There was a pause, but at last the foreman of the jury, a nervous, intelligent-looking man, who was evidently intensely relieved that his responsible task was now over, answered in a clear tone, “We have.”
“Do you find the prisoner, Roger Kingston Gretorex, guilty or not guilty of the wilful murder of Jervis Lexton?”
There was a scarcely perceptible wait, and then came the one word—“Guilty.”
And it was as if there swept a great sigh through the now lighted Court, followed by a sudden buzz of talk.
But this was instantly quelled when the ushers cried sternly, “Silence!”
All eyes were now fixed on the prisoner. He was standing far more stiffly to attention than he had done a moment ago, as the clear tones of the Clerk of the Court rang out:
“Roger Kingston Gretorex, you stand convicted of wilful murder. Have you anything to say for yourself why the Court should not give you judgment according to law?”
“Only that I am innocent.”
The five words were uttered in a cool, firm tone.
It was the second time during the whole course of the trial that anyone there had heard Roger Gretorex’s voice.
Ivy felt better now, and she watched everything that went on with eager, excited interest.
Sitting near the Judge was a young man to whom no one had before paid any special attention. But now every eye was fixed on him, for it was he who lifted a square of black cloth, and placed it, with careful deliberation, on the Judge’s wig.
Then solemn, slow, emphatic tones of admonition fell on the heavy air. They were not cruel words, for the Judge felt deeply sorry for the young man before him. He had heard, only last evening at a dinner-party, something of the quiet, kindly, useful life that Mrs. Gretorex and her son had both led since the death of the husband and father who had caused their financial ruin.
And then came the awful words—
“Roger Kingston Gretorex, the jury, after a careful and patient hearing, have found you guilty of the wilful murder of Jervis Lexton. The sentence of the Court upon you is that you be taken from here to a lawful prison, and from there to a place of execution; and that you be there hanged by the neck until you be dead; and that your body be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been last confined after your conviction; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
As Ivy Lexton, supported by a number of her friends and acquaintances, left the Old Bailey by a back way, she chanced in the passage to meet Mrs. Gretorex face to face. The eyes of the two women crossed—and a stab of horrible pain flashed across the worn, yet even now calm, face of Roger Gretorex’s mother.
XVII
“I took Mrs. Gretorex a nice cup of tea at seven o’clock, for I heard her moving about even before then. But the poor lady only just sipped it. She said her throat seemed swollen, so she couldn’t swallow. But she’s up now, and I do wish, miss, you’d go in and try and persuade her to have just a little bit of breakfast. Me and my husband—well—we both fairly broke down and cried last night, when we thought of how we’d feel if it was our boy that was going to be hanged by the neck till he was dead.”
“I hope she doesn’t let her mind dwell on that,” Enid’s pale face went a shade paler, as she looked into the kind, pitying eyes of Mrs. Gretorex’s landlady.
“How can she help hearing those awful words a-ringing in her ears? Why they rings in mine, ever since yesterday! I’m sorry I did stay till the end. A friend warned me, so she did. She says to me, ‘Maria, you’ll enjoy every bit of it up to the jury coming back. But if I was you I’d leave the Court before the Judge puts on his black cap.’ I wish I’d done that now!”
As Enid advanced into the sitting-room, and saw Mrs. Gretorex’s figure leaning back in the deep grandfather’s chair, she thought for one moment—and to her it was a blessed moment—that her dear old friend was dead, that she had died, literally, of a broken heart, so rigid was the lonely looking figure, so calm and white the face, so pale the lips.
But Roger Gretorex’s mother was not dead, and hearing Enid’s footsteps, she opened her eyes.
“I want you to have something to eat, Mrs. Gretorex. Mr. Oram told me yesterday that he thought you might be allowed to see Roger today. You must keep up your strength.”
“I will,” said the other quietly. “But it’s an odd thing, Enid, when that kind soul brought in my cup of tea this morning I found I couldn’t swallow. Perhaps I can now. At any rate I’ll try.”
Enid came up a little closer to the big chair.
“I wonder if you would think it strange if I went and had a talk with Mr. Finch?” she said a little nervously.
“With Mr. Finch?” Mrs. Gretorex looked surprised.
“From something he said the other day, I gathered that he has some theory which is not shared by Mr. Oram. I should like to know what it is. Somehow I feel that there must be something we could do—”
There was such a fervour of revolt, of anguish, in the steady voice, that the older woman for one moment forgot her own agony.
She felt deeply moved; even she had not realised how much Enid cared. The girl had kept an entire curb over her feeling during the terrible days that the two had sat next to one another in Court.
She got up from her chair, and came close up to Enid Dent.
“I feel as if there was nothing left, for me at any rate, to do but to endure.”
“I feel,” cried the girl, “as if there was a great deal left to do!
