, perhaps? — or day-book? — or journal?”
“No, Sir. It is not one of a series, or set of books, and never
appears in our system of bookkeeping.”
“I do not see the pertinency of all this,” muttered the judge.
“Nor I neither,” said the prosecutor, smiling significantly.
Mr. Fay bowed to the bench, and then proceeded with the
examination.
“If such a book were to disappear, would it, or would it not,
be missed by the bookkeeper of your establishment?”
“It would not. The bookkeepers have nothing to do with
it, any more than with a private memorandum-book, or letterbook.”
“Well, Mr. Parry — did you enter these bank-notes, with
their numbers and marks, in that book, as you were desired to
do? or did you not?”
“I did, Sir — I copied into the book the list that came with it.”
“Do you find it there now, Sir?”
“I do” — opening the huge folio, and showing two closely-written
pages, with double columns.
“Be so obliging as to compare the list you hold in your hand,
so far as to see if it corresponds with the entries you find there.”
“I have done so,” said the witness, after running his eye over
both, like one familiar with such operations, “and they appear to
be alike.”
“And you swear that the entires in the book were made by
yourself?”
“They were.”
“But when, if you please?”
“That very night, Sir; — you will find the date here — it was
all done before I slept.”
“Was the other list you mentioned made out before you
slept?” asked the government.
Mr. Fay smiled — but said nothing; not even so much as
“After we have done with the witness, if you please,” — or, “he
is my witness now, Sir.”
“No, Sir. The list I hold in my hand was made out some
hours later. We were called out of bed, I remember.”
“Was it so very urgent?” continued the prosecutor, in a low
voice.
“My learned brother will excuse me,” said Mr. Fay, — “but
really — if he has no objection, I should like to pursue the inquiry,
without his help, for a few minutes longer.”
“Such interruptions are highly improper,” said the judge.
“Go on with your witness, Mr. Fay.”
“Well, Sir — I desire to know whether you have any knowledge
now, or ever had, of the party from whom these Bank of
England notes, of which we have now two separate lists, were
obtained?”
A long pause — a long, half-smothered whispering — and a
minute or two of breathless silence followed, as the witness appeared
to be recollecting himself.
“No, Sir, — never,” he answered, after a short and severe
inward struggle. I had not then — nor have I had since, any
knowledge upon the subject. All that I know is but hearsay —
or supposition.”
“You need not state any hearsay,” said the prosecutor; “and
we do not want any of your suppositions.”
Charles turned slowly upon the prosecutor, without speaking,
and he quailed. Long accustomed to the tricks of the trade
— brow-beating and badgering witnesses, whenever they stood
in his way — he was quite unprepared for what seemed to be
brewing with the high-spirited and serious, though somewhat unmanageable
young man before him.
Mr. Fay did not interfere — he saw the look, and felt satisfied
that he had nothing to apprehend for the witness.
“Do me the favor now, Sir — Mr. Attorney, I will trouble
and see if they correspond with the entries in that book.”
The witness, after a careful comparison, which occupied five
minutes or so, during which time the eagerness of look, and the
earnest watchfulness of the bar, and the deep, deathlike stillness
of the multitude were enough to show that they all regarded the
coming answer as — to say the least of it, exceedingly momentous,
if not conclusive, drew a long breath and replied —
“Yes, Sir — I find them all here; and the marks, numbers
and amounts correspond throughout.”
“Now be so obliging, Sir, as to look at this printed list — furnished
by the Bank of England, as Mr. Attorney has proved, and
scattered all over Europe and America, and see if these burnt
notes are to be found there?”
“All, Sir — every one,” said the witness. “The numbers
being consecutive, they are easily compared.”
“Do you find any others upon the list furnished by the Bank
of England — which are to be found also on the list you made
out for your uncle Maynard?”
“Yes — a large number.”
“Please mention their marks and amounts.”
Charles did so, and the judge compared a printed list, which
had been furnished him for the purpose, with the entries read
over by the witness.
“And what was the sum total of these bank-notes? — they are
added up, I believe.”
“The sum total — where?”
“In the book you hold in your hand — or in the list you made
out?”
“Both are alike, Sir. The sum total is just twenty thousand
pounds.”
“The sum total of the list your honor holds there, issued by
the Bank of England, I believe, is larger?”
“Nearly a hundred thousand pounds — if I have added them
correctly,” said the prosecutor.
“One question more, and you may take the witness. Do you
know, on what conditions, or terms, the notes in question were
lodged with Maynard & Co.?”
“No, Sir, — nothing beyond what I heard my uncle say at the
time.”
“Stop there, if you please.”
“I object!” said the prosecutor.
“My learned brother,” said Mr. Fay, “is in somewhat of a
hurry with his objection; but, I will not take up the time of
the court just now; hereafter I may have to present the question
in another shape. You may take the witness now, Mr.
Attorney.”
A sharp and vigorous onset, with a long-continued, and very
troublesome cross-examination followed; but with no advantage
to the prosecution.
“Call your next witness!” said the judge — beginning to
show signs of weariness, if not of impatience, under the tiresome
repetition of queries, which had been answered over and over
again, and which amounted to little or nothing, after all.
“Mr. Bayard — please take the stand,” — said Mr. Fay.
The venerable man stood up without uncovering, and calmly
surveyed the listening crowd, while the last witness, having caught
a view of what was going forward in the nearest room, stole away
— and though he went on tiptoe, and a slight scream followed,
with a deal of rustling and shuffling, it was clear that he took
nobody by surprise — not even Julia — nor Mrs. Archibald —
nor a heap of shawls by her side on the bench, though it heaved,
and shook, and trembled, and sobbed, and at last jumped about
his neck with a cry of joy that thrilled every heart within hearing,
and obliged the officer to shut the door, and lift up his forefinger
and cry, “hush!” But there were too many eavesdroppers
— and by-standers — and listeners — to allow the manifestations
of a long-hoarded love, brotherly or otherwise, to continue;
and so, Julia took one of his hands — the little wee thing another
— while Aunt Elizabeth and Mrs. Archibald threw their arms
round his neck — and Arthur jumped about the room like a distracted
creature — and Sallie Webb pushed open the door, and
thrust forward her wonderful face, all streaming with tears, and
called upon Aunt Marie and the others to hush up, and not make
fools of themselves — for Mr. Bayard was undergoing examination;
and if they knew when they were well off, they would come
— before it was too late.”
“Hush yourself, child!” said Miss Wentworth. How can we
hope to hear a word they say, if you keep up such a confounded
racket?”
The deep stillness that followed was broken at last by Mr.
Fay: —
“Will you be so obliging as to state,” said he, “whether you
were acquainted with the late Harper Maynard, of the house of
Maynard & Co., London?”
“Yes.”
“And for how long a time?”
“From his boyhood, up to within a few months of his death.”
“Were you in correspondence with him at any time?”
“Always, when we were at a distance from each other.”
“When was your last communication with him?”
“I do not understand thee; by letter or otherwise?”
“When did you last receive a communication from him?”
“About six months ago.”
“About six months ago!” exclaimed the prosecutor, “why
the man has been dead eighteen months, if the other witnesses
are to be believed!”
“If my learned brother will bear with me, a few moments, he
will be satisfied upon this point,” said Mr. Fay.
“Under what circumstances, Mr. Bayard, was that communication
received?”
“I was travelling on the Continent, and it had followed me
month after month, and was finally lodged with my bankers, at
Paris, and after my return, forwarded to me at Philadelphia.”
“Have you that communication with you?”
“I have — here it is,” — holding up a large mourning envelope,
with three black seals, and covered with foreign postage
stamps.
“Were the seals unbroken, when you received it?”
“They were.”
“Did you break the seals yourself?”
“I did.”
“What did the envelope contain?”
“These two papers,” holding up what appeared to be a large
balance sheet, with one hand — open — so as to show long columns
of figures, and in the other a closely written page of
manuscript, with the look of a business letter, compact and brief.
“Are you acquainted with the handwriting of these papers?”
“With the handwriting of this,” holding up the letter, — “I
am well acquainted; with the other, I am not.”
“And whose handwriting do you say it is?”
“Harper Maynard's.”
“I observe two signatures at the bottom of the other paper.
Are you acquainted with the writing, or with the parties?”
“No — they were strangers to me until within a few months,
and seem to be witnesses.”
“Will you please to read the names?”
“I must object to the course of examination by the counsel
for the defence — I must, indeed,” said the prosecutor, rising
and pushing back his chair. “Not having seen the papers —
and not knowing why they are introduced, I can do no more at
present than object to them, till my learned brother chooses to
explain himself.”
“One moment, if my brother will excuse me,” said Mr. Fay;
“I do not propose to offer these papers in evidence, without
first giving him an opportunity to examine them, nor without
acknowledging my purpose; but the question just now, is,
whether the witness shall be allowed to read the names of the
persons who appear to have signed as attesting or subscribing
witnesses.”
“What is your objection, Mr. Attorney?” asked the judge.
“Well — as the answer can amount to nothing, so far as I
see, I withdraw my objection.”
“The witness will answer,” said the judge.
“The names are Charles Parry and Arthur Maynard.”
Great sensation and whispering followed; and both Charles
and Arthur appeared for a moment in consultation together, just
inside of the witness-room.
“Are you acquainted with any persons of the name?”
“Yes.”
“Are they to be found?”
“Yes.”
“Where do they live?”
“There are two persons bearing these names now in this
court — one of whom, Arthur Maynard, lives in Brooklyn, Long
Island, the other has just arrived from Nicaragua. There they
stand, now.”
“But,” said the prosecutor, with a sarcastic bow — “you are
unacquainted with their handwriting — and have not known the
parties themselves, till within a few months?”
“Very true, John — all very true, to the best of my knowledge
and belief.”
“That will do, Mr. Bayard. You may leave the stand, or be
seated for a few minutes, while I state, very briefly, what I now
propose to offer.”
“May it please your honor,” said he, after a short pause, and
looking about, as if to secure the undivided attention of all within
hearing, “we propose to show by the witness now under examination,
that the forged notes which my client is charged with
uttering, and some of which were found in his possession — or
traced home to him, as we cheerfully acknowledged, were deposited
with him by a third party, and in good faith, under certain
conditions, which will appear by his own written acknowledgment,
duly witnessed, and by a list of the notes in question, and
corresponding in every particular with the list your honor now
holds; and thereby to show, not only that my client, Major Pendleton,
is altogether blameless in the transaction, but that the
individual who lodged them with him, for certain purposes, was
himself an innocent holder.”
In the midst of the profound sensation that followed, and before
the sudden change of look had passed off, which the startling
annunciation caused in all the faces about him, the prosecutor
got up and argued vehemently, and very much to the purpose,
against the introduction of such testimony — as improper, irrelevant,
inadmissible — and contrary to the settled practice of all
the courts, and to the best-established principles of law, &c.
&c. &c.
Mr. Fay replied briefly and calmly; urging, that inasmuch as
the party who had written the paper was no longer alive, and as
for the defence, there was no violation of principle, so far as
he could see, in allowing his written declarations to be read, corroborated
as they were by circumstances, and fortified as they
were by the testimony of living witnesses upon the stand.”
“Declarations not under oath, your honor!” exclaimed the
prosecutor, springing to his feet, growing very red in the face,
and speaking with such hurried impetuosity as to be almost unintelligible
— “declarations not under oath! — testimony which
has never been subjected to a cross-examination!”
“As the declarations offered, may it please the court, are in
the nature of acknowledgments or admissions by a third party,
which go to criminate himself, until explained and corroborated —
I do not see, I confess, how an oath would strengthen them —
or why, if a man who comes into open court pleads guilty to an
offence, which another happens to be charged with, he needs to
be cross-examined, or to add a voluntary affidavit.”
The judge smiled and shook his head.
“The paper,” continued Mr. Fay, “was written long before
the death of Mr. Maynard — and, your honor will observe, to a
third party, and not in contemplation of a trial at law.”
“How does that appear?” said the judge.
For a moment — a single moment, Mr. Fay appeared to be
taken aback, but he instantly recovered himself, and bowing to
the court, he added, “It does not appear — I acknowledge it,
your honor — but then, I submit that the contrary does not appear,
and that although the witness `being dead yet speaketh,'
there is no appearance whatever of getting up a defence; for if
untrue, it would have been fatal to the writer, while he was
living, and how could he foresee his own death before such evidence
would be called for?”
After some consideration, the judge said, — “Although I have
some doubts, and even serious doubts, for to my mind a new principle
is involved, and the question seems to be whether the admissions
of a third party may be shown by the party charged, —
under oath or not — cross-examined or not — written or oral —
yet, considering what has already appeared, and what the consequences
may be to the party charged, if the testimony should be
The counsel for the prisoner will proceed with the witness.”
The whispering all died away. Mr. Bayard went back to the
stand, the prosecutor fastened his eyes on him, and Mr. Fay —
turning toward the bench said, “the letter we propose to offer
has not yet been put into the hands of the government —”
“No matter, Sir — let the witness read it,” said the prosecutor.
Meanwhile the interest had become so general and so intense,
that you might have heard a pin drop, anywhere, in that large
room. All eyes were turned to the witness-box — and when,
for the first time, the prisoner began to tremble and clutch at the
back of a chair — and when they saw him rise up and steal
away toward the room where the witnesses for the defence were
gathered, some with their faces to the wall — others linked hand
in hand — Arthur standing over his mother, and all so deeply
moved, that their laborious breathing and occasional sobbing
might be heard by the court and jury — and seat himself by
the side of his poor sister, and draw her up to his manly bosom
with a convulsive pressure — while Arthur and Charles, after
shaking hands with each other, as if they had both been tried for
their lives and acquitted, turned away their faces from the eager
gaze of the multitude, and appeared to tremble from head to foot
— and Julia locked her hands upon the shoulder of her aunt Elizabeth
— and little Edith cuddled up to her, sobbing as if her
heart would break, and Miss Wentworth and her niece held their
handkerchiefs to their eyes — and all were waiting in breathless
expectation for the letter to be read — there was in most of the
countenances round about, signs not to be misunderstood, of deep
sympathy and commiseration — so that the prosecutor himself
appeared to be moved, and the judge wiped his glasses two or
three times, and adjusted them as often, before he could see
clearly.
“You may read the letter now, if you please, Mr. Bayard,”
said Mr. Fay. Whereupon he read as follows: —
“To William Bayard, Esquire.
“My dear Friend. Not knowing where this may find you,
I shall send triplicates.
“My health is failing, and I have just come to the knowledge
of certain facts, which I am not able to verify as I desire, but
which are of a nature so alarming, as to make it proper for me
to enlist you for the help of brother George, without losing
a day.
“About a month before he sailed for South America, I received
from Herbert & Co. as collateral, on a loan of £20,000,
Bank of England notes for the same amount, which had been
obtained in the midst of the panic, by Herbert & Co., upon the
condition that they should not be used in any way, nor put into
circulation within the next following twelve months.
“Enclosed you will find a list of these notes with the marks
and numbers, examined and certified by Charles and Arthur,
and signed by me.
“When brother George was about to embark, he had a large
amount of funds in my hands, which he thought he should have
no occasion for, while away, and offered to leave with me.
“Having no use for the money, I proposed to him to step into
my shoes, reimburse me for my advances to Herbert & Co., take
the security into his own hands, divide the profits with me, and
leave the bank-notes on special deposit where they could be used
when the proper time should arrive.
“He agreed to this, and sailed within forty-eight hours; but
what he did with the notes I never knew, nor have I any means
of knowing. Some letter may have miscarried, and I know not
how to communicate with him, nor where to address a letter, if
he should be gone from Brazil.
“Yesterday Mr. Herbert called on me before breakfast,
looking very pale, troubled, and anxious, which he accounted
for, in the course of a short interview that followed, by saying
that he had passed a sleepless night, had not been well for two
or three days, and had but just come to the knowledge of a fact,
which he felt bound to communicate to me, in relation to these
Bank of England notes. It was this — the agreement with the
bank was that these notes should not be put into circulation, nor
used in any way, till the twelve months had expired; and Mr.
Herbert, who had happened to meet brother George just before
his embarkation, having understood from him that we had entered
into an arrangement, professed to be greatly alarmed, lest the use
mean — might be considered a breach of faith on his part, if it
should ever come to the knowledge of the directors, and might
be ruinous to the credit of their house.
“I did not see the transaction, I confess, in the light he did,
and I told him so; but still, as I knew he had been struggling
for months under a heavy pressure, from which he was but just
recovering, I did not much wonder at his anxiety, and I promised
to write brother George, and beg of him not to make any
use of the notes until the time had expired, or he heard further
from me; and promising to divide the loss of interest with him
after the twelvemonth had passed, up to the time when he
might be able to use them to advantage. I wish you could have
seen the poor fellow! — I never saw a man so changed in all my
life. He wrung my hand — he wept and sobbed — and would
have gone down upon his knees, I verily believe, had I not prevented
him.
“There, my friend, you have now the whole case in your possession
— you understand what is wanted, and I leave all the
arrangements with you. We must save the poor fellow if we
can; for, though we never had much dealing with the house,
and I never liked Mr. Herbert before, believing him to be what
I was once, in your judgment, my dear friend, much too adventurous
for a moderate capitalist, wishing to do a safe business, I
should be sorry to contribute in any way to his embarrassments.”
While Mr. Bayard was reading this letter, slowly and distinctly,
in a clear, steady voice, and with prodigious effect upon
the jury, the bench, the bar, and all within hearing, the prisoner
had stolen away on tiptoe — and inch by inch — to the immediate
neighborhood of the witness, where he might hear every syllable,
and where, as he stood in a deep shadow, the changes of
his countenance, and any sudden outbreak of inward illumination,
would not be visible to others.
“Thank God!” he murmured, as the witness finished the
letter, and the crowd began to shuffle, and move about, and
seemed well-nigh ready to burst into a spontaneous cheer.
“`Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for my eyes
now — and whatever may be the final issue — I am satisfied;
for now all that I was waiting for, and hoping for, has happened,
and my generous, whole-hearted brother is vindicated, and the
dead have triumphed!” All eyes were turned to him, as he lifted
his locked hands high up in prayer and praise and thanksgiving,
and some that stood nearest, were able to catch the words he
breathed; and among others, Mr. Fay, who seemed to be greatly
moved, for his mouth twitched, and his voice trembled, as he
turned to the witness, and asked him if he had read the whole
of the paper.
“All but the signature and the date,” said Mr. Bayard.
“Read both, if you please,” said the judge, who had been
very busy taking notes, and looking into authorities.
“The letter is signed, `Harper Maynard, for Maynard & Co.,'
and sealed with his seal, and the date is, `London, October 12,
1856.'”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the judge — after waiting for a consultation
to be ended between the prosecutor and Mr. Fay, with
half a score of listening white-haired men at their elbows, all
whispering together, and gesticulating with great earnestness —
“what do you propose to do with the case?”
“One moment, your honor,” said Mr. Fay, whose fine eyes
lighted up with a sudden flash.
More whispering followed; and the judge, after waiting two
or three minutes, added, —
“Have you made up your mind, Mr. Attorney, to proceed
further with the case?”
Mr. Fay began to breathe more freely; here was an intimation
not to be misunderstood.
The prosecutor bowed, and looked troubled for a moment, and
then he leaned over the table toward a very aged man, with the
beard of an apostle, and whispered something, to which the
other replied with a shake of the head only, portentous and solemn
as death.
“Have you done with the witness, Mr. Fay?” asked the
judge, beginning to show signs of impatience.
“We have, your honor.”
“Proceed with your cross-examination, if you please, Mr.
Attorney,” said the judge.
Whereupon the prosecutor, with a somewhat embarrassed air,
took his seat, and after fumbling over his papers a few moments,
as if looking for his brief, entered upon the cross-examination.
“After receiving the documents you have just read, what
course did you take with regard to the pris— with regard to
Major Pendleton?”
Ah! — indeed! — it was no longer the prisoner at the bar —
it was not even the accused — it was now Major Pendleton!
Of course, the government was beginning to see the case in a
very different light.
“I forwarded a brief letter of warning, with a certified copy
of the list I hold, to my bankers in Paris, London, and Amsterdam
— and to his correspondents in Buenos Ayres, New York,
and Philadelphia.”
“Did you send copies of the letter which came with the list?”
“No.”
“And why not, pray?”
“I was afraid of miscarriage.”
“Afraid of miscarriage!!” exclaimed the prosecutor; “I do
not understand you, Sir. Would not the list and the letter go
together — and why should there be any more danger of miscarriage
for the letter, than for the list?”
“There would be no more danger from the miscarriage itself,
but the consequences of a miscarriage might be very different.
The list of itself, and the brief letter of warning I sent with it,
were sufficient for friend George, if they reached him safely, to
put him on his guard, while, if they were intercepted, or opened
by a stranger, they could not possibly injure anybody.”
“Not even Herbert & Co., hey?” suggested the prosecutor.
“Not even Herbert & Co., for their names were not mentioned.”
“Ah! — indeed! — can you say when the facts you have testified
to first came to the knowledge of Mr. Pendleton?”
“I cannot.”
“Did you ever have any personal communication with him
on the subject?”
“Yes.”
“When, and where?”
“At New York — about the middle of the first month —
called January.”
“And how happened this?”
“He had missed me at Philadelphia — and while I had reason
to believe that he was in South America, or travelling in
Europe, we were thrown together by a strange providence at
New York, in the midst of the terrible panic of last winter.”
“Did he have any conversation with you, or with anybody in
your presence, at the time you speak of, or at any other time,
respecting these forged notes?”
“Am I at liberty to detail the circumstances that led to the
conversation, as well as the conversation itself?” asked the witness,
looking first at the judge, and then at Mr. Fay.
“I have no objection,” said the prosecutor.
“Nor I,” said Mr. Fay. “Let us have all the facts.”
“The witness will proceed in his own way,” said the judge.
“Circumstances, not necessary for me to explain here,” said
William Bayard, with a mournful and touching expression of the
whole countenance which nobody understood, perhaps, but Arthur
and his mother, “had thrown me in the way of the family, as I
came out of a theatre.”
“Out of a theatre! — you!” exclaimed the prosecutor.
“Out of a theatre!” cried Mr. Fay, looking up astonished, as
if wondering what would come next.
“What theatre, if you please?” continued the prosecutor, with
what he meant for a smile, though it was only a sneer at the best.
“The small theatre in Chambers Street — Burton's, I think
they call it.”
“Had you been in the theatre?”
“I had.”
“What was the play that evening, Mr. Bayard?”
“It was not in the evening — it was at noon-day.”
“Indeed! — and what was represented, if you please, at that
unusual hour? What was the play?”
“There was no play — no representation whatever, so far as
I could judge. It was a prayer-meeting.”
Had a thunderbolt fallen through the roof, the bench, bar, and
jury could not have been more astonished. There was a moment
of dead silence — then a low outburst of long-smothered sympathy
— and then a confused whispering and tittering, slowly spreading
to the lobbies, and passage-ways, and antechambers; but all
these demonstrations were instantly rebuked, and a serious, heavy
shadow settled upon the upturned countenances of the crowd, as
the examination was renewed.
“The witness will proceed without further interruption,” said
the judge.
“It was there, on the sidewalk in Chambers Street, as I was
coming away from the theatre, that I first encountered the young
man, Arthur Maynard, who has been examined here as a witness.
I knew him instantly, from the resemblance he bore to
his — to his mother;” — here the voice of the good man quavered
— “with him was the young woman, Julia, and her uncle George,
whom I was not then acquainted with; but I determined to satisfy
myself at once; and with that view, I followed them to the
St. Nicholas Hotel — and after ascertaining the truth, I determined
to see the uncle and come to a right understanding about
the notes. I called, and saw Arthur for a few minutes; but
having forgotten to take these papers with me — the originals —
concluded to defer the interview till the morrow; but, on the morrow,
I was taken suddenly ill, and confined to my bed for several
weeks; when, one day the man who watched with me, read from
a morning paper that paragraph which has already gone to the
jury, about the forged Bank of England notes which had been
found in the street, near the Metropolitan, twisted together, and
partly consumed. My mind misgave me — all the circumstances
mentioned were of a nature to fill me with apprehension — and I
lost no time in sending for friend George, and questioning him.”
“Go on, if you please. Why do you stop?” said the prosecutor.
“With submission to the court,” said the witness — “if it be
proper, I am ready to detail the conversation, from beginning to
end?”
“No objection being made, Sir,” said the judge, — “you may
proceed; using your own judgment, as to what, in your opinion,
question arises.”
“I will. He acknowledged that he had received one of my
despatches containing the certified list, and a letter desiring him
not to make any use of the notes — in any way — nor for any
purpose, until he heard from me; that he instantly withdrew
them from the bank, where they had been left sealed up, on
special deposit, and as he was about embarking for Philadelphia,
to take them with him; that in Philadelphia, he inquired for me,
but understood that I was in Europe; that within the last forty-eight
hours, he had been furnished with a printed list of these
very notes, issued by the government of the Bank of England,
and sent all over Europe and America, through police agents
and postmasters, declaring them to be forged, enjoining the
greatest vigilance and secrecy, and offering a large reward for
the apprehension of the parties engaged in the business.”
Here the witness appeared to be well-nigh overcome by his
feelings. The tears ran down his cheeks — and the papers he
held open in his hand, shook and rustled, as if a strong wind were
blowing through them.
“Well, Sir — what more did he say?”
“He said that he had lost no time in satisfying himself; and having
done so, he threw the whole into the fire, and stood over them,
till they were burnt to ashes — not recollecting at the time, that
on the passage, he had given his ward Julia, about £150, for
pocket-money, without a word of caution, as the twelve-month
had expired; that while pondering the matter with himself, and
most anxious to see me, and the letter his brother had written
me, which he had no doubt would exonerate him, as he knew
from the first that his brother had received them of Herbert
& Co. —”
“Rigmarole!” whispered one of the gray-haired veterans to
the prosecutor.
“So much the better” — was the reply. “Let him proceed.”
“He said, too, that while pondering the matter with himself,
he remembered all at once the notes he had given to his ward
Julia; that he found upon inquiry, she had sent three or four to
her brother Charles, through the Upper Canada post-office —
so, but once, when it was refused at the bar and returned to her,
on the very day when the banks of New York suspended specie
payments.”
“Well, Sir — what next?”
“He told me, moreover, that he took all the notes Julia had
left, and burnt them; as she has already stated.”
“Did he appear to be much troubled — or not — so far as you
could judge, when he made this confession?”
“Far from it — he appeared exceedingly happy and thankful.”
“Happy and thankful for what!” exclaimed the prosecutor,
“for the loss of twenty thousand pounds sterling! and a fair
chance for the penitentiary — or the gallows — if he should be
claimed under the treaty!”
Mr. Fay grew very pale — Arthur very red — the Major
gloomy and fierce, for a moment or so; but all these alarming
appearances died away, under the calm, steadfast rebuke of the
judge's eye, who well knew that the prosecutor had been carried
away by surprise, or a sudden burst of feeling, but did not mean
to be brutal or offensive.
“Yes,” continued the white-haired witness; “for notwithstanding
the loss of the twenty thousand pounds, and the great danger
he was in of disgrace, imprisonment, or death — he had so much
to be thankful for! — he had wronged nobody — nobody was
likely to suffer on his account — and as he had reason to believe
that his nephew Charles knew all the circumstances, and would
be able, when he got back, not only to clear him, but his father,
and fasten the guilt upon Herbert & Co. — had he not abundant
reason for thankfulness? At any rate, he seemed to entertain
that opinion, and I must confess that I encouraged him in it; and
when he knelt by my bed, and poured out his whole heart in
thanksgiving, and praise, and supplication, I do verily believe,
that I went with him to the end.”
“Allow me to ask you, Sir,” said the judge, in a mild, low
voice, “if you showed the letter to him, which you had received
with the list from his brother Maynard?”
“No — not at the time I have mentioned.”
“Did you communicate the substance?”
“Nothing more than I have stated.”
“And why not?”
“I was too ill for business; and hoping that no mischief would
follow, I desired to wait until I could see the nephew, face to
face.”
“What nephew, Sir?” demanded the prosecutor.
“The nephew you have had for a witness here — Charles Parry.
I may add perhaps, that finding him well acquainted with all the
circumstances, and with the names of the parties, there was nothing
for me to communicate beyond what has been offered in the
shape of an admission by my departed friend, Harper Maynard,
which might be better proved by a living witness perhaps, and
which, if so proved, might not be so painful to the dear children
— or to the widow,” — faltering and turning away.
The judge leaned back in his chair and covered his face with
his hands. The jury were greatly moved — a low murmur was
heard, with labored breathing, and hysterical sobbing afar off
— and the countenance of the prosecutor changed. Though
greatly disappointed — and perhaps a little mortified — he did
not appear vexed, nor very much dissatisfied. It was evident,
moreover, that his opinion of the case had been gradually changing;
and that his natural kindness of heart and manliness of temper
were beginning to overtop his professional instincts, and that,
as he looked around over the anxious eager eyes of the witnesses,
he began to be more and more reconciled, at every step in the
case, to what he could not bear to think of at first — nor to
speak of with any patience, while acquainted with but one side
of the story — an acquittal.
“Brother Fay,” said he, at last, after a brief, sharp struggle
with himself, leaning over the table, and speaking in a low,
earnest voice, “I congratulate you with all my heart and soul,
on what I foresee must be the result — judging by the looks of
the jury and the judge — and I congratulate your client also,
and beg of you to bring me acquainted with him, after the verdict
is rendered; for, although, between ourselves, I don't much
like the law of the case” — glancing at the bench — “as laid
down by you, and taken for granted by the court, and have no
serious doubt, I assure you, that my leading objections would
ruled in, ought to have been ruled out, as being between other
parties, yet as we seem to have reached the truth, and the
whole truth, at last, though in a roundabout way — and the Major
has proved himself to be a magnanimous, large-hearted man
— I waive all objections to the procedure, and now ask you
plainly, what you desire to do with the case?”
“Thank you; let the jury return a verdict of not guilty,
under your direction, without leaving their seats.”
“Or shall we enter a nol. pros.?”
“We should prefer a verdict.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the judge, seeing them withdraw, and
straighten themselves up, after their consultation, “have you
come to a proper understanding?”
“We have, your honor. And if the court is satisfied, we pray
that the jury may be instructed, that if they believe the witnesses
for the defence, and the letter to be what it purports to
be, they are to return a verdict of not guilty.”
A deathlike stillness followed.
The judge hesitated a minute or two, and then whispering
with the prosecutor and with Mr. Fay, a pleasant change passed
over his fine countenance — a benevolent smile gathered about
his mouth — and he charged the jury as requested.
A slight murmur of approbation followed, which grew louder
and louder, till rebuked by the judge with a rap on the desk,
and by the sheriff, with a cry of “Silence, there! — Silence in
court!”
But when the jury had consulted together, and they all stood
up — and their names were called over, and they were asked if
they had agreed upon their verdict — and the foreman answered,
“Yes” — and then the clerk said to them, “Gentlemen of the
jury, what say you? is George A. Pendleton guilty or not
guilty, as charged in the indictment?” — there was something
awful and portentous in the stillness that followed.
“Not guilty!” said the foreman.
“Not guilty, you say, Mr. Foreman! and so you say all!
Hearken to your verdict, as the court records it, and —”
But here the long suppressed feeling of the crowd broke forth
sobbing — and hurried, impatient exclamations; and there was
a great bustle and stir among the witnesses, which, notwithstanding
the very serious countenance of the judge, as he rapped the
desk, and the officers of the court shouted, “Silence, there!
silence!” continued for several minutes.
The prisoner was forthwith discharged, and the prosecutor
came up to him, and congratulated him, offering his hand at the
same time, which was taken with great thankfulness — and the
bar rose almost in a body, as if startled in their sleep with a sudden
burst of sunshine, or the chirping of little birds among
apple-blossoms — and scores of well-dressed, middle-aged men,
who, but the day before had refused to know the prisoner at the
bar, now recollected the “Major” with the greatest pleasure
in the world, assuring him, with countenances all of a glow, that
they had foreseen the result; and in some cases foretold the result
from the first — which was all very true, only the result
was very unlike what they had either foreseen, or foretold.
“Adjourn the court!” said the judge, bowing to the Major,
and then to Mr. Bayard, whom he called up to the bench and
shook hands with.
“Oh yes! oh yes! oh yes!” cried the sheriff; and the court
was adjourned forthwith; and the counsel for the prisoner, and
his client, and the prosecutor, and all the witnesses for the defence,
got together by themselves, and waited till the great throng
had melted away — here a little group with their veils down —
and there another weeping aloud — Miss Webb catching the
Major by both hands in a transport of joy, and literally dancing
round him — Miss Wentworth looking over the handkerchief
she held to her eyes, and taking an inventory of all the handsome
dresses about her — Julia holding one of Mr. Fay's hands
between both of hers, very much as if she never meant to let
go of it again while she breathed, and sobbing as if her heart
would break; Mrs. Maynard looking into the calm, steady eyes
of William Bayard, as if her ancient love had blazed up anew
— and he, trembling all over with joy; and little Edith and her
mother clinging to Charles, very much as if all three were in
danger of being swept away together; and Arthur! poor, dear
august and serious, and looking as if he would give the world
to be alone with his heavenly Father for half an hour — in some
great solitude.
“God bless you all! good-bye!” said Mr. Fay.
“When shall we see you?” inquired the Major, “we have all
our acknowledgments to make.”
“Nonsense, my friend — but I shall see you, as soon as you
have got over your flurry.”
“Oh, do! — do!” said Julia, “we shall so long to see you!”
“Hoity toity!” whispered Arthur, as he caught Charles's eye,
who did not appear to understand what was going on.
“And you, my excellent friend — we must see you at your
earliest convenience, we shall have so much to say; when will
you take a bed with us?” continued the Major, addressing himself
to the venerable Quaker.
“I would rather not dine with thee, Elizabeth — let me drop
in some evening, and take a cup of tea with the family, and I
shall be satisfied — I am not very fond of strangers.”
“But Mr. Fay is no stranger,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“Very true, and perhaps we may manage to drop in together
— as I have no doubt he will have business with thee, before
long.”
“What does he mean?” thought Julia, and then, catching
Sallie Webb's eye, she blushed to the very tips of her ears.
| CHAPTER XXII. True womanhood | |