Chapter 19

A look of indignation for an instant contracted Mary's brow. She was aware that Jem had raised his head and was gazing at her. Turning towards the judge, she said steadily, "Perhaps I liked Mr. Harry Carson once; but I loved James Wilson beyond what tongue can tell. When he asked me to marry him, I was very hard in my answer; but he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute before I knew I loved him--far above my life."

After these words the prisoner's head was no longer bowed. He stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude; yet he seemed lost in thought.

But Will Wilson did not come, and the evidence against Jem grew stronger and stronger. Mary was flushed and anxious, muttering to herself in a wild, restless manner. Job Legh heard her repeat again and again, "I must not go mad; I must not!"

Suddenly she threw up her arms and shrieked aloud: "Oh, Jem! Jem! You're saved! and I am mad!" and was carried out of court stiff and convulsed. And as they bore her off, a sailor forced his way over rails and seats, through turnkeys and policemen. Will Wilson had come in time.

He told his tale clearly and distinctly; the efforts of the prosecution to shake him were useless. "Not guilty" was the verdict that thrilled through the breathless court. One man sank back in his seat in sickening despair. The vengeance that old Mr. Carson had longed to compass for the murder of his beloved boy was thwarted; he had been cheated of the desire that now ruled his life--the desire of blood for blood.

_V.--"Forgive Us Our Trespasses_"

For many days Mary hovered between life and death, and it was long ere she could make the journey back to Manchester under the tender care of the man who now knew she loved him. Not until she had recovered did he tell her that he had lost his situation at the foundry--the men refused to work under one who had been tried for murder--and that he was looking for work elsewhere.

"Mary," he asked, "art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?"

"With thee?" was her quiet response.

"I've heard fine things of Canada. Thou knowest where Canada is, Mary?"

"Not rightly--but with thee, Jem"--her voice sank to a whisper--"anywhere." Then, after a pause, she added, "But father!"

John Barton was smitten, helpless, very near to death. His face was sunk and worn--like a skull, with yet a suffering expression that skulls have not! Crime and all had been forgotten by his daughter when she saw him; fondly did she serve him in every way that heart could devise.

Jem had known from the first that Barton was the murderer of Harry Carson. Several days before the murder Barton had borrowed Jem's gun, and Jem had seen the truth at the moment of his arrest. When Mary came to tell him that her father wished to speak to him, Jem could not guess what was before him, and did not try to guess.

When they entered the room, Mary saw all at a glance. Her father stood holding on to a chair as if for support. Behind him sat Job Legh, listening; before him stood the stern figure of Mr. Carson.

"Don't dare to think that I shall be merciful; you shall be hanged--hanged--man!" said Mr. Carson, with slow, emphasis.

"I've had far, far worse misery than hanging!" cried Barton. "Sir, one word! My hairs are grey with suffering."

"And have I had no suffering?" interrupted Mr. Carson. "Is not my boy gone--killed--out of my sight for ever? He was my sunshine, and now it is night! Oh, my God! comfort me, comfort me!" cried the old man aloud.

Barton lay across the table broken-hearted. "God knows I didn't know what I was doing," he whispered. "Oh, sir," he said wildly, "say you forgive me?"

"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us," said Job solemnly.

Mr. Carson took his hands from his face.

"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance for my son's murder."

John Barton lay on the ground as one dead.

When Mr. Carson had left the house, he leant against a railing to steady himself, for he was dizzy with agitation. He looked up to the calm, majestic depths of the heavens, and by-and-by the last words he had spoken returned upon him, as if they were being echoed through all that infinite space in tones of unutterable sorrow. He went homewards; not to the police-office. All night long, the archangel combated with the demon in his soul.

All night long, others watched by the bed of death. As morning dawned, Barton grew worse; his breathing seemed almost stopped. Jem had gone to the druggist's, and Mary cried out for assistance to raise her father.

A step, which was not Jem's, came up the stairs. Mr. Carson stood in the doorway. He raised up the powerless frame, and the departing soul looked out of the eyes with gratitude.

"Pray for us!" cried Mary, sinking on her knees.

"God be merciful to us sinners," was Mr. Carson's prayer. "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."

And when the words were said, John Barton lay a corpse in Mr. Carson's arms.

* * * * *

At the door of a long, low wooden house stands Mary, watching the return of her husband from his work.

Her baby boy, in his grandmother's arms, sees him come with a crow of delight.

"English letters!" cries Jem. "Guess the good news!"

"Oh, tell me!" says Mary.

"Margaret has recovered her sight. She and Will are to be married, and he's bringing her out here to Canada; and Job Legh talks of coming, too--not to see you, Mary, but to try and pick up a few specimens of Canadian insects."

"Dear Job Legh!" said Mary, softly.

* * * * *

WILLIAM GODWIN

Caleb Williams

William Godwin, the son of a dissenting parson, was a man of remarkable gifts and the father of the poet Shelley's second wife, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (see Vol. VII). Born at Wisbeach, England, March 3, 1756, he served for five years, 1778-83, as a Nonconformist minister, and then going to London, joined the leading Whig circle of the day, and turned his attention to political writings. His "Political Justice," though little read to-day, had a great number of readers and considerable influence a hundred years ago. "Things as They Are, or the Adventures of Caleb Williams," published in 1794, has a philosophical significance, suggested by the falseness of the common code of morality, which is apt to be overlooked by many readers in the strong interest of the tale. It is one of the few books of that period which may still be said to live. It is quite the best of his novels. "It raised Godwin's reputation to a pinnacle," according to contemporary criticism, though some of his other novels, notably "Fleetwood," have been preferred for their descriptive writing. He was an exceedingly industrious writer; essays, biography, political philosophy, and history all coming from his pen; but in spite of this and of his many distinguished friendships, Godwin was always in difficulties, which he bore with the becoming grace of a philosopher. He died on April 7, 1836.

_I.--Mr. Falkland's Secret_

My life has for several years been a theatre of calamity. My fairest prospects have been blasted. My enemy has shown himself inaccessible to entreaties and untired in persecution. I was born of humble parents, in a remote county of England. Their occupations were such as usually fall to the lot of peasants, and they had no portion to give me. I was taught the rudiments of no science, except reading, writing, and arithmetic. But I had an inquisitive mind, and neglected no means of information from conversation or books.

The residence of my parents was within the manor of Ferdinando Falkland, a country squire of considerable opulence. At an early age I attracted the favourable notice of Mr. Collins, this gentleman's steward, who used to call in occasionally at my father's.

In the summer of the year----, Mr. Falkland visited his estate in our county after an absence of several months. This was a period of misfortune to me. I was then eighteen years of age. My father lay dead in our cottage, and I had lost my mother some years before. In this forlorn situation I received a message from the squire, ordering me to repair to the manor house.

My reception was as gracious and encouraging as I could possibly desire. Mr. Falkland questioned me respecting my learning, and my conceptions of men and things, and listened to my answers with condescension and approbation. He then informed me that he was in want of a secretary, and that if I approved of the employment he would take me into his house.

I felt highly flattered by the proposal, and found my employment--which included the duties of librarian as well as those of a secretary--easy and agreeable.

Mr. Falkland's mode of living was in the utmost degree recluse and solitary. His features were scarcely ever relaxed in a smile, and the distemper which afflicted him with incessant gloom had its paroxysms. None of the domestics, except myself and Mr. Collins approached Mr. Falkland but at stated seasons and then only for a very short interval.

Once after I had seen my patron in a strange fit of intolerable anguish, I could not help confiding in Mr. Collins that I feared Mr. Falkland had some secret trouble, and in answer to my communication Mr. Collins told me the story of Tyrrel's murder.

Barnabas Tyrrel had been a neighbouring squire insupportably brutish and arrogant, tyrannical to his inferiors, and insolent to his equals. From the first he hated Falkland, whose dignity and courtesy were a constant rebuke to the other's boorish ill-humours, and rejected with scorn all proposals for civil intercourse.

The crisis came when Tyrrel, who had been expelled from the rural assembly which met every week at the market-town, forced his way in. He was intoxicated, and at once attacked Falkland, knocking him down, and then kicking his prostrate enemy before anyone had time to interfere.

To Mr. Falkland disgrace was worse than death. This complication of ignominy, base, humiliating, and public, stung him to the very soul, and filled his mind with horror and uproar. One other event closed that memorable evening. Mr. Tyrrel was found dead in the street, having been murdered a few yards from the assembly-house.

From that day Falkland was a changed man. His cheerfulness and tranquillity gave way to gloomy and unsociable melancholy, and, filled with the ideas of chivalry, the humiliating and dishonourable situation in which he had been placed could never be forgotten. To add to his misfortunes, it was presently whispered that he was no other than the murderer of his antagonist, and even the magistrates at length decided that the matter must be investigated, and requested Falkland to appear before them.

Mr. Falkland attended, and easily convinced the magistrates of his innocence, pointing out that his one desire was to have called out the man who had insulted him so horribly, and to have fought him to the death. He was not only acquitted, but a public demonstration of sympathy was arranged at once to show the esteem in which he was held.

A few weeks, and the real murderer was discovered. This was a man named Hawkins, who, with his son, had been reduced from an honest livelihood to beggary and ruin by Tyrrel. On circumstantial evidence, Hawkins and his son were condemned and executed.

This was the story Mr. Collins told me in order that I might understand Mr. Falkland's unhappy state. In reality it only added to my embarrassment.

Was it possible, after all, that Mr. Falkland should be the murderer? It was but a passing thought, and yet what was the meaning of Mr. Falkland's agonies of mind? I could not accept Mr. Collins's view that Mr. Falkland was so much the slave and fool of honour that the shame of Tyrrel's savage assault alone had driven him to this melancholy and solitude, and compelled the violent outbursts of passion.

_II.--I Learn the Secret_

My suspicions would not be set at rest. No spark of malignity was harboured in my soul. I reverenced the sublime mind of Mr. Falkland, but I had a mistaken curiosity to find out the truth of Tyrrel's murder. Often it seemed that Mr. Falkland was about to speak to me, but the movement always ended in silence.

At last one day he sent for me to his room, and after making me swear never to disclose his confidence, and warning me that he had observed my suspicions, told me that he was the murderer of Tyrrel and the assassin of the two Hawkins.

"This it is to be a gentleman, a man of honour!" Falkland went on, in extreme distress. "My virtue, my honesty, my everlasting peace of mind, all sacrificed that I may preserve my good name. And I am as much the fool of fame as ever. Though I be the blackest of villains, I will leave behind me a spotless and illustrious name. Why is it that I am compelled to this confidence? From the love of fame. I had no alternative but to make you my confidant or my victim, and perhaps my next murder would not have been so fortunate. I do not want to shed more blood. It is better to trust you with the whole truth, under every seal of secrecy, than to live in perpetual fear of your penetration. But look what you have done with your foolishly inquisitive humour. You shall continue in my service, and I will benefit you in respect of fortune; but I shall always hate you. If ever an unguarded word escape from your lips, you may expect to pay for it with your death, or worse. By everything that is sacred, preserve your faith!"

Such was the secret I had been so desirous to know.

"It is a wretched prospect," I said to myself, "that he holds up to me. But I will never become an informer. I will never injure my patron; and therefore he will not be my enemy."

It was no long time after this that Mr. Forester--Mr. Falkland's half-brother--came to stay in the house while his own residence was being got ready for him, and there being little in common between the two, Mr. Forester being of a peculiarly sociable disposition, our visitor chose to make me his companion. No sooner was this growing intimacy observed than Mr. Falkland warned me that it was not agreeable to him, and that he would not have it.

"Young man, take warning!" he said to me one day when we were alone. "You little suspect the extent of my power. You might as well think of escaping from the power of the omnipresent God as from mine."

My whole soul now revolted against the treatment I endured, and yet I could not utter a word. I resolved to quit Mr. Falkland's service, and when Mr. Forester had retired to his own house, I wrote a letter to Mr. Falkland to that effect.

"You shall never quit it with your life," was his reply. "If you attempt it, you shall never cease to rue your folly as long as you exist. Do not imagine I am afraid of you! I wear an armour against which all your weapons are impotent. Do you not know, miserable wretch, that I have sworn to preserve my reputation, whatever it cost? I have dug a pit for you, and whichever way you move it is ready to swallow you."

This speech was the dictate of frenzy, and it created in me a similar frenzy. It determined me to do the very thing against which I was thus solemnly warned, and fly from my patron's house.

No sooner, however, had I set off, and travelled some miles, than a horseman overtook me, and handed me a letter from Mr. Forester. I opened the letter, and read as follows:

"Williams:--My brother Falkland has sent the bearer in pursuit of you. He expects that, if found, you will return with him. I expect it, too. If you are a villain and a rascal, you will perhaps endeavour to fly; if your conscience tells you you are innocent, you will, out of all doubt, come back. If you come, I pledge myself that if you clear your reputation, you shall not only be free to go wherever you please, but shall receive every assistance in my power to give.

"Valentine Forester."

To a mind like mine, such a letter was enough to draw me from one end of the earth to the other. I could not recall anything out of which the shadow of a criminal accusation could be extorted, and I returned with willingness and impatience. I knew the stern inflexibility of Mr. Falkland's mind, but I also knew his virtuous and magnanimous principles. I could not believe my innocence could be confounded with guilt.

_III.--My Persecutions and Sufferings_

Mr. Falkland accused me of having stolen money and jewels from him, and when my boxes, which I had left behind, were opened, a watch and certain jewels were found in one of them.

My amazement yielded to indignation and horror. I protested my innocence I declared that Mr. Falkland knew I was innocent, and that while I was wholly unable to account for the articles found in my possession, I firmly believed that their being there was of Mr. Falkland's contrivance.

Mr. Falkland now expressed his willingness to proceed no further against me, and, since I had been brought to public shame, to let me depart wherever I pleased. I was unworthy of his resentment, he said, and he could afford to smile at my malice.

Mr. Forester, however, said this was impossible, and, as a magistrate, he thereupon committed me to prison to await my trial. Not one of the servants who had been present at my examination expressed any compassion for me. The robbery appeared to them atrocious, and they were indignant at my recrimination on their excellent master.

When I had been about a month in prison the assizes were held, but my case was not brought forward, and I was suffered to stand over six months longer.

I noticed a change in my jailer's behaviour at this time. He offered to make better provision for my comfort, and as I had no doubt he was instigated by Mr. Falkland, I answered that he might tell his employer I would accept no favours from a man that held a halter about my neck. Then the idea of an escape occurred to me, and as I had some proficiency in carpentry, I decided to obtain tools by proposing to make some chairs for the jailer. My offer was accepted, and I gradually accumulated tools of various sorts--gimlets, chisels, etc.

In the middle of the night, my plans being now thoroughly digested, I set about making my escape. I had to get the first door from its hinges, and though this was attended with considerable difficulty, I was successful. The second door being fastened on the inside, all I had to do was to push back the bolts and unscrew the box of the lock.

Thus far I had proceeded with the happiest success; but close on the other side there was a kennel with a large mastiff dog, of which I had not the smallest previous knowledge. However, I managed to soothe the animal, and go to the wall. Before I had gained half the ascent, a voice at the garden door cried out, "Halloa! Who is there?" At this the dog began to bark violently, and a second man came out. Alarmed at my situation, I descended on the other side too quickly, and in my fall nearly dislocated my ankle.

In the meantime, the two warders came through a door in the wall, of which I had not been aware, and were at the place where I had descended, in no time. The pain in my ankle was so intense that I could scarcely stand, and I suffered myself to be retaken.

The condition in which I was now placed was totally different from that which had preceded this attempt. I was chained all day in my dungeon, my manual labors were at an end, my cell was searched every night, and every kind of tool carefully kept from me.

Nevertheless, an active mind, which has once been forced into any particular train, can scarcely give it up as hopeless. One day I chanced to observe a nail trodden into the mud floor at no great distance from me. I seized upon this new treasure, and found that I could unlock with it the padlock that fastened me to the staple in the floor. By this means I had the pitiful consolation of being able to range, without constraint, the miserable coop in which I was confined. It became my constant practice to liberate myself at night; but security breeds negligence. One morning I overslept myself, and the turnkey, to his surprise, found me disengaged.

Again my apartment was changed. I was now put in the strong-room, an underground dungeon, and handcuffs were added to my fetters.

It was at this time that Thomas, Mr. Falkland's footman, and an old acquaintance of mine, visited me. He was of the better order of servants, and my condition shocked him. He returned again in the afternoon.

"Well, Master Williams," he said, "you have been very wicked, to be sure, and I thought it would have done me good to see you hanged. I know I am doing wrong; but if they hang me, too, I cannot help it. For Christ's sake, get out of this place; I cannot bear the thought of it."

With that, he slipped into my hand a chisel, a file, and a saw. I received the implements with great joy, and thrust them into my bosom.

I waited for bright moonlight; it was necessary that I should work in the night, and between nine and seven.

It was ten o'clock when I first took off my handcuffs. I then filed through my fetters, and next performed the same service to the three iron bars that secured my window. All this was the work of more than two hours. But, even with the bars removed, the space was by no means wide enough to admit the passing of my body. Therefore, I had to loosen the brickwork, and this I did partly with the chisel, and partly with one of the iron bars. When the space was sufficient for my purpose, I crept through the opening and stepped upon a shed outside.

The prison wall, which now had to be scaled, was of considerable height, and there was no resource for me but that of making a breach in its lower part. For six hours I worked at this with incredible labour, and at last I had made a passage. But the day was breaking, and in ten minutes' time the keepers would probably enter my apartment and see the devastation I had left.

I decided to avoid the town as much as possible, and depended upon the open country for protection; and so I passed along the lane beyond the wall.

I was free of my prison, but I was destitute, and had not a shilling in the world.

_IV.--The Doom of Falkland_

Mr. Falkland's implacable animosity pursued me beyond the prison. A hundred guineas was at once offered for my recapture, and though I evaded arrest for some months, a man named Gines, who had at one time been a member of a gang of robbers, undertook to lay hold of me, and tracked me to my place of hiding in London. By this time the hawkers were actually selling papers in the streets containing "The most Wonderful and Surprising History and Miraculous Adventures of Caleb Williams," for a halfpenny, and I had the temerity to purchase one. In this I was informed how I, Caleb Williams, "first robbed, and then brought false accusations against my master"; how I attempted at divers times to break out of prison, and at last succeeded "in the most wonderful and incredible manner"; and how I had travelled the kingdom in disguise, and was now lying concealed in London, with a hundred guineas reward for my discovery.

It seemed then that there was no end to my persecution, and I thought of death as my only release. That very night the landlord of my humble lodgings brought Gines to the house, and gave me up to the authorities.

And now the result of all my labour to get out of prison and evade my pursuers had brought me back to my starting-place! Never was a human creature so hunted by enemies. What hope was there they would ever cease their persecution.

My long-cherished reverence for Mr. Falkland was changed to something like abhorrence. I determined to bring the real criminal to justice.

Accordingly, when I was taken before the magistrates at Bow Street, I declared that Mr. Falkland was a murderer, and that I was entirely innocent.