Miser Farebrother: A Novel (vol. 3 of 3)

"The third article is the prisoner's handkerchief, which her aunt took from her pocket when she returned in the morning. There were stains of blood upon the handkerchief, which the prosecution declares was the blood of the murdered man. The prisoner declares that the blood proceeded from scratches she received by stumbling in the dark against fences and coming in contact with the branches of trees. That she did sustain some such slight wounds is undoubtedly true; and although the weight of conflicting evidence as to the blood-stains on the handkerchief is about equal, the theory of the prosecution is strengthened by independent circumstances in connection with the murder.

"What Mrs. Pamflett knows of the strange and sudden visit of the prisoner to Parksides at midnight need not here be recapitulated. Her evidence has been printed in our columns on three occasions: first when the inquest on the body was held; again, when the prisoner was brought before the magistrate and committed for trial; and again, at greater length, during the trial just ended. What passed between her and the prisoner, the incident of the knife with the horn handle with which the deed was done, the high words in the grounds between the prisoner and her father, especially those uttered by the prisoner: 'I will do as I please, and go where I please. You ought to have been dead long ago! You had better be careful!' – all this has been fully reported. The visit of a strange man to Miser Farebrother on this night is still a mystery. It was hoped by the prosecution that the endeavour to trace this man would have been successful, or that he himself would have voluntarily come forward to give evidence, but the hope has not been fulfilled. He remains in hiding, and will probably so continue to remain. The theory of the prosecution is a feasible one – that this man's visits to Miser Farebrother being paid in secret, his business was of a questionable nature, the revealment of which would bring him into trouble. Great care and caution were always displayed on the occasion of these visits, and the minute description of his dress and appearance given by Mrs. Pamflett is of little value, in the absence of any other evidence respecting him, so long as he chooses to remain hidden.

"The prisoner's statement as to what occurred, so far as she can remember, from the time she left her aunt's house in London on the night of the murder to the hour she returned to it on the following morning, is as follows:

"She admits that when she went away, unknown to her relatives, she did so with the purpose of going to Parksides and appealing to her father to give her a sum of money which would extricate the Lethbridges from their difficulties. 'Had I told them what was in my mind,' she says, 'they would have prevented me from leaving them, having no hope that my errand would be successful. But I had thought of a plan by which I could induce my father to comply with my request. I did not dare to mention this plan to my aunt, because it would only have strengthened her opposition to my project.' She thus explains the nature of this plan: Between her and her father were two causes of disagreement. The first was her intimacy with the Lethbridges. He disapproved of it, and wished her to discontinue her visits, and to have nothing more to do with them. To this she was now ready to agree if he would advance her the money she asked for. 'I could not promise to forget them,' she says; 'that would have been impossible – my love for them was so great, and also my gratitude for the kindness and affection they showed me from the time my mother died. But I would have borne my suffering in secret, and would never have spoken of it reproachfully to my father. I should have been only too thankful if he would have assisted me to repay them, in some small measure, for all their wonderful kindness to me. They have made great sacrifices for me. Should I hesitate to make a sacrifice for them in return? It was only my own happiness that was at stake, and perhaps death would have soon come to me to put an end to my misery. There was a time when I used to pray for death.' This, however, was not the only sacrifice she avers she was ready to make; there was another of an infinitely graver nature. Her father wished her to marry a man she abhorred. She had shrunk in horror from the proposal, but she was ready to submit to it now. She would humble herself to her father's will. Her father had written these words to her, 'When you are prepared to obey me in the one wish of my life, you can come to me; not until then.' Upon these words she was prepared to act. She would go to him and say that she was ready to obey him if he would assist her in the way she wished. Animated by this resolve – which, if it were the truth, would have been most noble and heroic – she took the last train to Beddington, and arrived at Parksides late in the night. She did not take a return ticket, not having sufficient money to pay for it. She cannot fix the hour of her arrival, nor indeed has she anything to say as to time. It may have been midnight, it may have been earlier or later – her mind is a blank upon this. The night, she says, was dark, and the house itself was in darkness; she saw no one moving, inside or out. She was afraid to knock, because her summons would have brought Mrs. Pamflett down, and she feared that the house-keeper, who hated her, would have driven her from the place, and prevented her from seeing her father. So she concealed herself in the grounds quite near to the house, her intention being to pass the night in the open, and the first thing in the morning, when the door was unlocked, to enter it and go straight to her father's room, unknown to Mrs. Pamflett, and tell him what she came for. We now take up her own words as to what followed:

"'I do not know how long I waited outside, crouching down in concealment; it seemed to me very, very long, and I was so agitated that I cannot depend upon my memory. I did my best to keep my eyes open, but they would close in spite of me, and at last I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes it was with an impression that some one was standing over me, and seeing no one as I looked up, I thought that I must have been mistaken; and yet I could not shake off the idea that some person had been near me. I was very frightened and very confused, and I made up my mind not to close my eyes again, but to wait till daybreak. I did not have to wait so long. In the distance I saw a light, the light of a lantern, moving slowly on. I was overcome with gratitude at the thought that it might be my father, and that I might speak to him at once. I knew that my father sometimes went out into the grounds at night, but I was not aware for what purpose. I rose to my feet, and softly followed the light till I was sure it was held by my father. Then I went up and spoke to him. I cannot recall what I said, or in what way he answered me. I know that he was at first surprised that I should come to him at so strange an hour, and that, when he got over his surprise, he was in a furious passion. I know, although he continually interrupted me, that I must have succeeded in making him understand why I had presented myself to him. I know that he threatened me and spoke most bitter words, and that he said I had come too late, that he had no longer a child; that every one in the world was his enemy, and was conspiring to ruin him, and that he would drive me from his gates. I have a remembrance of pleading to him, of going on my knees to him, and that he dragged me to my feet, and threw me violently off. I fell fainting to the ground, and remember nothing more of him. When I recovered I was alone, and it was still dark. Heart-broken, bewildered, and sick, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I dragged myself away from Parksides, and there was no light in the sky when I left Parksides behind me. It is useless for me to attempt to describe what followed. I must have known the direction to London, and my idea was to get back to my dear aunt, and at the same time to conceal myself from the sight of every one on the road. Whether I succeeded or not I cannot say, and it was only by God's mercy that I reached my aunt's house. There is something so horrible in the accusation that is brought against me that I cannot realize it. I can only pray to God to bring the truth to light!'

"There is in this statement an element of romance and improbability which renders it impossible of belief, especially when it is placed side by side with established evidence. The prisoner refers to a letter she received from her father, in which he says that when she is prepared to obey him she can return to her proper home. But that letter also contains the words: 'Your guilty desires can only be accomplished by my death.'

"We come now to the evidence of another witness, the policeman Tom Barley, which told fatally against the prisoner; which perhaps turned the scale against her, and dispelled any doubts which the jury might have entertained. This man, who receives from his superiors a character in every way satisfactory and honourable, was a servant in Miser Farebrother's house during the childhood of the prisoner. His devotion to the prisoner cannot be doubted; his belief in her innocence is not to be shaken, and yet he gave fatal evidence against her. We append here a résumé of the evidence to which we allude, leading up to it by a few questions put to other witnesses, all of them friends of the prisoner.

"Mrs. Lethbridge is examined:

"'On the day the prisoner left your house secretly for Parksides, what was the colour of her dress?' – 'Blue.'

"'Did she wear it the whole of the day?' – 'Yes.'

"'In the evening, when you and your family were sitting at home, the prisoner being with you, had she this blue dress on?' – 'Yes.'

"'Did she change it at all during the day or night?'-'No.'

"'You are positive she left your house wearing this blue dress?' – 'I am positive.'

"Miss Fanny Lethbridge, the prisoner's cousin, is examined:

"'Do you remember the dress the prisoner wore on the night she left your parents' house for Parksides?' – 'Yes.'

"'What was its colour?' – 'Blue. It is her favourite colour.'

"'You have no doubt in your mind that her dress was blue?' – 'No.'

"'Could she have changed it unknown to you?' – 'No; she had only one other dress, a grey one, and that was hanging up in our room.'

"'Melia Jane, maid of all work in Mrs. Lethbridge's house, is examined:

"'You met the prisoner shortly after she left your mistress's house on the night her father was murdered?'-'Yes.'

"'She gave you a message to deliver to your mistress?' – 'Yes; she said she was going to Parksides to see her father.'

"'Did you notice the dress she was wearing?' – 'I saw it.'

"'What dress was it?' – 'Her favourite frock, a blue one.'

"'Is there any doubt in your mind upon the point?' – 'None at all. She had her blue frock on.'"

Tom Barley is examined:

"'You were in the service of the murdered man?' – 'For many a long year. My grandfather and grandmother were care-takers there before Miser Farebrother took possession.'

"'Answer only the questions that are put to you. What age was the prisoner when you entered her father's service?' – 'Miss Phœbe couldn't have been more than two. I was there when she first came.'

"'You were previously engaged, then?' – 'Yes; at two-pence a week, and I never got more.'

"'What inducement was there for you to remain?' – 'Well, I grew up there, so to speak; and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving Miss Phœbe.'

"'The prisoner?' – 'Yes.'

"'To serve her was a pleasing duty?' – 'I would die for her.'

"'If it were in your power you would testify in her favour?' – 'I should be sorry to say a word against her.'

"'But you would tell the truth?' – 'I must.'

"'Were you as much attached to your master?' – 'No. If he was alive I would tell you what I thought of him.'

"'But being dead you say nothing?' – 'It's more decent.'

"'Apart from their relationship as father and child, what kind of feeling existed between them?' – 'He had no feeling for her; he hardly took notice of her. She would have loved him if he'd have let her; but he had other notions.'

"'You left his service less than a year ago?' – 'Yes. I'll tell you the reason of it.'

"'We do not want to know the reason. Do you remember the night of the murder of Miser Farebrother?' – 'Yes.'

"'On that night did you go to Mrs. Lethbridge's house?' – 'Yes.'

"'After or before the prisoner left it?' – 'After Miss Phœbe left.'

"'Were you spoken to about her having gone away?' – 'Yes.'

"'By whom?' – 'By Mrs. Lethbridge.'

"'What did she say to you?' – 'That Miss Phœbe, without asking her advice, had gone to Parksides, and would I go after her and see that she would come to no harm.'

"'Was there any fear of her coming to harm in her father's house?' – 'A good deal. She wasn't safe there.'

"'That is your opinion?' – 'Yes, it's my opinion, and the truth.'

"'You went?' – 'Yes. I had time, without interfering with my duty.'

"'You were glad to go?' – 'I was glad to do anything to serve Miss Phœbe.'

"'Did you go by the train?' – 'I was too late for trains; I walked.'

"'A tiring walk?' – 'Not for me. I shouldn't think anything of forty mile.'

"'What did you do when you arrived at Parksides?' – 'I looked about for Miss Phœbe.'

"'Did you see her?' – 'No.'

"'Did you remain there for any length of time?' – 'Up to the last safe minute. I had to get back to London to my duty by a certain time.'

"'I understand, then, that you remained until the last safe minute?' – 'Yes.'

"'When you left Parksides, was it night or morning?' – 'Morning. The sun was rising.'

"'You could distinguish objects perfectly?' – 'Yes.'

"'Did you walk about Parksides freely? Was there any restraint upon your movements?' – 'I don't know about restraints. It is the truth that I did not wish to be seen.'

"'Why?' – 'There was no love lost between me and Miser Farebrother. He wouldn't have been pleased to see me.'

"'You knew you had no right to be there?' – 'I was doing no harm, and had no intention of doing any. I wanted to be of service to Miss Phœbe.'

"'You were, however, careful in your movements?' – 'Yes.'

"'Now, you say it was sunrise when you left?' – 'It was.'

"'And that you could see clearly?' – 'Yes.'

"'Is your eyesight good?' – 'Very good. I can almost see in the dark.'

"'But you could not distinguish colours in the dark?' – 'I don't say I could. At all events, I wouldn't swear to them.'

"'You have stated that you did not see the prisoner. But did you see any one you knew?' – 'It's hard to answer.'

"'Not at all. You must be able to state whether you saw anything, before you left Parksides, that attracted your attention.' – 'I am able to state that, but I answer your questions as you put them to me.'

"'And I do not complain of your answers. I am pleased to say that you are giving your evidence in a perfectly straightforward manner.' – 'Thank you, sir.'

"'Well, then, you say you did not see any one whom you knew; but did you see any one at all?' – 'Yes, I did. A woman.'

"'How do you know it was a woman?' – 'By her dress.'

"'You saw that?' – 'Clearly.'

"'I wish to lead up intelligibly and distinctly to this, and I am sure you will assist me – your desire being that justice shall be done?' – 'It is my desire, sir; then everything will be right.'

"'You saw a woman, you say. Did you see her only once?' – 'I saw her three times.'

"'At what distance was she from you?' – 'Say thirty or forty yards.'

"'Always at about that distance?' – 'Always at about that.'

"'Among the trees?' – 'Yes.'

"'Did you walk toward her?' – 'Yes.'

"'Well?' – 'Then she disappeared.'

"'On every occasion?' – 'On every occasion.'

"'As if she were hiding from you?' – 'It looked like it.'

"'As if discovering that you were walking toward her, she did not wish you to see her?' – 'It's fair to say that.'

"'Was her face turned toward you?' – 'Never once.'

"'Then you could not recognize it?' – 'It wasn't possible.'

"'That is why you say you did not see any one whom you knew?' – 'Yes, that is the reason.'

"'However, you knew it was a woman by her dress?' – 'Yes.'

"'By the form or the colour of her dress?' – 'More by the colour than the form, though I am certain both ways.'

"'But the colour enables you to be quite positive?' – 'Yes.'

"'Now, what was the colour of the dress worn by this woman?' – 'It was blue.'

"'Is there any possibility that you could have been mistaken?' – 'No.'

"'You swear it was blue?' – 'I swear it.'

"'And the woman who wore this blue dress, discovering that you were following her, seemed anxious that you should not see her face?' – 'It seemed so.'

"These were the salient features of the examination of Tom Barley, corroborated, as they were, by the evidence of witnesses favourable to the prisoner. Lurking about the grounds of Parksides was a woman in a blue dress, who was unmistakably anxious that he should not recognize her. The conclusion is that she was known to him, and that she had reasons for avoiding him.

"The prisoner, when she left her aunt's house on the night of the murder, wore a blue dress – her favourite colour. Even without this evidence there was sufficient to warrant the conclusion that the prisoner was guilty of the crime of which she stood charged; but it was natural, perhaps, that her youth and beauty would have won the day with impressionable men, had it not been for this important evidence of colour. In association with Miser Farebrother were two women only, Mrs. Pamflett and the prisoner. Setting a due value upon Tom Barley's evidence, the prosecution had carefully sifted it, and the conclusion arrived at was indisputable. Mrs. Pamflett was not a favourite in Beddington and round about; she had no friends or acquaintances there or anywhere; but she had been compelled to make her purchases in the village, and her appearance was familiar by force of circumstance. She had never been known to wear a blue dress; it was, she said, a detestable colour, and she would not purchase even a piece of ribbon of that hue. As the prisoner's favourite colour was blue, so Mrs. Pamflett's was pink, and in all the housekeeper's wardrobe – which, it may be mentioned, was thrown open to the investigation of the prosecution – there was not a fabric of blue.

"Another thing told heavily against the prisoner. In her statement she said that 'it was still dark when she went away' from Parksides. She said, 'There was no light in the sky when I left Parksides behind me.' Tom Barley proved that he saw her in a blue dress when the sun was rising. A sad duty indeed devolved upon the jury, but it was a duty which had to be fulfilled. The verdict of 'Guilty' which was returned was one which could not be avoided by conscientious men, however painful it must have been. Phœbe Farebrother is not the only beautiful and apparently gentle woman upon whom sentence of death has been passed."

CHAPTER XII

DICK GARDEN TO THE RESCUE

Aunt and Uncle Leth and their children sat in their once happy home in Camden Town gazing at each other in mute despair. For them the tragedy of life was complete and overwhelming, and their condition was such that they could find no words to give expression to their horror and grief. They were waiting for Fred Cornwall, who had obtained permission to see Phœbe in prison. When he entered the room his face was white and stern. He felt the terrible blow which had fallen upon them no less poignantly than they; but he had not lost the power to act, nor, as with them, had hope entirely deserted him.

"I have seen her," he said, in a low tone. "She sends loving messages to you. I expected to find her heart-broken and prostrate, but she is imbued with a strange strength and resignation. The worst is over, she says she must not think of the past, but of the future. She is sustained by a consciousness of innocence, and is inexpressibly comforted by the thought that we know she is innocent. She begs that you will not grieve too deeply for her." He paused a moment or two. "That is the sense of her message to you. She is an angel and a martyr. I can trust myself to say nothing more of my visit to the prison. I must not remain with you now, unless you have something to communicate which may help me in the task upon which I am engaged – of even yet clearing her from the wicked charge. Yes, Aunt Leth, I will move heaven and earth to establish her innocence. I will not rest, I will not sleep – " Again he was compelled to pause; and when he could control himself he said: "I must see Tom Barley. Has he been here to-day?"

"Yes," replied Aunt Leth; "but I fear it will be long before he comes here again. There was a dreadful scene between him and 'Melia Jane. The girl stormed at him for giving his evidence about seeing a woman in a blue dress at Parksides on that fatal night. She said if it had not been for him our poor Phœbe would have been set free; and when he asked what else he could do but answer the questions they put to him, she answered that he ought to have cut his tongue out first."

"'Melia Jane was right," said Fanny.

"I don't see that he could have acted differently," said Fred, thoughtfully. "Without his evidence the case against my suffering angel would have been incomplete; but there can be no question that he spoke the truth. He did see a woman in a blue dress at Parksides; but it was not Phœbe. The evidence relating to the dresses worn by Mrs. Pamflett is not to be shaken, and it could not have been that she wore on that night a blue dress in order to throw suspicion upon our innocent darling."

"She could have worn such a dress," said Uncle Leth, "and afterward destroyed it."

"That is possible enough; but she could have had no hope, supposing her to be the guilty wretch – "

"Or her son," interposed Fanny.

"She could have had no hope of entangling our Phœbe by so doing. She knew that Phœbe was living here, and the sudden visit our poor girl paid to her father could not by any possibility have become known to her beforehand. If the woman Tom Barley saw was neither Phœbe nor Mrs. Pamflett, who is she? There are now two mysterious persons in this horrible affair – the man who was in the habit of visiting Miser Farebrother late at night and this woman whom Tom Barley saw, and who was conspicuously anxious that he should not see her face. These matters must be followed up; we can agitate, we can get time. I hear on all sides nothing but sympathy expressed for our dear Phœbe, and the case against her is so entirely circumstantial that I will not, I cannot, give up hope. A friend of mine who has chambers next to mine is so much interested in the case that he has offered to help me all he can. He is clearer-headed than I am just now, and cleverer, and higher up the ladder. He is convinced that Phœbe is innocent, and that there is a mystery in the affair which, unravelled, would set her free."

"God bless him!" sobbed Fanny. "What is the name of this good friend, that I may remember it in my prayers."

"Dick Garden. We are going to work together. He is waiting for me now in my rooms. He is a good fellow – the best of friends; I rely greatly upon him. Calm as I appear, I am burning with wrath and indignation, and I am scarcely to be depended upon for a clear judicial reasoning upon anything we may happily discover. I must go at once. Then you cannot tell me where I can find Tom Barley?"

"I will find him for you," said Robert, starting up.

"Do; and send him on to my place immediately. Good-by – good-by. If you hear anything, don't fail to let me know."

He drove rapidly to his rooms, where he found his friend Richard Garden awaiting him. This friend was of about the same age as himself; an ambitious, astute young fellow, determined to get along in the world, and almost certain to succeed, for the reason that he had brains and indomitable courage and industry.

He looked up from the paper upon which he was writing when Fred entered. Upon a smaller table in the room some food was spread: a plate of ham and beef, a cold pie, and bread; also a jug of ale.

"You have had nothing to eat?" said Garden. Fred shook his head impatiently. "Of course you haven't; and you think that we can go into an affair like this with empty stomachs. No, old fellow; we must assist ourselves like sensible men. A craving stomach is a bad mental foundation. Come, tuck away; force something down. That's right. Just taste this cold pie – good, isn't it? A pint of ale between us – here's your half, no more and no less. You feel better, don't you? Now we are fit to set to work. You saw her?"