Chapter 105
The court listened, the jury listened, the spectators listened, and "hoped he might." He had spoken, for the most part, to incredulous ears.
CHAPTER XI.
THE WITNESSES FOR THE ALIBI.
When the speech of the counsel ended, and the time came for the production of the witness or witnesses who were to prove the _alibi_, there appeared to be some delay. The intense heat of the court had been growing greater with every hour. The rays of the afternoon sun, now sinking lower and lower in the heavens, had only brought with them a more deadly feeling of suffocation. But, to go out for a breath of air, even had the thronged state of the pa.s.sages permitted the movement, appeared to enter into no one's thoughts. Their suspense was too keen, their interest too absorbing. Who were those mysterious witnesses, that would testify to the innocence of Herbert Dare?
A stir at the extreme end of the court, where it joined the other pa.s.sage. Every eye was strained to see, every ear to listen, as an usher came clearing the way. "By your leave there--by your leave; room for a witness!"
The spectators looked, and stretched their necks, and looked again. A few among them experienced a strange thrill of disappointment, and felt that they should have much pleasure in being allowed the privilege of boxing the usher's ears, for he preceded no one more important than Richard Winthorne, the lawyer. Ah, but wait a bit! What short and slight figure is it that Mr. Winthorne is guiding along? The angry crowd have not caught sight of her yet.
But, when they do--when the drooping, shrinking form is at length in the witness-box; her eyes never raised, her lovely face bent in timid dread--then a murmur arises, and shakes the court to its foundation. The judge feels for his gla.s.ses--rarely used--and puts them across his nose, and gazes at her. A fair girl, attired in the simple, modest garb peculiar to the sect called Quakers, not more modest than the lovely and gentle face. She does not take the oath, only the affirmation peculiar to her people.
"What is your name?" commenced the prisoner's counsel.
That she spoke words in reply, was evident, by the moving of her lips: but they could not be heard.
"You must speak up," interposed
A deep struggle for breath, an effort of which even those around could see the pain, and the answer came. "They call me Anna. I am the daughter of Samuel Lynn."
"Where do your live?"
"I live with my father and Patience, in the London Road."
"What do you know of the prisoner at the bar?"
A pause. She probably did not understand the sort of answer required.
One came that was unexpected.
"I know him to be innocent of the crime of which he is accused."
"How do you know this?"
"Because he could not have been near the spot at the time."
"Where was he then?"
"With me."
But the reply came forth in so faint a whisper that again she had to be enjoined to speak louder, and she repeated it, using different words.
"He was at our house."
"At what hour did he go to your house?"
"It was past nine when he came up first."
"And what time did he leave?"
"It was about one in the morning."
The answer appeared to create some stir. A late hour for a sober little Quakeress to confess to.
"Was he spending the evening with your friends?"
"No."
"Did they not know he was there?"
"No."
"It was a clandestine visit to yourself, then? Where were they?"
A pause, and a very trembling answer. "They were in bed."
"Oh! You were entertaining him by yourself, then?"
She burst into tears. The judge let fall his gla.s.ses as though under the pressure of some annoyance, every feature of his fine face expressive of compa.s.sion: it may be, his thoughts had flown to daughters of his own.
The crowd stood with open mouths, gaping with undisguised astonishment, and the burly Queen's counsel proceeded.
"And so he prolonged his visit until one o'clock in the morning?"
"I was locked out," she sobbed. "That is how he came to stay so late."
Bit by bit, with question and cross-questioning, it all came out: that Herbert Dare had been in the habit of paying stolen visits to the field, and that Anna had been in the habit of meeting him there. That she had gone in on this night just before ten, which was later than she had ever stayed out before: but, finding Hester had to go out for medicine for Patience, she had run to the field again to take a book to the prisoner; and that upon attempting to enter soon afterwards, she found the door locked, Hester having met the doctor's boy, and come back at once. She told it all, as simply and guilelessly as a child.
"What were you doing all that time? From ten o'clock until one in the morning?"
"I was sitting on the door-step, crying."
"Was the prisoner with you?"
"Yes. He stood by me part of the time, telling me not to be afraid; and the rest of the time--more than an hour, I think--he was working at the wires of the pantry window, to try to get in."
"Was he all that time at the wires?"
"It was a long time before I remembered the pantry window. He wanted to knock up Hester, but I was afraid to let him. I feared she might tell Patience, and they would have been so angry with me. He got in, at last, at the pantry window, and he opened the kitchen window for me, and I went in by it."
"And you mean to say he was all that time, till one o'clock in the morning, forcing the wires of a pantry window?" cried Sergeant Seeitall.
"It was nearly one. I am telling thee the truth."
"And you did not lose sight of the prisoner from the time he first came to the field, at nine o'clock, until he left you at one?"