The Three Clerks by Anthony Trollope

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And then the jury retired from the court to consider their
verdict, and Mr. Gitemthruet predicted that they would be hungry
enough before they sat down to their next meal. 'His lordship was
dead against us,' said Mr. Gitemthruet; 'but that was a matter of
course; we must look to the jury, and the city juries are very
fond of Mr. Chaffanbrass; I am not quite sure, however, that Mr.
Chaffanbrass was right: I would not have admitted so much myself;
but then no one knows a city jury so well as Mr. Chaffanbrass.'

Other causes came on, and still the jury did not return to court.
Mr. Chaffanbrass seemed to have forgotten the very existence of
Alaric Tudor, and was deeply engaged in vindicating a city
butcher from an imputation of having vended a dead ass by way of
veal. All his indignation was now forgotten, and he was full of
boisterous fun, filling the court with peals of laughter. One
o'clock came, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and still no
verdict. At the latter hour, when the court was about to be
adjourned, the foreman came in, and assured the judge that there
was no probability that they could agree; eleven of them thought
one way, while the twelfth was opposed to them. 'You must reason
with the gentleman,' said the judge. 'I have, my lord,' said the
foreman, 'but it's all thrown away upon him.' 'Reason with him
again,' said the judge, rising from his bench and preparing to go
to his dinner.

And then one of the great fundamental supports of the British
constitution was brought into play. Reason was thrown away upon
this tough juryman, and, therefore, it was necessary to ascertain
what effect starvation might have upon him. A verdict, that is, a
unanimous decision from these twelve men as to Alaric's guilt,
was necessary; it might be that three would think him innocent,
and nine guilty, or that any other division of opinion might take
place; but such divisions among a jury are opposed to the spirit
of the British constitution. Twelve men must think alike; or, if
they will not, they must be made to do so. 'Reason with him
again,' said the judge, as he went to his own dinner. Had the
judge bade them remind him how hungry he would soon be if he
remained obstinate, his lordship would probably have expressed
the thought which was passing through his mind. 'There is one of
us, my lord,' said the foreman, 'who will I know be very ill
before long; he is already so bad that he can't sit upright.'

There are many ludicrous points in our blessed constitution, but
perhaps nothing so ludicrous as a juryman praying to a judge for
mercy. He has been caught, shut up in a box, perhaps, for five or
six days together, badgered with half a dozen lawyers till he is
nearly deaf with their continual talking, and then he is locked
up until he shall die or find a verdict. Such at least is the
intention of the constitution. The death, however, of three or
four jurymen from starvation would not suit the humanity of the
present age, and therefore, when extremities are nigh at hand,
the dying jurymen, with medical certificates, are allowed to be
carried off. It is devoutly to be wished that one juryman might
be starved to death while thus serving the constitution; the
absurdity then would cure itself, and a verdict of a majority
would be taken.

But in Alaric's case, reason or hunger did prevail at the last
moment, and as the judge was leaving the court, he was called
back to receive the verdict. Alaric, also, was brought back,
still under Mr. Gitemthruet's wing, and with him came Charley. A
few officers of the court were there, a jailer and a policeman or
two, those whose attendance was absolutely necessary, but with
these exceptions the place was empty. Not long since men were
crowding for seats, and the policemen were hardly able to
restrain the pressure of those who pushed forward; but now there
was no pushing; the dingy, dirty benches, a few inches of which
had lately been so desirable, were not at all in request, and
were anything but inviting in appearance; Alaric sat himself down
on the very spot which had lately been sacred to Mr. Chaffanbrass,
and Mr. Gitemthruet, seated above him, might also fancy himself
a barrister. There they sat for five minutes in perfect silence; the
suspense of the moment cowed even the attorney, and Charley,
who sat on the other side of Alaric, was so affected that he could
hardly have spoken had he wished to do so.

And then the judge, who had been obliged to re-array himself
before he returned to the bench, again took his seat, and an
officer of the court inquired of the foreman of the jury, in his
usual official language, what their finding was.

'Guilty on the third count,' said the foreman. 'Not guilty on the
four others. We beg, however, most strongly to recommend the
prisoner to your lordship's merciful consideration, believing
that he has been led into this crime by one who has been much
more guilty than himself.'

'I knew Mr. Chaffanbrass was wrong,' said Mr. Gitemthruet. 'I
knew he was wrong when he acknowledged so much. God bless my
soul! in a court of law one should never acknowledge anything!
what's the use?'

And then came the sentence. He was to be confined at the
Penitentiary at Millbank for six months. 'The offence,' said the
judge, 'of which you have been found guilty, and of which you
most certainly have been guilty, is one most prejudicial to the
interests of the community. That trust which the weaker of
mankind should place in the stronger, that reliance which widows
and orphans should feel in their nearest and dearest friends,
would be destroyed, if such crimes as these were allowed to pass
unpunished. But in your case there are circumstances which do
doubtless palliate the crime of which you have been guilty; the
money which you took will, I believe, be restored; the trust
which you were courted to undertake should not have been imposed
on you; and in the tale of villany which has been laid before
us, you have by no means been the worst offender. I have,
therefore, inflicted on you the slightest penalty which the law
allows me. Mr. Tudor, I know what has been your career, how great
your services to your country, how unexceptionable your conduct
as a public servant; I trust, I do trust, I most earnestly, most
hopefully trust, that your career of utility is not over. Your
abilities are great, and you are blessed with the power of
thinking; I do beseech you to consider, while you undergo that
confinement which you needs must suffer, how little any wealth is
worth an uneasy conscience.'

And so the trial was over. Alaric was taken off in custody; the
policeman in mufti was released from his attendance; and Charley,
with a heavy heart, carried the news to Gertrude and Mrs.
Woodward.

'And as for me,' said Gertrude, when she had so far recovered
from the first shock as to be able to talk to her mother--'as for
me, I will have lodgings at Millbank.'

CHAPTER XLII

A PARTING INTERVIEW

Mrs. Woodward remained with her eldest daughter for two days
after the trial, and then she was forced to return to Hampton.
She had earnestly entreated Gertrude to accompany her, with her
child; but Mrs. Tudor was inflexible. She had, she said, very
much to do; so much, that she could not possibly leave London;
the house and furniture were on her hands, and must be disposed
of; their future plans must be arranged; and then nothing, she
said, should induce her to sleep out of sight of her husband's
prison, or to omit any opportunity of seeing him which the prison
rules would allow her.

Mrs. Woodward would not have left one child in such extremity,
had not the state of another child made her presence at the
Cottage indispensable. Katie's anxiety about the trial had of
course been intense, so intense as to give her a false strength,
and somewhat to deceive Linda as to her real state. Tidings of
course passed daily between London and the Cottage, but for three
days they told nothing. On the morning of the fourth day,
however, Norman brought the heavy news, and Katie sank completely
under it. When she first heard the result of the trial she
swooned away, and remained for some time nearly unconscious. But
returning consciousness brought with it no relief, and she lay
sobbing on her pillow, till she became so weak, that Linda in her
fright wrote up to her mother begging her to return at once.
Then, wretched as it made her to leave Gertrude in her trouble,
Mrs. Woodward did return.

For a fortnight after this there was an unhappy household at
Surbiton Cottage. Linda's marriage was put off till the period of
Alaric's sentence should be over, and till something should be
settled as to his and Gertrude's future career. It was now
August, and they spoke of the event as one which perhaps might
occur in the course of the following spring. At this time, also,
they were deprived for a while of the comfort of Norman's visits
by his enforced absence at Normansgrove. Harry's eldest brother
was again ill, and at last the news of his death was received at
Hampton. Under other circumstances such tidings as those might,
to a certain extent, have brought their own consolation with
them. Harry would now be Mr. Norman of Normansgrove, and Linda
would become Mrs. Norman of Normansgrove; Harry's mother had long
been dead, and his father was an infirm old man, who would be too
glad to give up to his son the full management of the estate, now
that the eldest son was a man to whom that estate could be
trusted. All those circumstances had, of course, been talked over
between Harry and Linda, and it was understood that Harry was now
to resign his situation at the Weights and Measures. But Alaric's
condition, Gertrude's misery, and Katie's illness, threw all such
matters into the background. Katie became no better; but then the
doctors said that she did not become any worse, and gave it as
their opinion that she ought to recover. She had youth, they
said, on her side; and then her lungs were not affected. This was
the great question which they were all asking of each other
continually. The poor girl lived beneath a stethoscope, and bore
all their pokings and tappings with exquisite patience. She
herself believed that she was dying, and so she repeatedly told
her mother. Mrs. Woodward could only say that all was in God's
hands, but that the physicians still encouraged them to hope the
best.

One day Mrs. Woodward was sitting with a book in her usual place
at the side of Katie's bed; she looked every now and again at her
patient, and thought that she was slumbering; and at last she
rose from her chair to creep away, so sure was she that she might
be spared for a moment. But just as she was silently rising, a
thin, slight, pale hand crept out from beneath the clothes, and
laid itself on her arm.

'I thought you were asleep, love,' said she.

'No, mamma, I was not asleep. I was thinking of something. Don't
go away, mamma, just now. I want to ask you something.'

Mrs. Woodward again sat down, and taking her daughter's hand in
her own, caressed it.

'I want to ask a favour of you, mamma,' said Katie.

'A favour, my darling! what is it? you know I will do anything in
my power that you ask me.'

'Ah, mamma, I do not know whether you will do this.'

'What is it, Katie? I will do anything that is for your good. I
am sure you know that, Katie.'

'Mamma, I know I am going to die. Oh, mamma, don't say anything
now, don't cry now--dear, dear mamma; I don't say it to make you
unhappy; but you know when I am so ill I ought to think about it,
ought I not, mamma?'

'But, Katie, the doctor says that he thinks you are not so
dangerously ill; you should not, therefore, despond; it will
increase your illness, and hinder your chance of getting well.
That would be wrong, wouldn't it, love?'

'Mamma, I feel that I shall never again be well, and therefore--'
It was useless telling Mrs. Woodward not to cry; what else could
she do? 'Dear mamma, I am so sorry to make you unhappy, but you
are my own mamma, and therefore I must tell you. I can be happy
still, mamma, if you will let me talk to you about it.'

'You shall talk, dearest; I will hear what you say; but oh,
Katie, I cannot bear to hear you talk of dying. I do not think
you are dying. If I did think so, my child, my trust in your
goodness is so strong that I should tell you.'

'You know, mamma, it might have been much worse; suppose I had
been drowned, when he, when Charley, you know, saved me;' and as
she mentioned his name a tear for the first time ran down each
cheek; 'how much worse that would have been! think, mamma, what
it would be to be drowned without a moment for one's prayers.'

'It is quite right we should prepare ourselves for death. Whether
we live, or whether we die, we shall be better for doing that.'

Katie still held her mother's hand in hers, and lay back against
the pillows which had been placed behind her back. 'And now,
mamma,' she said at last, 'I am going to ask you this favour--I
want to see Charley once more.'

Mrs. Woodward was so much astonished at the request that at first
she knew not what answer to make. 'To see Charley!' she said at
last.

'Yes, mamma; I want to see Charley once more; there need be no
secrets between us now, mamma.'

'There have never been any secrets between us,' said Mrs.
Woodward, embracing her. 'You have never had any secrets from
me?'

'Not intentionally, mamma; I have never meant to keep anything
secret from you. And I know you have known what I felt about
Charley.'

'I know that you have behaved like an angel, my child; I know
your want of selfishness, your devotion to others, has been such
as to shame me; I know your conduct has been perfect: oh, my
Katie, I have understood it, and I have so loved you, so admired
you.'

Katie smiled through her tears as she returned her mother's
embrace. 'Well, mamma,' she said, 'at any rate you know that I
love him. Oh, mamma, I do love him so dearly. It is not now like
Gertrude's love, or Linda's. I know that I can never be his wife.
I did know before, that for many reasons I ought not to wish to
be so; but now I know I never, never can be.'

Mrs. Woodward was past the power of speaking, and so Katie went
on.

'But I do not love him the less for that reason; I think I love
him the more. I never, never, could have loved anyone else,
mamma; never, never; and that is one reason why I do not so much
mind being ill now.'

Mrs. Woodward bowed forward, and hid her face in the counterpane,
but she still kept hold of her daughter's hand.

'And, mamma,' she continued, 'as I do love him so dearly, I feel
that I should try to do something for him. I ought to do so; and,
mamma, I could not be happy without seeing him. He is not just
like a brother or a brother-in-law, such as Harry and Alaric; we
are not bound to each other as relations are; but yet I feel that
something does bind me to him. I know he doesn't love me as I
love him; but yet I think he loves me dearly; and if I speak to
him now, mamma, now that I am--that I am so ill, perhaps he will
mind me. Mamma, it will be as though one came unto him from the
dead.'

Mrs. Woodward did not know how to refuse any request that Katie
might now make to her, and felt herself altogether unequal to the
task of refusing this request. For many reasons she would have
done so, had she been able; in the first place she did not think
that all chance of Katie's recovery was gone; and then at the
present moment she felt no inclination to draw closer to her any
of the Tudor family. She could not but feel that Alaric had been
the means of disgracing and degrading one child; and truly,
deeply, warmly, as she sympathized with the other, she could not
bring herself to feel the same sympathy for the object of her
love. It was a sore day for her and hers, that on which the
Tudors had first entered her house.

Nevertheless she assented to Katie's proposal, and undertook the
task of asking Charley down to Hampton.

Since Alaric's conviction Charley led a busy life; and as men who
have really something to do have seldom time to get into much
mischief, he had been peculiarly moral and respectable. It is not
surprising that at such a moment Gertrude found that Alaric's
newer friends fell off from him. Of course they did; nor is it a
sign of ingratitude or heartlessness in the world that at such a
period of great distress new friends should fall off. New
friends, like one's best coat and polished patent-leather dress
boots, are only intended for holiday wear. At other times they
are neither serviceable nor comfortable; they do not answer the
required purposes, and are ill adapted to give us the ease we
seek. A new coat, however, has this advantage, that it will in
time become old and comfortable; so much can by no means be
predicted with certainty of a new friend. Woe to those men who go
through the world with none but new coats on their backs, with no
boots but those of polished leather, with none but new friends to
comfort them in adversity.

But not the less, when misfortune does come, are we inclined to
grumble at finding ourselves deserted. Gertrude, though she
certainly wished to see no Mrs. Val and no Miss Neverbends, did
feel lonely enough when her mother left her, and wretched enough.
But she was not altogether deserted. At this time Charley was
true to her, and did for her all those thousand nameless things
which a woman cannot do for herself. He came to her everyday
after leaving his office, and on one excuse or another remained
with her till late every evening.

He was not a little surprised one morning on receiving Mrs.
Woodward's invitation to Hampton. Mrs. Woodward in writing had
had some difficulty in wording her request. She hardly liked
asking Charley to come because Katie was ill; nor did she like to
ask him without mentioning Katie's illness. 'I need not explain
to you,' she said in her note, 'that we are all in great
distress; poor Katie is very ill, and you will understand what we
must feel about Alaric and Gertrude. Harry is still at Normansgrove.
We shall all be glad to see you, and Katie, who never forgets
what you did for her, insists on my asking you at once. I am sure
you will not refuse her, so I shall expect you to-morrow.' Charley
would not have refused her anything, and it need hardly be said
that he accepted the invitation.

Mrs. Woodward was at a loss how to receive him, or what to say to
him. Though Katie was so positive that her own illness would be
fatal--a symptom which might have confirmed those who watched her
in their opinion that her disease was not consumption--her mother
was by no means so desponding. She still thought it not
impossible that her child might recover, and so thinking could
not but be adverse to any declaration on Katie's part of her own
feelings. She had endeavoured to explain this to her daughter;
but Katie was so carried away by her enthusiasm, was at the
present moment so devoted, and, as it were, exalted above her
present life, that all that her mother said was thrown away upon
her. Mrs. Woodward might have refused her daughter's request, and
have run the risk of breaking her heart by the refusal; but now
that the petition had been granted, it was useless to endeavour
to teach her to repress her feelings.

'Charley,' said Mrs. Woodward, when he had been some little time
in the house, 'our dear Katie wants to see you; she is very ill,
you know.'

Charley said he knew she was ill.

'You remember our walk together, Charley.'

'Yes,' said Charley, 'I remember it well. I made you a promise
then, and I have kept it. I have now come here only because you
have sent for me.' This he said in the tone which a man uses when
he feels himself to have been injured.

'I know it, Charley; you have kept your promise; I knew you
would, and I know you will. I have the fullest trust in you; and
now you shall come and see her.'

Charley was to return to town that night, and they had not
therefore much time to lose; they went upstairs at once, and
found Linda and Uncle Bat in the patient's room. It was a lovely
August evening, and the bedroom window opening upon the river was
unclosed. Katie, as she sat propped up against the pillows, could
look out upon the water and see the reedy island, on which in
happy former days she had so delighted to let her imagination
revel.

'It is very good of you to come and see me, Charley,' said she,
as he made his way up to her bedside.

He took her wasted hand in his own and pressed it, and, as he did
so, a tear forced itself into each corner of his eyes. She smiled
as though to cheer him, and said that now she saw him she could
be quite happy, only for poor Alaric and Gertrude. She hoped she
might live to see Alaric again; but if not, Charley was to give
him her best-best love.

'Live to see him! of course you will,' said Uncle Bat.

'What's to hinder you?' Uncle Bat, like the rest of them, tried
to cheer her, and make her think that she might yet live.

After a while Uncle Bat went out of the room, and Linda followed
him. Mrs. Woodward would fain have remained, but she perfectly
understood that it was part of the intended arrangement with
Katie, that Charley should be alone with her. 'I will come back
in a quarter of an hour,' she said, rising to follow the others.
'You must not let her talk too much, Charley: you see how weak
she is.'

'Mamma, when you come, knock at the door, will you?' said Katie.
Mrs. Woodward, who found herself obliged to act in complete
obedience to her daughter, promised that she would; and then they
were left alone.

'Sit down, Charley,' said she; he was still standing by her
bedside, and now at her bidding he sat in the chair which Captain
Cuttwater had occupied. 'Come here nearer to me,' said she; 'this
is where mamma always sits, and Linda when mamma is not here.'
Charley did as he was bid, and, changing his seat, came and sat
down close to her bed-head.

'Charley, do you remember how you went into the water for me?'
said she, again smiling, and pulling her hand out and resting it
on his arm which lay on the bed beside her.

'Indeed I do, Katie--I remember the day very well.'

'That was a very happy day in spite of the tumble, was it not,
Charley? And do you remember the flower-show, and the dance at
Mrs. Val's?'

Charley did remember them all well. Ah me! how often had he
thought of them!

'I think of those days so often--too often,' continued Katie.
'But, dear Charley, I cannot remember too often that you saved my
life.'

Charley once more tried to explain to her that there was nothing
worthy of notice in his exploit of that day.

'Well, Charley, I may think as I like, you know,' she said, with
something of the obstinacy of old days. 'I think you did save my
life, and all the people in the world won't make me think
anything else; but, Charley, I have something now to tell you.'

He sat and listened. It seemed to him as though he were only
there to listen; as though, were he to make his own voice
audible, he would violate the sanctity of the place. His thoughts
were serious enough, but he could not pitch his voice so as to
suit the tone in which she addressed him.

'We were always friends, were we not?' said she; 'we were always
good friends, Charley. Do you remember how you were to build a
palace for me in the dear old island out there? You were always
so kind, so good to me.'

Charley said he remembered it all--they were happy days; the
happiest days, he said, that he had ever known.

'And you used to love me, Charley?'

'Used!' said he, 'do you think I do not love you now?'

'I am sure you do. And, Charley, I love you also. That it is that
I want to tell you. I love you so well that I cannot go away from
this world in peace without wishing you farewell. Charley, if you
love me, you will think of me when I am gone; and then for my
sake you will be steady.'

Here were all her old words over again--'You will be steady,
won't you, Charley? I know you will be steady, now.' How much
must she have thought of him! How often must his career have
caused her misery and pain! How laden must that innocent bosom
have been with anxiety on his account! He had promised her then
that he would reform; but he had broken his promise. He now
promised her again, but how could he hope that she would believe
him?

'You know how ill I am, don't you? You know that I am dying,
Charley?'

Charley of course declared that he still hoped that she would
recover.

'If I thought so,' said she, 'I should not say what I am now
saying; but I feel that I may tell the truth. Dear Charley,
dearest Charley, I love you with all my heart--I do not know how
it came so; I believe I have always loved you since I first knew
you; I used to think it was because you saved my life; but I know
it was not that. I was so glad it was you that came to me in the
water, and not Harry; so that I know I loved you before that.'

'Dear Katie, you have not loved me, or thought of me, more than I
have loved and thought of you.'

'Ah, Charley,' she said, smiling in her sad sweet way--'I don't
think you know how a girl can love; you have so many things to
think of, so much to amuse you up in London; you don't know what
it is to think of one person for days and days, and nights and
nights together. That is the way I have thought of you, I don't
think there can be any harm,' she continued, 'in loving a person
as I have loved you. Indeed, how could I help it? I did not love
you on purpose. But I think I should be wrong to die without
telling you. When I am dead, Charley, will you think of this, and
try--try to give up your bad ways? When I tell you that I love
you so dearly, and ask you on my deathbed, I think you will do
this.'