Complete works of hall c.., p.124
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 124
Without waiting to hear more, Dan made one great call on his resolution, and pushed his way through the porch into the court-house. Then he realized that there was still some virtue left in humanity. No sooner had the people in the court become aware of his presence among them than one stepped before him as if to conceal him from those in front, while another tapped him on the shoulder, and elbowed a way out, beckoning him to follow as if some pressing errand called him away.
But Dan’s purpose was fixed, and no cover for cowardice availed to shake it. Steadfast and silent he stood at the back of the court, half hidden by the throng about him, trying to look on with a cool countenance, and to fix his attention on the proceedings of his own trial. At first he was conscious of no more than the obscurity of the dusky place and a sort of confused murmur that rose from a table at the farther end. For a while he looked stupidly on, and even trembled slightly. But all at once he found himself listening and seeing all that was going on before him.
The court-house was densely crowded. On the bench sat the Deemster, his thin, quick face as sharp as a pen within his heavy wig. Jarvis Kerruish and Quayle, the coroner, stood at a table beneath. Stretched on the top of this table was a canvas sail. Six men from Michael sat to the right as a jury. But Dan’s eyes passed over all these as if scarcely conscious of their presence, and turned by an instinct of which he knew nothing toward the witness-box. And there Mona herself was now standing. Her face was very pale and drawn hard about the lips, which were set firm, though the nostrils quivered visibly. She wore a dark cloak of half-conventual pattern, with a hood that fell back from the close hat that sat like a nun’s cap about her smooth forehead. Erect she stood, with the fire of two hundred eager eyes upon her, but her bosom heaved and the fingers of her ungloved hand gripped nervously the rail in front of her.
In an instant the thin shrill voice of the Deemster broke on Dan’s consciousness, and he knew that he was listening to his own trial, with Mona put up to give evidence against him.
“When did you see your brother last?”
“On the afternoon of the day before yesterday.”
“At what hour?”
“At about two o’clock.”
“What passed between you at that interview?”
There was no answer to this question.
“Tell the jury if there was any unpleasantness between you and your brother at two o’clock the day before yesterday.”
There was a pause, and then the silence was broken by the reply, meekly spoken:
“It is true that he was angry.”
“What was the cause of his anger?”
Another pause and no answer. The Deemster repeated his question, and still there was no reply.
“Listen; on your answer to this question the burden of the indictment must rest. Circumstance points but too plainly to a crime. It points to one man as perpetrator of that crime, and to five other men as accessories to it. But it is necessary that the jury should gather an idea of the motive that inspired it. And so I ask again, what was the difference between you and your brother at your interview on the afternoon of the day before yesterday?”
There was a deep hush in the court. A gloomy, echoless silence, like that which goes before a storm, seemed to brood over the place.
All eyes were turned to the witness-box.
“Answer,” said the Deemster, with head aslant. “I ask for an answer — I demand it.”
Then the witness lifted up her great, soft, liquid eyes to the Deemster’s face, and spoke: “Is it the judge or the father that demands an answer?” she said.
“The judge, the judge,” the Deemster replied with emphasis, “we know of no father here.”
At that the burden that had rested on Mona’s quivering face seemed to lift away. “Then, if it is the judge that asks the question, I will not answer it.”
The Deemster leaned back in his seat, and there was a low rumble among the people in the court. Dan found his breath coming audibly from his throat, his finger-nails digging trenches in his palms, and his teeth set so hard on his lips that both teeth and lips were bleeding.
After a moment’s silence the Deemster spoke again, but more softly than before, and in a tone of suavity.
“If the judge has no power with you, make answer to the father,” and he repeated his question.
Amid silence that was painful Mona said, in a tremulous voice, “It is not in a court of justice that a father should expect an answer to a question like that.”
Then the Deemster lost all self-control, and shouted in his shrill treble that, whether as father or judge, the witness’s answer he should have; that on that answer the guilty man should yet be indicted, and that even as it would be damning to that man so it should hang him.
The spectators held their breath at the Deemster’s words and looked aghast at the livid face on the bench. They were accustomed to the Deemster’s fits of rage, but such an outbreak of wrath had never before been witnessed. The gloomy silence was unbroken for a moment, and then there came the sound of the suppressed weeping of the witness.
“Stop that noise!” said the Deemster. “We know for whom you shed your tears. But you shall yet do more than cry for the man. If a word of yours can send him to the gallows, that word shall yet be spoken.”
Dan saw and heard all. The dark place, the judge, the jury, the silent throng, seemed to swim about him. For a moment he struggled with himself, scarcely able to control the impulse to push through and tear the Deemster from his seat. At the next instant, with complete self-possession and strong hold of his passions, he had parted the people in front of him, and was making his way to the table beneath the bench. Dense as the crowd was it seemed to open of itself before him, and only the low rumble of many subdued voices floated faintly in his ear. He was conscious that all eyes were upon him, but most of all that Mona was watching him with looks of pain and fear.
He never felt stronger than at that moment. Long enough he had hesitated, and too often he had been held back, but now his time was come. He stopped in front of the table, and said in a full clear voice, “I am here to surrender — I am guilty.”
The Deemster looked down in bewilderment; but the coroner, recovering quickly from his first amazement, bustled up with the air of a constable making a capture, and put the fetters on Dan’s wrists.
What happened next was never afterward rightly known to any of the astonished spectators. The Deemster asked the jury for their verdict, and immediately afterward he called on the clerk to prepare the indictment.
“Is it to be for this man only, or for all six?” the clerk asked.
“All six,” the Deemster answered.
Then the prisoner spoke again. “Deemster,” he said, “the other men are innocent.”
“Where are they?”
“I do not know.”
“If innocent, why are they in hiding?”
“I tell you, sir, they are innocent. Their only fault is that they have tried to be loyal to me.”
“Were they with you when the body was buried?”
Dan made no answer.
“Did they bury it?”
Still no answer. The Deemster turned to the clerk, “The six.”
“Deemster,” Dan said, with stubborn resolution, “why should I tell you what is not true? I have come here when, like the men themselves, I might have kept away.”
“You have come here, prisoner, when the hand of the law was upon you, when its vengeance was encircling you, entrapping you, when it was useless to hold out longer; you have come here thinking to lessen your punishment by your surrender. But you have been mistaken. A surrender extorted when capture is certain, like a confession made when crime can not be denied, has never yet been allowed to lessen the punishment of the guilty. Nor shall it lessen it now.”
Then as the Deemster rose a cry rang through the court. It was such a cry out of a great heart as tells a whole story to a multitude. In a moment the people saw and knew all. They looked at the two who stood before them, Dan and Mona, the prisoner and the witness, with eyes that filled, and from their dry throats there rose a deep groan from their midst.
“I tell you, Deemster, it is false, and the men are innocent,” said Dan.
The clerk was seen to hand a document to the Deemster, who took a pen and signed it.
“The accused stands committed for trial at the Court of General Jail Delivery.”
At the next moment the Deemster was gone.
CHAPTER XXXI
FATHER AND SON
The prison for felons awaiting trial in the civil courts was in Castle Rushen, at Castletown, but Dan Mylrea was not taken to it. There had been a general rising in the south of the island on the introduction of a coinage of copper money, and so many of the rioters had been arrested and committed for trial, without bail, at the Court of General Jail Delivery, that the prison at Castle Rushen was full to overflowing. Twenty men had guarded the place day and night, being relieved every twenty-four hours by as many more from each parish in rotation, some of them the kith and kin of the men imprisoned, and all summoned to Castletown in the morning by the ancient mode of fixing a wooden cross over their doors at night.
Owing to this circumstance the Deemster made the extraordinary blunder of ordering his coroner to remove Dan to the prison beneath the ruined castle at Peeltown. Now, the prison on St. Patrick’s islet had for centuries been under the control of the Spiritual Courts, and was still available for use in the execution of the ecclesiastical censures. The jailer was the parish sumner, and the sole governor and director was the Bishop himself. All this the Deemster knew full well, and partly in defiance of his brother’s authority, partly in contempt of it, but mainly in bitter disdain of his utter helplessness, where his son’s guilt was manifest and confessed, he arrogated the right, without sanction from the spiritual powers, of committing Dan to the Church prison, the civil prison being full.
It was a foul and loathsome dungeon, and never but once had Bishop Mylrea been known to use it. Dark, small, damp, entered by a score of narrow steps, down under the vaults on the floor of the chapel, over the long runnels made in the rock by the sea, it was as vile a hole as the tyranny of the Church ever turned into a jail for the punishment of those who resisted its authority.
The sumner in charge was old Paton Gorry, of Kirk Patrick, a feeble soul with a vast respect for authority, and no powers of nice distinction between those who were placed above him. When he received the Deemster’s warrant for Dan’s committal, he did not doubt its validity; and when Quayle, the coroner, for his own share ordered that the prisoner should be kept in the close confinement of the dungeon, he acquiesced without question.
If Dan’s humiliation down to this moment had not been gall and wormwood to his proud and stubborn spirit the fault did not lie at the door of Quayle the Gyke. Every indignity that an unwilling prisoner could have been subjected to Dan underwent. From the moment of leaving the court-house at Ramsey, Dan was pushed and huddled and imperiously commanded with such an abundant lack of need and reason that at length the people who crowded the streets or looked from their windows — the same people, many of them, who had shrunk from Dan as he entered the town — shouted at the coroner and groaned at him. But Dan himself, who had never before accepted a blow from any man without returning it, was seen to walk tamely by the coroner’s side, towering above him in great stature, but taking his rough handling like a child at his knees.
At the door of the prison where Quayle’s function ended that of the sumner began, and old Gorry was a man of another mold. Twenty times he had taken charge of persons imprisoned six days for incontinence, and once he had held the governor’s wife twelve hours for slander, and once again a fighting clergyman seven days for heresies in looking toward Rome, but never before had he put man, woman, or child into the pestilential hole under the floor of the old chapel. Dan he remembered since the Bishop’s son was a boy in corduroys, and when the rusty key of the dungeon turned on him with a growl in its wards, and old Gorry went shivering to the guard-room above and kindled himself a fire there and sat and smoked, the good man under his rough surtout got the better of the bad jailer. Then down he went again, and with a certain shame-facedness, some half-comic, half-pathetic efforts of professional reserve, he said he wouldn’t object, not he, if Dan had a mind to come up and warm himself. But Dan declined with words of cold thanks.
“No, Gorry,” he said, “I don’t know that I feel the cold.”
“Oh, all right, all right, sit ye there, sit ye there,” said Gorry. He whipped about with as much of largeness as he could simulate, rattled his keys as he went back, and even hummed a tune as he climbed the narrow stairs. But, warming itself at the fire, the poor human nature in the old man’s breast began to tear him pitilessly. He could get no peace for memories that would arise of the days when Dan plagued him sorely, the sad little, happy dog. Then up he rose again, and down he went to the dungeon once more.
“I respects the ould Bishop,” he said, just by way of preliminary apology and to help him to carry off his intention, “and if it be so that a man has done wrong I don’t see — I don’t see,” he stammered, “it isn’t natheral that he should be starved alive anyway, and a cold winter’s night too.”
“It’s no more than I deserve,” Dan mumbled; and at that word old Gorry whipped about as before, repeating loftily, “Sit ye there, sit ye there.”
It was not for him to cringe and sue to a prisoner to come out of that foul hole, och! no; and the Bishop’s sumner inflated his choking chest and went back for another pipe. But half an hour later the night had closed in, and old Gorry, with a lantern in his hand, was at the door of Dan’s prison again.
“To tell the truth, sir,” he muttered, “I can’t get lave for a wink of sleep up yonder, and if you don’t come up to the fire I wouldn’t trust but I’ll be forced to stay down here in the cold myself.”
Before Dan could make answer there came a loud knocking from overhead. In another moment the key of the door had turned in its lock from without, and Gorry’s uncertain footfall was retreating on the steps.
When Dan had first been left alone in his dark cell he had cast himself down on the broad slab cut from the rock, which was his only seat and bed. His suspense was over; the weight of uncertainty was lifted from his brain; and he tried to tell himself that he had done well. He thought of Ewan now with other feelings than before — of his uprightness, his tenderness, his brotherly affection, his frequent intercession, and no less frequent self-sacrifice. Then he thought of his own headlong folly, his blank insensitiveness, his cold ingratitude, and, last of all, of his blundering passion and mad wrath. All else on both sides was blotted from his memory in that hour of dark searching. Alone with his crime — tortured no more by blind hopes of escaping its penalty, or dread misgivings as to the measure of his guilt — his heart went out to the true friend whose life he had taken with a great dumb yearning and a bitter remorse. No cruel voice whispered now in palliation of his offense that it had not been murder, but the accident of self-defense. He had proposed the fight that ended with Ewan’s death, and, when Ewan would have abandoned it, he, on his part, would hear of no truce. Murder it was; and, bad as murder is at the best, this murder had been, of all murders, most base and foul. Yes, he had done well. Here alone could he know one hour of respite from terrible thoughts. This dark vault was his only resting-place until he came to lie in the last resting-place of all. There could be no going back. Life was forever closed against him. He had spilled the blood of the man who had loved him with more than a brother’s love, and to whom his own soul had been grappled with hooks of steel. It was enough, and the sick certainty of the doom before him was easiest to bear.
It was with thoughts like these that Dan had spent his first hours in prison, and when old Gorry had interrupted them time after time with poor little troubles about the freezing cold of the pestilential place he hardly saw through the old man’s simulation into the tender bit of human nature that lay behind it.
A few minutes after Gorry had left the cell, in answer to the loud knocking that had echoed through the empty chambers overhead, Dan could hear that he was returning to it, halting slowly down the steps with many a pause, and mumbling remarks meantime, as if lighting some one who came after him.
“Yes, my lord, it’s dark, very dark. I’ll set the lantern here, my lord, and turn the key.”
In another moment old Gorry was at Dan’s side, saying, in a fearful undertone, “Lord ‘a’ massy! It’s the Bishop hisself. I lied to him mortal, so I did — but no use — I said you were sleeping, but no good at all, at all. He wouldn’t take rest without putting a sight on you. Here he is — Come in, my lord.”
