Kitabı oxu: «Annie o' the Banks o' Dee», səhifə 12
Chapter Twenty Six.
Meeting and Parting
Reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. Neither Captain Dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with.
He was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. If the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. The passengers were chiefly Yankees on their way to London Paris, and the Riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. It hurt Reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame.
When he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart – for he dearly loved children – to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers’ skirts, or hide behind them screaming.
“Oh, ma, he’s coming – the awful man is coming?”
“He isn’t so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?” said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too.
“Ah, child, but remember what he has done. Even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times.”
“Well,” said another lady, “he will hang as high as Haman, anyhow!”
“And richly deserves it,” exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. “I’m sure I should dearly like to see him strung. He won’t walk so boldly along the scaffold, I know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!”
“Woman!” cried an old white-haired gentleman, “you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!” The old maid tossed her yellow face. “And let me add, madam, that but for God’s grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his. Good-day, miss!”
There was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships joined. Thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther. To this barrier Reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was.
“God bless you, sir,” said Reginald, loud enough for all to hear, “for defending me. The remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing pierce me to the core.”
“And God bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul.” He held out his hand, and Reginald shook it heartily. “I advise you, Mr Grahame, to make your peace with God, for I cannot see a chance for you. I am myself a New York solicitor, and have studied your case over and over again.”
“I care not how soon death comes. My hopes are yonder,” said Reginald.
He pointed skywards as he spoke.
“That’s good. And remember:
“‘While the lamp holds out to burn,
The greatest sinner may return.’
“I’ll come and see you to-morrow.”
“A thousand thanks, sir. Good-day.”
Mr Scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful Havana cigars, very large and odorous. The tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he told Scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. This, he believed, was his only hope. But Scratchley cut him short.
“See here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at the Bar. Mind, I myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that somnambulism story to yourself. I must speak plainly. It will be looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do you more harm than good. Heigho!” he continued. “From the bottom of my heart I pity you. So young, so handsome. Might have been so happy and hopeful, too! Well, good-bye. I’ll come again.”
Mr Scratchley was really a comfort to Reginald. But now the voyage was drawing near its close. They had passed the isles of Bute and Arran, and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the Clyde.
It was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the prisoner beheld them. Time was when they would have delighted his heart. Those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. The glad sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither, with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most beautiful saddened him the most.
Two days are past and gone, and Reginald is now immured in gaol to await his trial. It was lightsome and comfortable, and he had books to read, and a small, cheerful fire. He had exercise also in the yard, and even the gaolers talked kindly enough to him; but all the same he was a prisoner.
His greatest trial had yet to come – the meeting with – ah! yes, and the parting from – Annie – his Annie – Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.
One day came a letter from her, which, though it had been opened and read by the authorities, was indeed a sweet boon to him. He read it over and over again, lover-like. It burned with affection and love, a love that time and absence had failed to quench. But she was coming to see him, “she and her maid, Jeannie Lee,” she continued. Her uncle was well and hearty, but they were no longer owners of the dear old house and lands of Bilberry. She would tell him all her story when she saw him. And the letter ended: “With unalterable love, your own Annie.”
The ordeal of such a meeting was one from which Reginald naturally shrank; but this over, he would devote himself entirely to communion with Heaven. Only Heavenly hopes could now keep up his heart.
The day came, and Annie, with Jeannie, her maid, arrived at the prison.
He held Annie at arms’ length for a few seconds. Not one whit altered was she. Her childlike and innocent beauty was as fresh now, and her smile as sweet, though somewhat more chastened, as when he had parted with her in sorrow and tears more than three years ago. He folded her in his arms. At this moment, after a preliminary knock at the door, the gaoler entered.
“The doctor says,” he explained, “that your interview may last an hour, and that, fearing it may be too much for you, he sends you this. And a kindly-hearted gent he is.”
He placed a large glass of brandy and water before Reginald as he spoke.
“What! Must I drink all this?”
“Yes – and right off, too. It is the doctor’s orders.”
The prisoner obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly. Even now he needed no Dutch courage. Then, while Jeannie took a book and seated herself at some little distance, the lovers had it all to themselves, and after a time Annie felt strong enough to tell her story. We already know it.
“Yes, dear, innocent Reginald, we were indeed sorry to leave bonnie Bilberry Hall, and live in so small a cottage. And though he has kept up wonderfully well, still, I know he longs at times for a sight of the heather. He is not young now, darling, and yet he may live for very many years. But you were reported as lost, dear, and even the figurehead of the Wolverine and a boat was found far away in the Pacific. Then after that, dearest, all hope fled. I could never love another. The new heir of Bilberry Hall and land proposed to me. My uncle could not like him, and I had no love to spare. My heart was in Heaven with you, for I firmly believed you drowned and gone before. Then came Laird Fletcher. Oh, he was very, very kind to us, and often took uncle and myself away in his carriage to see once more the bonnie Highland hills. And I used to notice the tears standing in dear uncle’s eyes when he beheld the glory and romance of his own dear land, and the heather. And then I used to pity poor uncle, for often after he came home from a little trip like this he used to look so forlornly at all his humble surroundings. Well, dear, from kindness of every kind Fletcher’s feelings for me seemed to merge into love. Yes, true love, Reginald. But I could not love him in return. My uncle even pleaded a little for Fletcher. His place is in the centre of the Deeside Highlands, and, oh, the hills are high, and the purple heather and crimson heath, surrounded by dark pine forests, are a sight to see in autumn. Well, you were dead, Reginald, and uncle seemed pining away; and so when one day Fletcher pleaded more earnestly than ever, crying pathetically as he tried to take my hand, ‘Oh, Annie, my love, my life, I am unworthy of even your regard, but for sake of your dear old uncle won’t you marry me?’ then, Reginald, I gave a half-consent, but a wholly unwilling one. Can you forgive me?”
He pressed her closer to his heart by way of answer.
How quickly that hour sped away lovers only know. But it ended all too soon. The parting? Ay, ay; let this too be left to the imagination of him or her who knows what true love is.
After Annie had gone, for the first time since his incarceration Reginald collapsed. He threw himself on his bed and sobbed until verily he thought his heart would break. Then the gaoler entered.
“Come, come, my dear lad,” said the man, walking up to the prisoner and laying a kindly and sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Keep up, my boy, keep up. We have all to die. God is love, lad, and won’t forsake you.”
“Oh,” cried the prisoner, “it is not death I fear. I mourn but for those I leave behind.”
A few more weeks, and Reginald’s case came on for trial.
It was short, perhaps, but one of the most sensational ever held in the Granite City, as the next chapter will prove.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Sensational Murder Trial
The good people of Aberdeen – yclept the Granite City – are as fond of display and show as even the Londoners, and the coming of the lords, who are the judges that try the principal cases, is quite an event of the year, and looked forward to with longing, especially by the young people.
Ah! little they think of or care for the poor wretches that, in charge of warders or policemen, or both, are brought up from their cells, to stand pale and trembling before the judge.
The three weeks that intervened between the departure of poor, unhappy Annie from his cell and the coming of the lords were the longest that Reginald ever spent in life – or appeared to be, for every hour was like a day, every day seemed like a month.
The gaoler was still kind to him. He had children of his own, and in his heart he pitied the poor young fellow, around whose neck the halter would apparently soon be placed. He had even – although I believe this was against the rules – given Reginald some idea as to the day his trial would commence.
“God grant,” said Reginald, “they may not keep me long. Death itself is preferable to the anxiety and awful suspense of a trial.”
But the three weeks passed away at last, and some days to that, and still the lords came not. The prisoner’s barred window was so positioned that he could see down Union Street with some craning of the neck.
One morning, shortly after he had sent away his untouched breakfast, he was startled by hearing a great commotion in the street, and the hum of many voices. The pavements were lined with a sea of human beings. Shortly after this he heard martial music, and saw men on the march with nodding plumes and fixed bayonets. Among them, guarded on each side, walked lords in their wigs and gowns. Reginald was brave, but his heart sank to zero now with terror and dread. He felt that his hour had come. Shortly the gaoler entered.
“Your case is to be the first,” he said. “Prepare yourself. It will come off almost immediately.”
He went away, and the prisoner sank on his knees and prayed as surely he never prayed before. The perspiration stood in great drops on his forehead.
Another weary hour passed by, and this time the door was opened to his advocate. His last words were these:
“All you have got to do is to plead ‘Not guilty’; then keep silent. If a question is put to you, glance at me before you answer. I will nod if you must answer, and shake my head if you need not.”
“A thousand thanks for all your kindness, sir. I’m sure you will do your best.”
“I will.”
Once more the gaoler entered.
“The doctor sends you this,” he said. “And drink it you must, or you may faint in the dock, and the case be delayed.”
At last the move was made. Dazed and dizzy, Reginald hardly knew whither he was being led, until he found himself in the dock confronting the solemn and sorrowful-looking judge. He looked just once around the court, which was crowded to excess. He half-expected, I think, to see Annie there, and was relieved to find she was not in court. But yonder was Captain Dickson and the four sailors who had remained behind to prosecute the gold digging. Dickson smiled cheerfully and nodded. Then one of the policemen whispered attention, and the unhappy prisoner at once confronted the judge.
“Reginald Grahame,” said the latter after some legal formalities were gone through, “you are accused of the wilful murder of Craig Nicol, farmer on Deeside, by stabbing him to the heart with a dirk or skean dhu. Are you guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty, my lord.” This in a firm voice, without shake or tremolo.
“Call the witnesses.”
The first to be examined was Craig’s old housekeeper. She shed tears profusely, and in a faint tone testified to the departure of her master for Aberdeen with the avowed intention of drawing money to purchase stock withal. She was speedily allowed to stand down.
The little boys who had found the body beneath the dark spruce-fir in the lonely plantation were next interrogated, and answered plainly enough in their shrill treble.
Then came the police who had been called, and the detective, who all gave their evidence in succinct but straightforward sentences.
All this time there was not a sound in the court, only that sea of faces was bent eagerly forward, so that not a word might escape them. The excitement was intense.
Now came the chief witness against Reginald; and the bloodstained dirk was handed to Shufflin’ Sandie.
“Look at that, and say if you have seen it before?” said the judge.
“As plain as the nose on your lordship’s face!” said Sandie, smiling.
That particular nose was big, bulbous, and red. Sandie’s reply, therefore, caused a titter to run through the court. The judge frowned, and the prosecution proceeded.
“Where did you last see it?”
“Stained with blood, sir; it was found beneath the dead man’s body.”
On being questioned, Sandie also repeated his evidence as given at the coroner’s inquest, and presently was allowed to stand down.
Then the prisoner was hissed by the people. The judge lost his temper. He had not quite got over Sandie’s allusion to his nose.
“If,” he cried, “there is the slightest approach to a repetition of that unseemly noise, I will instantly clear the court?”
The doctor who had examined the body was examined.
“Might not the farmer have committed suicide?” he was asked.
“Everything is against that theory,” the doctor replied, “for the knife belonged to Grahame; besides, the deed was done on the road, and from the appearance of the deceased’s coat, he had evidently been hauled through the gateway on his back, bleeding all the while, and so hidden under the darkling spruce pine.”
“So that felo de se is quite out of the question?”
“Utterly so, my lord.”
“Stand down, doctor.”
I am giving the evidence only in the briefest epitome, for it occupied hours. The advocate for the prosecution made a telling speech, to which the prisoner’s solicitor replied in one quite as good. He spoke almost ironically, and laughed as he did so, especially when he came to the evidence of the knife. His client at the time of the murder was lying sound asleep at a hedge-foot. What could hinder a tramp, one of the many who swarm on the Deeside road, to have stolen the knife, followed Craig Nicol, stabbed him, robbed and hidden the body, and left the knife there to turn suspicion on the sleeping man? “Is it likely,” he added, “that Reginald – had he indeed murdered his quondam friend – would have been so great a fool as to have left the knife there?” He ended by saying that there was not a jot of trustworthy evidence on which the jury could bring in a verdict of guilty.
But, alas! for Reginald. The judge in his summing up – and a long and eloquent speech it was – destroyed all the good effects of the solicitor’s speech. “He could not help,” he said, “pointing out to the jury that guilt or suspicion could rest on no one else save Grahame. As testified by a witness, he had quarrelled with Nicol, and had made use of the remarkable expression that ‘the quarrel would end in blood.’ The night of the murder Grahame was not sober, but lying where he was, in the shade of the hedge, Nicol must have passed him without seeing him, and then no doubt Grahame had followed and done that awful deed which in cool blood he might not even have thought about Again, Grahame was poor, and was engaged to be married. The gold and notes would be an incentive undoubtedly to the crime, and when he sailed away in the Wolverine he was undoubtedly a fugitive from justice, and in his opinion the jury had but one course. They might now retire.”
They were about to rise, and his lordship was about to withdraw, when a loud voice exclaimed:
“Hold! I desire to give evidence.”
A tall, bold-looking seafarer stepped up, and was sworn.
“I have but this moment returned from a cruise around Africa,” he said. “I am bo’s’n’s mate in H.M.S. Hurricane. We have been out for three years. But, my lord, I have some of the notes here that the Bank of Scotland can prove were paid to Craig Nicol, and on the very day after the murder must have taken place I received these notes, for value given, from the hands of Sandie yonder, usually called Shufflin’ Sandie. I knew nothing about the murder then, nor until the ship was paid off; but being hurried away, I had no time to cash the paper, and here are three of them now, my lord.” They were handed to the jury. “They were smeared with blood when I got them. Sandie laughed when I pointed this out to him. He said that he had cut his finger, but that the blood would bring me luck.” (Great sensation in court.)
Sandie was at once recalled to the witness-box. His knees trembled so that he had to be supported. His voice shook, and his face was pale to ghastliness.
“Where did you obtain those notes?” said the judge sternly.
For a moment emotion choked the wretch’s utterance. But he found words at last.
“Oh, my lord my lord, I alone am the murderer! I killed one man – Craig Nicol – I cannot let another die for my crime! I wanted money, my lord, to help to pay for my new house, and set me up in life, and I dodged Nicol for miles. I found Mr Grahame asleep under a hedge, and I stole the stocking knife and left it near the man I had murdered. When I returned to the sleeping man, I had with me – oh, awful! – some of the blood of my victim that I had caught in a tiny bottle as it flowed from his side,” – murmurs of horror – “and with this I smeared Grahame’s hands.”
Here Sandie collapsed in a dead faint, and was borne from the court.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge, “this evidence and confession puts an entirely new complexion on this terrible case. The man who has just fainted is undoubtedly the murderer.” The jury agreed. “The present prisoner is discharged, but must appear to-morrow, when the wretched dwarf shall take his place in the dock.”
And so it was. Even the bloodstained clothes that Sandie had worn on the night of the murder had been found. The jury returned a verdict of guilty against him without even leaving the box. The judge assumed the black cap, and amidst a silence that could be felt, condemned him to death.
Reginald Grahame was a free man, and once more happy. The court even apologised to him, and wished him all the future joys that life could give.
But the wretched culprit forestalled justice, and managed to strangle himself in his cell. And thus the awful tragedy ended.
“I knew it, I knew it!” cried Annie, as a morning or two after his exculpation Reginald presented himself at McLeod Cottage. And the welcome he received left nothing to be desired.
