"A different gentleman altogether came in the evening, a much taller man, with a large moustache."
"Where was it that you saw this man?"
"Slipping in at the side door of the office as if he didn"t want to be seen."
"Was that a door which was generally open, or used by the public?"
"Never, sir; but none of the doors were used at that time of night."
"And how, then, could any one get admittance there?"
"Only those that had private keys; the directors had their private keys."
"Then your conclusion was that it was a director, and that he had a right to be there?"
"I knew it was a director, sir, because I knew the gentleman," the witness said.
"You say it was late in the evening of the 6th of September. Was it daylight at the time?"
"Oh, no, sir; nearly dark--a sort of a half light."
"Did the person you saw go in openly, or make any attempt at concealment?"
"He had a light coat on, like the coats gentlemen wear when they go to the theatre, and something m.u.f.fled round his throat, and his hat pulled down over his face."
"Like a person who wished to conceal himself?"
"Yes, sir," said the witness.
"And how, then, if he was m.u.f.fled about the throat, and his hat pulled over his face, in the half light late in the evening, could you see that he had a large moustache?"
The witness stood and stared with his mouth open, and made no reply.
The counsel, with a louder voice and those intonations of contemptuous insinuation which are calculated to make a man feel that he is convicted of the basest perjury, and is being held up to the reprobation of the world, repeated the question, "How could you see that he had a large moustache?"
"I saw it," said the witness, hotly, "because I knew the gentleman."
"And how did you know the gentleman? You thought you recognised the gentleman, and therefore, though you could not possibly perceive it, you saw his moustache? I fear that is not an answer that will satisfy the jury."
"I submit," said the counsel for the defence, "that it is very evident what the witness means. He recognised a man with whose appearance he was perfectly familiar."
"I saw him," said the witness, "as clear as I see you, sir."
"What! in the dark, late on a September night, with a coat collar up to his ears, and a hat pulled down over his face! You see my learned friend in broad daylight, and with the full advantage of standing opposite to him and studying his looks at your leisure. You might as well say because you know the gentleman that you could see his half was dark and abundant under his wig."
At this a laugh ran through the court, at which Philip, listening, was furiously indignant, as it interrupted the course of the investigation.
It was through the sound of this laugh that he heard the witness demand loudly, "How could I be mistaken, when I saw Mr. Compton every day?"
Mr. Compton! Philip"s heart began to beat like the hammers of a steam-engine. Was this, then, the real issue? And who was Mr. Compton?
He could not have told how it was that he somehow identified the man whom the witness had seen, or had not seen, with the man who had the opera-gla.s.s, and who had fixed a dreadful blank stare upon the other in the witness-box during a great part of this discussion. Was it he who was on his trial, and not Brown? And who was he? And where was it that Philip had known and grown familiar with that face, which, so far as he could remember, he had never seen before, but which belonged to the man who bore his own name?
When the counsel for the prosecution had turned the unfortunate witness outside in, and proved that he knew nothing and had seen n.o.body: and that, besides, he was a man totally unworthy of credit, who had lied from his cradle, and whose own mother and friends put no trust in him, the court adjourned for lunch. But Philip forgot that he required any lunch. His mind was filled with echoes of that name. He began to feel a strange certainty that it was the same man who had fixed him with the same gaze in the theatre. Who was Mr. Compton, and what was he? The question took the boy"s breath away.
He sat through the interval, finding a place where he could see better, through the kind offices of the usher to whom Simmons had commended him, and waiting with impatience till the trial should be resumed. n.o.body remarked the boy among the crowd of the ordinary public, many of whom remained, as he did, to see it out, Philip cared nothing about Brown: all that he wanted to know was about this namesake of his--this Compton, this other man, who was not Brown. If it was the man with the opera-gla.s.s, he was not so much excited as his young namesake, for he went to luncheon with the rest; while the boy remained counting the minutes, eager to begin the story, the drama, again. The impression left, however, on Philip"s impartial mind was that the last witness, though driven and badgered out of what wits he had by the examination, had really seen a man whom he perfectly knew, his recognition of whom was not really affected either by the twilight or the disguise.
The thrill of interest which he felt running through all his veins as the court filled again was like, but stronger than, the interest with which he had ever seen the curtain rise in the theatre. His heart beat: he felt as if in some sort it was his own fate that was going to be decided: all his prepossessions were in favour of that other accused, yet not openly accused, person who was not Brown; and yet he felt almost as sure as if he had been there that the office boy of twenty years ago had seen that man stealing in at the side door.
Young Philip did not catch the name of the next witness who was called; such a thing will happen sometimes even with the quickest ear at a moment when every whisper is important. If he had heard he would probably have thought that he was deceived by his excitement, impossible as it was that such a name should have anything to do with this or any other trial. The shock therefore was unbroken when, watching with all the absorbed interest of a spectator at the most exciting play, the boy saw a lady come slowly forward into the witness-box. Philip had the same strange sense of knowing who it was that he had felt the previous witness to have in respect to the man whom he could not see, but yet had infallibly recognised: but he said to himself, No! it was not possible!
No! it was not possible! She came forward slowly, put up the veil that had covered her face, and grasped the bar before her to support herself; and then the boy sprang to his feet, in the terrible shock which electrified him from head to feet! His movements, and the stifled cry he uttered, made a little commotion in the crowd, and called forth the cry of "Silence in the court." His neighbours around him hustled him back into his place, where he sank down incapable indeed of movement, knowing that he could not go and pluck her from that place--could not rush to her side, could do nothing but sit there and gasp and gaze at his mother. His mother, in such a place! in such a case! with which--surely, surely--she could have nothing to do. Elinor Compton, at the time referred to Elinor Dennistoun, of Windyhill, in Surrey--there was no doubt about the name now. And Philip had time enough to identify everything, name and person, for there rose a vague surging of contention about the first questions put to her, which were not evidence, according to the counsel on the other side, which he felt with fury was done on purpose to prolong the agony. During this time she stood immovable, holding on by the rail before her, her eyes fixed upon it, perfectly pale, like marble, and as still. Among all the moving, rustling, palpitating crowd, and the sharp volleys of the lawyers"
voices, and even the contradictory opinions elicited from the hara.s.sed judge himself--to look at that figure standing there, which scarcely seemed to breathe, had the most extraordinary effect. For a time Philip was like her, scarcely breathing, holding on in an unconscious sympathy to the back of the seat before him, his eyes wide open, fixed upon her.
But as his nerves began to accustom themselves to that extraordinary, inconceivable sight, the other particulars of the scene came out of the mist, and grew apparent to him in a lurid light that did not seem the light of day. He saw the eager looks at her of the ladies in the privileged places, the whispers that were exchanged among them. He saw underneath the witness-box, almost within reach of her, John Tatham, with an anxious look on his face. And then he saw, what was the most extraordinary of all, the man--who had been the centre of his interest till now--the man whose name was Philip Compton, like his own; he who fixed the last witness with the stare of his opera-gla.s.s, who had kept it in perpetual use. He had put it down now on the table before him, his arms were folded on his breast, and his head bent. Philip thought he detected now and then a furtive look under his brows at the motionless witness awaiting through the storm of words the moment when her turn would come; but though he had leant forward all the time, following every point of the proceedings with interest, he now drew back, effaced himself, retired as it were from the scene. What was there between these two? Was there any link between them? What was the drama about to be played out before Pippo"s innocent and ignorant eyes? At last the storm and wrangling seemed to come to an end, and there came out low but clear the sound of her voice. It seemed only now, when he heard his mother speak, that he was certified that so inconceivable a thing as that she should be here was a matter of fact: his mother here! Philip fixed his whole being upon her--eyes, thoughts, absorbed attention, he scarcely seemed to breathe except through her. Could she see him, he wondered, through all that crowd? But then he perceived that she saw nothing with those eyes that looked steadily in front of her, not turning a glance either to the right or left.
For some time Philip was baffled completely by the questions put, which were those to which the counsel on the other side objected as not evidence, and which seemed, even to the boy"s inexperienced mind, to be mere play upon the subject, attempts to connect her in some way with the question as to Brown"s guilt or innocence. Something in the appearance, at this stage, of a lady so unlike the other witnesses, seemed to exercise a certain strange effect, however, quickening everybody"s interest, and when the examining counsel approached the question of the date which had already been shown to be so momentous, all interruptions were silenced, and the court in general, like Philip, held its breath.
There were many there expecting what are called in the newspapers "revelations:" the defence was taken by surprise, and did not know what new piece of evidence was about to be produced: and even the examining counsel was, for such a man, subdued a little by the other complicating threads of the web among which he had to pick his way.
"You recollect," he said in his most soothing tones; "the evening of the 6th September, 1863?"
She bowed her head in reply. And then as if that was sparing herself too much, added a low "Yes."
"As I am instructed, you were not then married, but engaged to Mr.
Philip Compton. Is that so?"
"Yes."
"One of the directors of the company of which the defendant was manager?"
"I believe so."
"I am sorry to have to enter upon matters so private: but there was some question, I believe, about an investment to be made of a portion of your fortune in the hands of this company?"
"Yes."
"You received a visit from Mr. Compton on the subject on the day I have mentioned."
The witness made a slight movement and pause: then answered as before, but more firmly, "Yes:" she added, "not on this subject," in a lower tone.
"You can recollect, more or less exactly, the time of his arrival?"
"Yes. It was in the evening, after dinner; in the darkening before the lamps were lit."
"Were you looking for him on that night?"
"No; it was an unexpected visit. He was going to Ireland, and paused on his way through town to come down to Windyhill."
"You have particular reasons for remembering the date, which make it impossible that there could be any mistake?"
"No; there could be no mistake."