CHAPTER V.

THE ASSIZES.

“And still and pale and silently The hapless lady waits her doom; How changed since last her speaking eye Glanced gladness round the glittering room, When high-born men were proud to wait, Where beauty watched to imitate Her gentle voice, her lovely mien, And gather from her air and gait The graces of its queen.”—_Byron._

The next day, Monday, May 15th, the Assizes were opened with the usual attendant ceremony and bustle. And a remarkably interessing docket had attracted crowds to the spot.

The case of Lady Montressor was almost the last on the list, and divided public curiosity with that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy chief.

At nine o’clock, closely vailed, and attended by the Rev. Mr. Oldfield and her counsel, Lady Montressor left her lodgings, entered the carriage, and was driven to the Courthouse. Upon the proclamation of the public crier, that the courts were now open, etc., etc., etc—she was handed from the carriage, and still closely vailed, and leaning upon the arm of her venerable friend, entered Exeter Hall, and proceeded to the court-room.

Estelle had never been inside a court before. At first she had traversed the passage and staircase, blindly, behind her vail, but when she found herself in a crowded room, impeded, and finally nearly smothered by the pressure of the masses, she drew her vail aside for air, and saw herself within a vast hall, with an arched roof, marble pillars, and Gothic windows, not unlike a lecture-room or church.

Upon an elevated platform, technically called the “Bench,” placed at the upper end of the room, and enclosed by a spacious iron-railing, sat the Judge, Sir James Allan Parke, one of the most eminent of the judges on the Western Circuit of England; he was a fine, hale-looking old gentleman, arrayed in his official robes—a scarlet gown, ermine cape, and full-bottomed wig. On the wall near his seat was blazoned forth in large illuminated letters the king’s commission. A little below him sat the clerk of the court. And around—sitting, standing, walking about, or conversing,—were the officers of the crown, in their official liveries, the counsellors-at-law in their long black robes and white wigs, and various nondescript individuals, who seemed to hold a sort of middle place between official and non-official life.

On the right hand, below the bench, was the prisoner’s dock, an enclosure not unlike a pen, in which were gathered some twenty persons of both sexes, and all ages, from twelve to seventy. Lady Montressor’s eyes were spell-bound to that miserable place. Such a set of wretched-looking human creatures!—men, aye, and women and children, too!—with faces stupefied with suffering, palsied by despair, or demoralized by guilt!

“Heaven and earth!—is my place among these?” she exclaimed, sick with loathing and terror. But in a moment she rallied and rebuked herself. “Down proud heart,” she said, “who hath made me to differ, and how much at last _do_ I differ from these my poor brothers and sisters? _I_ fell before the first temptation, though all my life was fenced about from want, or care, or sin—while they—their lives may have been one series of privations, trials, and irresistible temptations! Who shall judge but God Omniscient? God comfort them, and forgive me!” she prayed meekly folding her hands and bowing her head.

Her venerable protector, as inexperienced in these scenes as herself, also contemplated that den of savage or brutal faces, and grew pale with dread for his delicate charge. He did not venture to turn his eyes toward Estelle, but instinctively drew her arm closer within his own, and looked around in distress for Lord Dazzleright. His lordship had left them, and might now be seen conversing with the Judge. Presently he bowed, left his position, and with a grave, sad, almost angry countenance, slowly made his way through the crowd, and approached his client.

“Well, well, Lord Dazzleright, well?” eagerly inquired Mr. Oldfield, alarmed at the ill-omened expression of the counsel’s face.

“Oh! it is nothing! it is nothing!” said his lordship, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his heated and perspiring brow.

“It is not precisely _nothing_, Lord Dazzleright, judging from your countenance and manner,” said Estelle, calmly and firmly.

“Well, my child, it is nothing to alarm _you_, although it is something to displease me.”

“Tell me the truth, Lord Dazzleright.”

“I will do so, Lady Montressor! I went up there to examine the docket. I find our case is the last but two on the list, and may not probably come up for a week or ten days; I did not see the necessity of your ladyship’s presence here in the interim. I had an opportunity of speaking to the Judge, and showed him this, and prayed that my client might be discharged from the obligation of attending court, and suffered to remain with her bail, here in the city, until the day upon which her trial should come up, when she should again punctually present herself. The Judge chose to refuse my reasonable request, and require my client’s daily attendance here. And I am angry; that is all.”

“Except that you are also _anxious_, my lord! Is it not so? Hide nothing from me.”

“No, no, certainly not _anxious_,” said the counsel, while his looks belied his words,—“in no degree _anxious_, for though this may appear unfavorable on the part of the court, yet Sir James Allan Parke, if a stern, is a just Judge, and I rest our cause upon its integral justice, not upon external favor.”

“Umme! Oh—hh!” groaned the good Rector—“so she is to remain here, poor lamb! day after day a spectator of all the revolting horrors of a criminal court—and,” sinking his voice to a whisper, “where is she to stand?—for the love of Heaven, not there! in the dock among those loathsome wretches?”

Lord Dazzleright looked positively shocked and enraged. “_There!_ You astound me, Reverend sir! Those poor outcasts are in the sheriff’s custody; daily he marshals them from their cells to the dock, and nightly from the dock to their cells. ‘He is king of that goodly company.’ Lady Montressor, sir, is _your_ holy charge; you only are responsible for her appearance, and may make her position as exclusive and as comfortable as you desire.”

“Oh, thank heaven! Since it is so then—pray let us find a secluded and—I was going to say pleasant seat—as if such a thing could be found in this place.”

“Doubtless, a moderately agreeable one can be found though,” said Lord Dazzleright, cheerfully putting aside his anger, and offering his arm to his client, to conduct her through the crowd.

But just as Estelle was about to accept the proffered assistance, she perceived a hurried step approach from behind, and a deep voice speak, at the sound of which, the whole tide of life turned back upon its course, opening her heart, and whelming her senses, in a mist of mingled rapture and anguish.

“Permit me, my lord,” the voice said, and gently putting aside the counsel, Lord Montressor took the arm of his bride and drew it within his own.

Estelle’s whole being was thrilled with emotion, half ecstacy, half agony, as I said. She turned away her swiftly flushing and paling face, bowed her head and prayed.

“Ah, my lord! my lord! is this act of yours well conceived?—is it prudent?—is it politic?” inquired the good Rector, in distress.

“It is _right_; beyond that I have not considered whether it was politic, or prudent, reverend sir,” replied his lordship. Then turning his face most tenderly down toward the lady on his arm, he said in a low voice—

“Estelle, my beloved, will you not look at me?”

She put back her vail, lifted her head, turned up to him a look of profound, unutterable, undying love then dropped her eyes.

“Speak to me, dearest Stella.”

“Ah, my lord! my lord! what can poor Stella say, but echo what the minister said just now—‘Was this _well_ done, Lord Montressor?’”

“Excellently well done, my Stella! You are my wife! Where should I be, but beside my wife in her trial? Have I not said that I would stand upon the legality of our marriage. How shall I stand by our marriage, and desert my wife? I never contemplated such an inconsistency for a moment! It is true—for that no one should venture to say, or hint, that selfish or unscrupulous passion had governed my actions—I consented to forego my rights and inclinations in favor of your delicate reserve, and yield up to the care of Mr. Oldfield; and I forbore to intrude, either by visit or letter, upon the sanctuary of your private life. Now, however, the case is widely different. You are before the public, before a judge, charged with a crime, exposed to a severe ordeal. Shall I leave you to tread this wine-press alone? No, no, so help me Heaven at my bitterest need—no! Before the same public, before the same judge, through all the ordeal, will I stand by your side, and with what manhood, strength and virtue there may be within me, assert my position and your innocence. Nor man, nor demon—world, flesh, nor devil, shall prevent me doing thus! And may Christ so aid me in my greatest extremity as I am true to thee! Amen,” he said, and reverently bowed his head.

It was vain to oppose a will like that of Lord Montressor. Besides, he was approved by Lord Dazzleright, and felt to be a tower of strength by Mr. Oldfield.

“We were about to find a comfortable seat for her ladyship,” said the counsel.

“I have already found one. Will you go with us, my lord?—and you, reverend sir?” inquired Lord Montressor, bowing to his two friends, and leading the way through the crowd that respectfully divided to let him pass. He had provided a seat in a distant and retired part of the court-room, out of sight of the prisoners’ dock, and nearly out of hearing of all that was revolting in the proceedings.

Here she sat, unobserved and unmolested for a time, Lord Montressor, Mr. Oldfield and Lord Dazzleright standing as a living shield between her and the eyes of the crowd. There was little danger now, however, that she should be troubled by the impertinent curiosity of others. For all attention was now turned upon the proceedings of the court at the upper end of the room. The jury was already empanneled, and the first case on the docket called up. It was that of Dlifp Oorak, the Gipsy king, indicted for the murder of Sir George Bannerman’s gamekeeper. He was now arraigned and standing at the bar. All eyes were fixed upon him—a little dark, wiry figure of a man, with sharp features and deep set glittering black eyes, thatched with a wisp of wild black hair, and looking alert, spry and restless, as if in another instant he would break loose, pound over intervening obstacles, clear the door or window, and be away in the free air again!

Even Lady Montressor, notwithstanding the absorbing nature of her own sorrow, fixed her languid eyes upon this savage child of nature, now bound and captive, and in deadly peril of his life, and watched in hope and fear the progress of his short trial. The forms were quickly dispatched; the testimony on both sides heard; the exposition of the opposite lawyers made; the charge of the judge delivered; the case given to the jury, and their verdict returned.

“Stand up and confront the jury;” was the order given to the prisoner.

“How say you, gentlemen of the jury, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”

For an instant there was a pause and silence in the court, during which you might have heard a heart beat, broken soon by the deep voice of the foreman pronouncing the awful word of doom,—

“GUILTY!”

He was only a Gipsy, and it had not taken the twelve long to find their verdict.

The prisoner was then asked if he had any thing to advance as a just reason why sentence of death should not be pronounced against him.

Dlifp Oorak laughed wildly, shook his black, elf locks, and intimated that since the doom was to be only death, he had no objection to make!—had it been a long imprisonment, now, that were another matter! And the Gipsy chief impatiently stretched his limbs and looked longingly abroad through the tall gothic windows into the free, sunny air.

His attention was gravely recalled by the judge, who donned the black cap, arose, and proceeded to pronounce sentence.

The Gipsy heard his doom with an indifference and a wandering of the eyes bordering on “contempt of court.”

A little delay and bustle ensued, during which the sheriff’s officers proceeded to remove the prisoner from court. In going out, they passed very near our group of friends.

Lady Montressor noticed his half-savage, half-child-like demeanor, caught a glance from his wild, deer eyes, and silently offered up the care of his untutored soul to Christ.

This prisoner had scarcely left the court before the second case upon the docket was called. It was that of a young girl charged with the crime of infanticide. The details of this case were so painful, so revolting, that one by one the women in the crowd vailed themselves and silently stole away. While Estelle, the most delicate, sensitive and refined of women, was compelled to sit there, between her friend and her minister, and hear the whole! The trial occupied three hours, and ended as the preceding one had ended—in the conviction of the prisoner and sentence of death.

“So young! merciful Saviour! so young, and so horribly lost!” cried Lady Montressor, in a stifled voice, covering her eyes to shut out the vision of that girl’s white, amazed, insane countenance! As the ruined one passed out under charge of the deputy sheriff, she turned back upon our group of friends, one wild, terrified, appealing gaze, that reminded Estelle of the portrait of the Cenci and remained fixed in her mind forever. She prayed for the lost fellow-creature, and while she prayed the court adjourned.

Mr. Oldfield with a deep sigh arose and was about to offer his arm to his charge, when Lord Montressor, who had remained standing, anticipated him, and drew the hand of Estelle through his own arm. They made slow progress through the crowd, and reached the portico, and went to the street. On reaching the carriage, Lord Montrassor handed Estelle in, saw her comfortably seated, and then said:—

“Before this tribunal and in public, dearest Stella, I must assert at once our position—your innocence and my rights; but,—that no one shall venture to call in question the motives of my conduct or yours,—I shall refrain from intruding on your private life, until the decision of your case shall have endorsed our union. Farewell, I will meet you here to-morrow, dearest.” And pressing her hand, he bowed and gave way to Mr. Oldfield, who immediately entered the carriage; and they drove rapidly to their hotel.

This was the history of the first day at court; and the second and third, and many succeeding days, were like unto it—dreary, depressing, dreadful records of vice, crime, and suffering, of every kind and every degree. There were ten capital cases on the docket. And in that single session of the Assizes at Exeter, Sir James Allan Parke pronounced sentence of death upon seven persons, including the king of the Gipsies, all of whom were hanged within a week after their conviction.

And day after day, in this fetid atmosphere of guilt and death and horror, Lady Montressor sat and sickened—sickened and despaired to see these poor outcasts of Christianity—these sinning and suffering wrecks of humanity—men, women, and even children, one after another, fall into the horrible pit prepared by their own crimes. For the acquittals were very few. English courts are stern and strict, almost invariably endorsing by their action the warrants of their justice, and the true bills of their grand jury. The numerous, seemingly merciless convictions of the court, wrung her heart not only with the most painful pity for other sufferers, but with despair for herself and for those deeply interested in her fate. And as she heard one after another culprit convicted of theft, poaching, shop-lifting, burglary, or what not,—sentenced to transportation to Botany Bay, and saw the half-brutal, half-demoniac faces of these wretches glare on her as they passed out,—again the vision of the convict ship, and colony, with all their loathsome horrors, darkened around her soul, for she remembered that the crime of which she—even _she_—stood accused, was also a transportable offense; and convictions seemed to be the unvarying rule of this court! And thus, in this foul and deadly atmosphere of sin and sorrow, she sat and sickened and despaired, until the thirteenth day, when her case was called.

It was the first of June, when the sun smiled down in cloudless beauty from the deep blue sky, upon a land green with luxuriant vegetation, blooming and fragrant with flowers, and vocal with the songs of birds. It was a bright, beautiful, and glorious day; but to Estelle and her friends a day of darkness, gloom and terror!

The news that the trial would come on that morning had been noised abroad, all over the city, and throughout the country, and had attracted all Exeter to the court-house.

As on preceding days, before leaving her lodgings, for the court, Lady Montressor prayed long and earnestly. And then deeply vailed, and leaning on the arm of the venerable pastor, she came out, to enter the carriage. The populace, who had at last discovered her lodgings and identified her carriage, were now gathered in a dense crowd before the hotel, waiting to see this interesting prisoner. Short as was the distance from the portico to the coach, and deeply vailed as was the lady, she shuddered in passing through this crowd, whose gaze she could not see, but keenly, deeply, _felt_ fixed upon her form. Mr. Oldfield quickly and nervously handed her into the coach, followed her, took his seat, put up the blinds and let down the curtains; and having thus carefully closed up the carriage, gave orders to the coachman to drive on. They drove perforce slowly through the crowded streets that became more thronged, at every square, as they approached the court-house. When at last the coach drew up before the Hall, Mr. Oldfield alighted, and in the same quick, nervous manner, handed her out, and attempted to hurry her through the crowd that thronged around, and into the court-house, and choked up its portico, entrance hall, and staircase.

Estelle looked wildly around upon this vast and curious multitude. Among the carriages that blocked up the street before the building, she recognized the liveries of many of her former friends, and in the crowd that thronged into the court-house, she identified many of the guests who had been bidden to that wedding breakfast to which she had never returned. Since that fatal day to this—perhaps more fatal one—she had not seen or heard from one of them! Why came they now?—to gloat over her calamities? Who could tell? None but the Searcher of hearts; but their presence here made _her_ heart sink; true, it was a trifle added to the great sum of her misery; but it was only an added feather that is said to have broken the camel’s back. These thoughts had scarcely passed through her mind, when she saw Lord Montressor emerge from the crowd on the portico and come down the steps to join her.

“A few hours more of fortitude, dear Stella, and you will be free!” he said, as he drew her hand within his arm. He then bowed to Mr. Oldfield, and called a police-officer, whom he directed to precede and clear a way for them through the crowd. And then with his fine head erect and uncovered, and with a mien as self-possessed and dignified as that with which he had a month ago led his bride into the church, he now led her through the crowded portico and passage-way, and up the staircase into the court.