But many of the townsfolk were mounting to the court, and one that passed jogged against me with his elbow, and so waked me. I raised my head. Well, here was the court-house, within sat the judge; and though the sunlight beat upon my face, the shadow of the building had already reached about my feet
The little court was nigh upon full, and I pushed into a corner beneath the gallery, where I was like to escape notice, and yet command a view of what was done. There I stood for the space of ten minutes or so, watching the townsfolk enter by twos and threes in a trickling stream, thronging the floor, blocking the doorways; and I know not why, but gradually a great depression, a dull melancholy, overstole my spirits. It was just for this moment that I had lived for many a week back, I assured myself; my days had been one prayer for its coming, my nights one haunting fear lest it should not come. Yet the assurance, repeat it as I might, had little meaning at the outset, and less and less at each repetition. My blood would not be whipped; I felt inert, in some queer way disappointed. I was like one quit of a fever, but in the despondency of exhaustion. I saw the prisoner set in the dock. I noticed the purple hollows about his eyes, the thin, flushed cheeks, the nervous gripping of his fingers on the rail. But the spectacle waked no pity in me, though I was conscious I should feel pity; aroused no shame, though I knew I should be tingling with shame. And when Anthony Herbert sent his gaze piercing anxiously this way and that into the throng, I wondered for a moment who it was for whom he searched. I saw Jervas Rookley seated at a table; he turned his head so that the bruised scar upon his face was visible from Cheekbone to chin—and I, for all I felt towards him, might have been looking at the face of an inanimate statue. I saw the judge take his seat, his robes catching the sunlight and glowing against the black panels of the wall, like some monstrous scarlet flower. I was as one who contemplates a moving scene through a spy-glass, knowing it to be very far away. The actual aspect of the court became dreamlike to me, and when the clerk of the Crown cried out “Anthony Herbert, hold up thy hand!” it seemed to me that the curtain was but now rung up upon a puppet-show.
In this listless spirit I listened while the indictment was read. It set forth that “Anthony Herbert, as a false traitor, not weighing the duty of his allegiance, did with other false traitors conspire, compass, and imagine the death of his Majesty, the subversion of the Government, and to introduce the Romish religion; and for the effecting thereof, the said Anthony Herbert did conspire to levy war upon the kingdom and bring in the Pretender.”
Thereupon the indictment being read, the jury was empannelled, which took no short time, for of a sudden Herbert, doubtless primed for the work by Nicholas Doyle, challenges one of them—John Martin, I remember, the man was named.
“Are you a freeholder of forty shillings a year?” he asked; and the judge taking him up, he was allowed counsel to argue the point, which was done at great length and with much talk of a couple of statutes, one dating from Henry V., the other from Queen Mary. It seemed that they contradicted one another, but I do not know. I only know that the sunlight, pouring through a high window on the east side, shifted like the spoke of a slow-revolving wheel, and was already withdrawing up the wall beneath the window when Jervas Rookley was called to give his evidence.
To this evidence I lent a careful ear, and could not but perceive that though there was little fact in the recital, yet innuendo so fitted with innuendo that it might well have weight with a jury already inclined to believe. But even this observation I was conscious of making rather as a matter of general interest than as one in which I was so intimately concerned. Rookley told of Herbert’s coming to Keswick, how immediately he made Lord Derwentwater’s acquaintance and was entrusted with the painting of Lady Derwentwater’s portrait—a work which carried him daily to the house on Lord’s Island. Then he proceeded to tell of his own journey to Paris, and how he found me a novice in a Jesuit College. The journey to Bar-le-Duc he omitted, but said that I had given him advice to wait for me in Paris and so had ridden off for close upon a week. The journey, said he, aroused his suspicions; on my return I had openly professed to him my adherence to the Stuarts, and had informed him that I had travelled to Commercy and had seen the Pretender. He went on to describe his discovery that I carried a letter and his failure to possess himself of it.
“Then you knew Mr. Clavering was a Jacobite so long ago as that!” interrupted Anthony Herbert. “How comes it you waited so long before you moved for his arrest, unless you had a finger in the Jacobite pie yourself?”
“The witness need answer nothing that would incriminate himself,” interrupted the judge, quickly. “Besides, your turn will come. Let the King’s Counsel finish! “
“There is no reason why I should shrink from answering it,” said Jervas, readily. “There was some plot on foot, so much I knew. But what the plot was I knew not nor ever did; and had I laid the information against Lawrence Clavering then, I should myself have closed the avenues of knowledge.”
“And what have you to say to that?” asked the judge of Herbert. “You will need more discretion if you are to save your neck.” And he wagged his head at the prisoner.
“My Lord,” answered Herbert, in a heat, “I shall not want for discretion so long as I do not go begging for justice.”
I could see Mr. Doyle in the body of the court, nodding and frowning at his client in a great fluster. But it was already too late for his signs to have their effect
“Justice!” roared the judge, turning to the jury. “Sirs, the fellow cries for justice as though it were a stranger to a jury of Englishmen. Nay, but justice he shall have, full measure. I am here to see to that; “and he sat glowering at the unfortunate prisoner.
For myself the outburst was no more than I expected, and I listened to it as to an oft-told tale.
Jervas took up his story again. It may have been the heat, it may have been sheer weakness, but though I saw his face flush from expression to expression, the sound of his voice seemed to me no more than a dull droning, duller with every word; and yet every word I heard and clearly understood.
He told of my coming to Blackladies, of Lord Derwent water’s suggestion to me concerning Herbert, of my daily visits to the painter’s apartment, of my subsequent journeys about the country-side, and the inquiries I made as to troops and munitions.
Even to me hearing the story, it almost appeared that Herbert was inextricably linked in the business, with such ingenuity was it told. The faces of the jury already condemned the prisoner, people nudged one another about me as each detail was added, and Herbert himself seemed to lose hope at the sight of the tangle in which he was coiled
“I am for nothing in all this,” he cried, but now in a very wail.
“And this too I doubt not is for nothing,” said Mr. Cowper, the counsel, with a mocking irony, as he held up the medal which King James had given to me at Commercy. He turned to Rookley—
“You have seen this before?”
“In the prisoner’s lodging at Keswick.”
“Will you describe it?”
I bent forward. Rookley began to speak again. He described the head of King James struck upon the one side, the British islands upon the other, and made mention of the two mottoes: “Cujus est?” and “Reddite!”
Rookley paused, and there was a buzz of voices from the gallery, from the doorways, from the floor of the court. The medal was passed up to the judge. He turned it over in his hands, and had it carried to the jurymen. I saw their heads with many a wise wagging come together over it I leaned yet farther forward, looking at Rookley. For the first time that day I felt a pulse of excitement. Had Rookley chanced to glance my way, he must have seen me, so openly did I crane my head over my neighbour’s shoulders. But he stood with downcast eyes in the meekest humility—the very figure and image of unconscious merit. Had he more to say about that medal? Every second I fancied I saw his mouth open and frame the words I dreaded. The murmurs of the throng increased; I could have shouted “Silence! Silence!” I feared that he would speak and I miss the words; I feared that the very noise about him would remind him, would suggest to him, would disclose to him, anyhow would unlock his lips. But he had no further details to give, and it seemed to me that already the fresh air fanned at Herbert’s face.
“You saw the medal in the prisoner’s lodging?” resumed the counsel. “When?”
“More than once,” replied Rookley, and took up his tale again, and again my excitement died away. I remarked with some curiosity that he made no mention whatever of Mrs. Herbert from first to last, and I remembered how I had noticed before that the story fell into two halves, whereof each seemed complete without the other. He spoke, it is true, of a pretext by which he had lured Herbert to Blackladies, but did not define the pretext, nor did the counsel examine him as to it; while I felt sure that Anthony Herbert would be the last to start that game.
“Now,” said the judge, turning to the prisoner, “it is your turn, if you have any questions to ask of the witness.”
Herbert gathered up his papers.
“You saw this medal in my lodging?”
“Yes!”
“Do you know the purpose for which I had it there?”
Rookley straightened his shoulders, and facing Herbert, said very deliberately—
“I suppose it was a token which would pass you as trustworthy amongst the Jacobites.”
“Did you never see it before you saw it in my lodging?”
“Never! My lord, I swear it upon my oath—never. The prisoner has no doubt some cock-and-bull story, but that is the truth. Upon my oath—never.”
“The prisoner has no cock-and-bull story,” answered Herbert, leaning fiercely over the dock, “but only what he will prove with witnessess.” And so he turned from the subject.
It seemed to me that Rookley turned a trifle pale and for the first time lost his assurance. He glanced anxiously round the court; I drew closer into my corner. He knew that story of his about the medal to be false; he must needs have expected Herbert would press him closely concerning it. But he did not—he did not. There was reason for alarm. I saw the alarm gather on Rookley’s face.
“You were at great pains to effect my arrest secretly,” continued Herbert “And why was that?”
“I would not alarm Lawrence Clavering and his friends,” he replied, “until I had a riper knowledge of their plots.”
“But you laid the information against me with Mr. Fuller the magistrate on August 21st, and against Mr. Clavering on the 23rd; what was it made you change your mind between those dates?”
“But this is nothing to the purpose,” said the judge, testily.
“I pray you, my Lord,” said Herbert, with a certain dignity, “all this goes to the witness’ credit; I am here for my life. I am allowed no counsel to defend me. I pray you let me go on with my questions!” And he turned again to Rookley. “Did you intercept a letter from Lord Derwentwater to Mr. Clavering on the afternoon of the 23rd?”
“A letter?” asked Rookley, with the air of a man hearing the matter mentioned for the first time.
“A letter,” continued Herbert, “wherein Lord Derwentwater wrote that the French King was dying, and that Lord Bolingbroke counselled all thought of a rising should be deferred. And did you not thereupon, that same day, lay the information against Mr. Clavering?”
“But to what end is this?” interrupted the judge. “Clavering is not here. Were he here I should know how to deal with him. But the indictment is not drawn against Clavering. It is drawn against you, and you had best look to it.”
“My lord, it is all of a piece,” replied Herbert. “I was an innocent, an unconscious instrument of Rookley’s hatred of Mr. Clavering.”
Thereupon he proceeded to question Rookley as to the reason why he had been disinherited, and if it was true that he had robbed his father and ever proved a troublesome and disloyal son. To these inquiries he got nothing but evasions for replies; but I observed that the witness’ anxiety increased, as I could understand. For doubtless he little expected to have these facts arrayed against him, and began to wonder whence Herbert’s knowledge came.
The Court rose at the conclusion of his evidence for a short space, so that when it returned, the sunlight was pouring on to the floor of the room through the western window.
Other witnesses were called, amongst them one or two Whig gentlemen who spoke to seeing Lady Derwentwater’s portrait.
“You infer from that that I am a traitor?” said Herbert to the first
“I thought it a strange thing an artist should come so far as to Keswick,” he replied.
“But, my lord, is it a crime for a man to come to Keswick?” cried Herbert “I came thither for the landscapes.”
“And therefore painted portraits!” sneered the judge.
“Nay, but a man must live,” answered Herbert
I noticed that Blackett, my servant from Blackladies, was summoned to give evidence as to messages which I had despatched him with to Herbert. But I cannot say that I paid great heed to what he said. For that spoke of sunlight moved upwards from the floor towards the roof, changing as it moved from gold to red, and my weariness gained on me. I felt my limbs grow heavy beneath me and my head nodding, and the words which were spoken came to me muffled and drowsy, as if through a woollen curtain. At last Herbert was enjoined to make his defence. The sunlight streamed in a level blaze through the windows at the height of the gallery.
“My lord and gentlemen,” he began, “I have nothing but innocence to plead. I cannot take the jury or the Court with oratory, but I declare in the presence of Almighty God that what is sworn against me is all a fiction. For rebelling against the established Government or attacking that precious life of his Majesty King George—I never had such a thought. You have heard a great many innuendoes and suspicions but very little fact, and I cannot be condemned upon suspicions. Moreover, I shall call a witness to prove to you that Jervas Rookley had the best of reasons for fitting those suspicions together. It is Blackladies that he covets, the estate from which his father disinherited him, and he seeks to regain it as a reward for his zeal by pursuing me to my death, though it cost him perjury. There is but one fact alleged against me, my Lord, in all this, that I had possession of the medal. But it never belonged to me, and that Jervas Rookley knows. I shall call a witness to prove to you that it belonged to Mr. Clavering, and to explain why it was discovered in my room.”
“Well, call your witness! “said the Judge.
“I do, my Lord,” said Anthony Herbert. “I call Lawrence Clavering.” There was a quick movement all through the court like a ripple upon still water, and then, absolute silence—the silence of a night frostbound and empty. There floated into my mind a recollection of the street beyond the barricade at Preston. The sunlight blazed ruddy upon motionless figures. Had a woman fainted, it seemed you might have heard her breathing. Then quick and sharp rang out a laugh. I knew the voice; I understood the relief in it. It flashed upon me of a sudden that here was I failing again, and this time irretrievably. I shook ofl the weariness which hung upon my limbs, the mist which was wrapped about my senses; I pushed aside the man who stood in front of me.
“I call Lawrence Clavering,” repeated Herbert, the certitude of his tone weakening to a tremor.
From somewhere in the gallery I heard a sob, half-stifled—a sob as though a heart was breaking, and I knew too the voice which uttered that
“Here!” I shouted, and thrust against the shoulders in front of me. A lane was carved as though by magic, and I advanced to the table.
“My lord, he is a rebel and a papist,” said Rookley, starting up, his face livid, his eyes starting from their sockets.
“Doubtless I shall answer for both those crimes,” said I, “in the law’s good time. I am here this day to prevent a wrong.”
Thereupon I was sworn and bidden to take my stand in the witness-box, which I did, being so placed that my back was towards the windows and the setting sun.
“My lord, the witness laughs,” said Mr. Cowper; “I pray your lordship warn him that he swear truly.”
But the witness was not laughing with any levity for the task to which his hand was set, and composed his face upon the instant. The gallery ran round the three sides of the hall; the sunlight, as I say, poured in from behind me and beat upon the gallery in front I was looking to that part of it over against me from which I had heard a sob; and a face looked out from the rosy glow of the sunlight and smiled at me. It was at that face—the face of Dorothy Curwen that I smiled back. For my heart was lifted within me, exultant, rejoicing. I did not think then of the danger she ran, though the thought pressed heavily enough upon me afterwards; I did not even consider by what means she had come here. She was here. And this time I had not failed.
My musings, however, were interrupted by the judge, who warned me very outrageously that since nothing now could save my body, so I need not trust the saints would save my soul, if they caught me prevaricating from the truth.
“My lord,” I replied humbly, “I was at Preston, and escaped. I could have fled out of England and got me safe to France; I am not like to have thrown away my life that I might tell a lie.”
I shall not be particular to recount all the questions which Herbert put to me. He put many, and I answered them truthfully. I saw the judge’s face cloud and grow sterner and sterner, for every word I spoke was a link to fetter me the more closely to my death; but the face up there in the gallery grew brighter and brighter; or so at least I imagined. It was to the gallery I looked for my judge, and there I saw myself acquitted.
“You have seen this medal?” asked Herbert.
“It belongs to me,” said I.
“Belongs to you?” said the judge.
“It was given to me at Commercy by him whom I must ever regard as my King.”
“How came it, then, in the prisoner’s lodging?”
“I took it there myself that it might be painted in my picture.”
“We shall need proof of all this,” said the judge; “and prithee, friend,” said he, with a biting irony, “consider the oath thou hast taken! “
“Proof there is, my lord,” I cried, “and a sure proof—the picture itself.”
Thereupon the portrait was exhibited. And since the court-house was now falling to darkness, a couple of candles were brought and set in front of it that it might be the better seen. It was the horridest picture that ever was seen; and the glare of the candles made it start out from the gloom like a thing alive. It was not, however, at the face I looked for any great while.
“There, my lord,” I cried in excitement. “On the breast! There the medal hangs.”
And to his good fortune Anthony Herbert had painted that medal with all his minute elaboration. From where I stood I could distinguish the head of King James, and when the picture was held close one could read the motto, “Cujus est?”
I looked up to the gallery while the judge and the jury were inspecting the picture. The last rays of the sun glowed tenderly about Dorothy’s face and died off it whilst I looked.
“But the face!” exclaimed Mr. Cowper. “My lord, this is no simple portrait We are not at the bottom of the matter.”
“The face I have painted since I was in prison,” replied Herbert; and explained in some confusion, “I blamed Mr. Clavering for my arrest.”
“Then,” said the judge, “we shall need proof that the medal was not painted in when you were in prison too.”
But that proof he had, and subsequently produced in the person of his landlord and the landlord’s wife with whom he had lodged at Keswick.
Meanwhile he continued his questioning of me.
“You have heard Jervas Rookley describe the medal?”
“Yes.”
“Is it the true description?”
“But incomplete,” I answered, “for there are marks upon the medal. Upon one side is the face, but there are scratches upon that face, when it fell one day upon the stones. The forehead is indented, there is a mark lengthening the curve of the mouth, there is a scratch where the cravat meets the neck beneath the ear.”
“How came these scratches?” asked Herbert
“I dropped the medal out of my fob,” said I, “when I was thrown from my horse on Coldbarrow Fell, the first time I came to Blackladies, and Jervas Rookley picked it up and gave it back to me.”
There was a murmur amongst the spectators.
“It is not true,” said Rookley, but in a voice so shaken that it belied the words.
The judge took the medal and examined it.
“I cannot see,” he said. “Bring more candles.”
The candles were brought; the judge examined the medal, and handed it to the counsel.
“My lord, the jury would like to see it,” and the voice was that of the foreman.
How eagerly I watched their faces while they clustered once more about it!
“The marks are there,” said the foreman, “as the witness has described them.”
“I should know,” said I. “I tried to rub them off so often.”
“And Jervas Rookley picked it up?” asked Herbert
“He held it so long, turning it over in his hand, that I had to ask him thrice before ever I could get it back.”
I spoke with all the earnestness I had, and it seemed to me that the jury belied my words. But I could not tell, and I waited, while the judge summed up and the jury were away considering their verdict, in a fever of anxiety. How long they were I how slowly they filed into the court! I looked up to the gallery: a row of white faces bent on the rail, all gazing towards the jury-box, save one, and that one gazed at me as I sat by the table in the court I was indeed still returning that gaze when the verdict was announced, and I think it was Herbert’s hand grasping mine which first informed me what tke verdict was.
That night I slept in Carlisle prison, but as I came ot upon the steps of the court-house between my guards, I saw, by the light of the lamp swinging above the door, Herbert and his wife standing side by side; and a few yards further, the sergeant who led the way turned his lanthorn on one side and showed me the little figure of a girl and a face which peeped from out a taffety hood.