A Reputed Changeling; Or, Three Seventh Years Two Centuries Ago by Yonge (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

Scarcely anything remarkable, however, occurred, except that it was painful to perceive the lightness of the coffin.  A funeral sermon was previously preached by a young Nonconformist minister in his own chapel, on the text, “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed;” and then the burial took place, watched by a huge crowd of people.  But just as the procession was starting from the chapel for the churchyard, over the wall there came a strange peal of wild laughter.

“Oh, would not the unquiet spirit be at rest till it was avenged?” thought Anne when she was told of it.

CHAPTER XXIX
The Assize Court

“O terror! what hath she perceived?  O joy,
What doth she look on? whom hath she perceived?”

WORDSWORTH.

Time wore away, and the Lent Assizes at Winchester had come.  Sir Philip had procured the best legal assistance for his nephew, but in criminal cases, though the prisoner was allowed the advice of counsel, the onus of defence rested upon himself.  To poor Anne’s dismay, a subpoena was sent to her, as well as to her uncle, to attend as a witness at the trial.  Sir Philip was too anxious to endure to remain at a distance from Winchester, and they travelled in his coach, Sir Edmund Nutley escorting them on horseback, while Lucy was left with her mother, both still in blissful ignorance.  They took rooms at the George Inn.  That night was a strange and grievous one to Anne, trying hard to sleep so as to be physically capable of composure and presence of mind, yet continually wakened by ghastly dreams, and then recollecting that the sense of something terrible was by no means all a dream.

Very white, very silent, but very composed, she came to the sitting-room, and was constrained by her uncle and Sir Philip to eat, much as it went against her.  On this morning Sir Philip had dropped his sternness towards her, and finding a moment when his son-in-law was absent, he said, “Child, I know that this is wellnigh, nay, quite as hard for you as for me.  I can only say, Let no earthly regards hold you back from whatever is your duty to God and man.  Speak the truth whatever betide, and leave the rest to the God of truth.  God bless you, however it may be;” and he kissed her brow.

The intelligence that the trial was coming on was brought by Sedley’s counsel, Mr. Simon Harcourt.  They set forth for the County Hall up the sharply-rising street, thronged with people, who growled and murmured at the murderer savagely, Sir Philip, under the care of his son-in-law, and Anne with her uncle.  Mr. Harcourt was very hopeful; he said the case for the prosecution had not a leg to stand on, and that the prisoner himself was so intelligent, and had so readily understood the line of defence to take, that he ought to have been a lawyer.  There would be no fear except that it might be made a party case, and no stone was likely to be left unturned against a gentleman of good loyal family.  Moreover Mr. William Cowper, whom Robert Oakshott, or rather his wife, had engaged at great expense for the prosecution, was one of the most rising of barristers, noted for his persuasive eloquence, and unfortunately Mr. Harcourt had not the right of reply.

The melancholy party were conducted into court, Sir Philip and Sir Edmund to the seats disposed of by the sheriff, beside the judge, strangely enough only divided by him from Major Oakshott.  The judge was Mr. Baron Hatsel, a somewhat weak-looking man, in spite of his red robes and flowing wig, as he sat under his canopy beneath King Arthur’s Round Table.  Sedley, perhaps a little thinner since his imprisonment, but with the purple red on his face, and his prominent eyes so hard and bold that it was galling to know that this was really the confidence of innocence.

Mr. Cowper was with great ability putting the case.  Here were two families in immediate neighbourhood, divided from the first by political opinions of the strongest complexion; and he put the Oakshott views upon liberty, civil and religious, in the most popular light.  The unfortunate deceased he described as having been a highly promising member of the suite of the distinguished Envoy, Sir Peregrine Oakshott, whose name he bore.  On the death of the eldest brother he had been recalled, and his accomplishments and foreign air had, it appeared, excited the spleen of the young gentlemen of the county belonging to the Tory party, then in the ascendant, above all of the prisoner.  There was then little or no etiquette as to irrelevant matter, so that Mr. Cowper could dwell at length on Sedley’s antecedents, as abusing the bounty of his uncle, a known bully expelled for misconduct from Winchester College, then acting as a suitable instrument in those violences in Scotland which had driven the nation finally to extremity, noted for his debaucheries when in garrison, and finally broken for insubordination in Ireland.

After this unflattering portrait, which Sedley’s looks certainly did not belie, the counsel went back to 1688, proceeded to mention several disputes which had taken place when Peregrine had met Lieutenant Archfield at Portsmouth; but, he added with a smile, that no dart of malice was ever thoroughly winged till Cupid had added his feather; and he went on to describe in strong colours the insult to a young gentlewoman, and the interference of the other young man in her behalf, so that swords were drawn before the appearance of the reverend gentleman her uncle.  Still, he said, there was further venom to be added to the bolt, and he showed that the two had parted after the rejoicings on Portsdown Hill with a challenge all but uttered between them, the Whig upholding religious liberty, the Tory hotly defending such honour as the King possessed, and both parting in anger.

Young Mr. Oakshott was never again seen alive, though his family long hoped against hope.  There was no need to dwell on the strange appearances that had incited them to the search.  Certain it was, that after seven years’ silence, the grave had yielded up its secrets.  Then came the description of the discovery of the bones, and of the garments and sword, followed by the mention of the evidence as to the blood on the grass, and the prisoner having been seen in the neighbourhood of the castle at that strange hour.  He was observed to have an amount of money unusual with him soon after, and, what was still more suspicious, after having gambled this away, he had sold to a goldsmith at Southampton a ruby ring, which both Mr. and Mrs. Oakshott could swear to have belonged to the deceased.  In fact, when Mr. Cowper marshalled the facts, and even described the passionate encounter taking place hastily and without witnesses, and the subsequent concealment of guilt in the vault, the purse taken, and whatever could again be identified hidden, while providentially the blocking up of the vault preserved the evidence of the crime so long undetected and unavenged, it was hardly possible to believe the prisoner innocent.

When the examination of the witnesses began, however, Sedley showed himself equal to his own defence.  He made no sign when Robert Oakshott identified the clothes, sword, and other things, and their condition was described; but he demanded of him sharply how he knew the human remains to be those of his brother.

“Of course they were,” said Robert.

“Were there any remains of clothes with them?”

“No.”

“Can you swear to them?  Did you ever before see your brother’s bones?”

At which, and at the witness’s hesitating, “No, but—” the court began to laugh.

“What was the height of the deceased?”

“He reached about up to my ear,” said the witness with some hesitation.

“What was the length of the skeleton?”

“Quite small.  It looked like a child’s.”

“My lord,” said Sedley, “I have a witness here, a surgeon, whom I request may be called to certify the proportion of a skeleton to the size of a living man.”

Though this was done, the whole matter of size was so vague that there was nothing proved, either as to the inches of Peregrine or those of the skeleton, but still Sedley made his point that the identity of the body was unproved at least in some minds.  Still, there remained the other articles, about which there was no doubt.

Mr. Cowper proceeded with his examination as to the disputes at Portsmouth, but again the prisoner scored a point by proving that Peregrine had staked the ring against him at a cock-fight at Southampton, and had lost it.

Dr. Woodford was called, and his evidence could not choose but to be most damaging as to the conflict on the road at Portsmouth; but as he had not seen the beginning, ‘Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford’ was called for.

There she stood, tall and stately, almost majestic in the stiffness of intense self-restraint, in her simple gray dress, her black silk hood somewhat back, her brown curls round her face, a red spot in each cheek, her earnest brown eyes fixed on the clerk as he gabbled out the words so awful to her, “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth;” and her soul re-echoed the words, “So help you God.”

Mr. Cowper was courteous; he was a gentleman, and he saw she was no light-minded girl.  He asked her the few questions needful as to the attack made on her, and the defence; but something moved him to go on and ask whether she had been on Portsdown Hill, and to obtain from her the account of the high words between the young men.  She answered each question in a clear low voice, which still was audible to all.  Was it over, or would Sedley begin to torture her, when so much was in his favour?  No!  Mr. Cowper—oh! why would he? was asking in an affirmative tone, as if to clench the former evidence, “And did you ever see the deceased again?”

“Yes.”  The answer was at first almost choked, then cleared into sharpness, and every eye turned in surprise on the face that had become as white as her collar.

“Indeed!  And when?”

“The next morning,” in a voice as if pronouncing her own doom, and with hands clinging tight to the front of the witness-box as though in anguish.

“Where?” said the counsel, like inexorable fate.

“I will save the gentlewoman from replying to that question, sir;” and a gentleman with long brown hair, in a rich white and gold uniform, rose from among the spectators.  “Perhaps I may be allowed to answer for her, when I say that it was at Portchester Castle, at five in the morning, that she saw Peregrine Oakshott slain by my hand, and thrown into the vault.”

There was a moment of breathless amazement in the court, and the judge was the first to speak.  “Very extraordinary, sir!  What is your name?”

“Charles Archfield,” said the clear resolute voice.

Then came a general movement and sensation, and Anne, still holding fast to the support, saw the newcomer start forward with a cry, “My father!” and with two or three bounds reach the side of Sir Philip, who had sunk back in his seat for a moment, but recovered himself as he felt his son’s arm round him.

There was a general buzz, and a cry of order, and in the silence thus produced the judge addressed the witness:—

“Is what this gentleman says the truth?”

And on Anne’s reply, “Yes, my Lord,” spoken with the clear ring of anguish, the judge added—

“Was the prisoner present?”

“No, my Lord; he had nothing to do with it.”

“Then, brother Cowper, do you wish to proceed with the case?”

Mr. Cowper replied in the negative, and the judge then made a brief summing-up, and the jury, without retiring, returned a verdict of ‘Not guilty.’

In the meantime Anne had been led like one blinded from the witness-box, and almost dropped into her uncle’s arms.  “Cheer up, cheer up, my child,” he said.  “You have done your part bravely, and after so upright a confession no one can deal hardly with the young man.  God will surely protect him.”

The acquittal had been followed by a few words from Baron Hatsel, congratulating the late prisoner on his deliverance through this gentleman’s generous confession.  Then there was a moment’s hesitation, ended by the sheriff asking Charles, who stood up by his old father, one arm supporting the trembling form, and the other hand clasped in the two aged ones, “Then, sir, do you surrender to take your trial?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Charles.  “I ought to have done so long ago, but in the first shock—”

Mr. Harcourt here cautioned him not to say anything that could be used against him, adding in a low tone, much to Sir Philip’s relief, “It may be brought in manslaughter, sir.”

“He should be committed,” another authority said.  “Is there a Hampshire