“You told us just now, Mme. Doulenques,” the President said suavely, “that your lodger, Gurn, often received visits from a lady friend. You also said that if this lady were placed before you, you would certainly recognise her. Now will you kindly look at the lady in the box: is this the same person?”
Mme. Doulenques, crimson with excitement, and nervously twisting in her hands a huge pair of white gloves which she had bought for this occasion, looked curiously at Lady Beltham.
“Upon my word I can’t be sure that this is the lady,” she said after quite a long pause.
“But you were so certain of your facts just now,” the President smiled encouragingly.
“But I can’t see the lady very well, with all those veils on,” Mme. Doulenques protested.
Lady Beltham did not wait for the request which the President would inevitably have made, but haughtily put back her veil.
“Do you recognise me now?” she said coldly.
The scorn in her tone upset Mme. Doulenques. She looked again at Lady Beltham and turned instinctively as if to ask enlightenment from Gurn, whose face, however, was expressionless, and then replied:
“It’s just what I told you before, your worship: I can’t be sure; I couldn’t swear to it.”
“But you think she is?”
“You know, your worship,” Mme. Doulenques protested, “I took an oath just now to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth; so I don’t want to tell any stories; well, this lady might be the same lady, and again she mightn’t be.”
“In other words, you cannot give a definite answer.”
“That’s it,” said the concierge. “I don’t know; I can’t swear. This lady is like the other lady—there’s a sort of family likeness between them—, but at the moment I do not exactly recognise her; it’s much too serious!”
Mme. Doulenques would willingly have continued to give evidence forever and a day, but the President cut her short.
“Very well; thank you,” he said, and dismissed her with the usher, turning again meanwhile to Lady Beltham.
“Will you kindly tell me now what your personal opinion is as to the relative culpability of the prisoner? Of course you understand that he has confessed to the crime, and your answer will bear chiefly on the motive that may have actuated him.”
Lady Beltham appeared to have recovered some of her confidence.
“I cannot say anything definite, can only express a very vague feeling about the matter. I know my husband was quick-tempered, very quick-tempered, and even violent; and his peremptory temper predisposed him to positive convictions. He maintained what he considered his rights at all times and against all comers; if, as the prisoner says, there was a heated discussion, I should not be surprised if my husband did make use of arguments that might have provoked anger.”
The President gently gave a clearer turn to the phrase she used.
“So, in your opinion, the prisoner’s version of the story is quite permissible? You admit that Lord Beltham and his murderer may have had a heated discussion, as a consequence of which Gurn committed this crime? That is your honest belief?”
“Yes,” Lady Beltham answered, trying to control her voice; “I believe that that may be what took place. And then, it is the only way in which I can find the least excuse for the crime this man Gurn committed.”
The President picked up the word, in astonishment.
“Do you want to find excuses for him, madame?”
Lady Beltham stood erect, and looked at the President.
“It is written that to pardon is the first duty of good Christians. It is true that I have mourned my husband, but the punishment of his murderer will not dry my tears; I ought to forgive him, bow beneath the burden that is laid upon my soul: and I do forgive him!”
Ghastly pale, Gurn was staring at Lady Beltham from the dock; and this time his emotion was so visible that all the jury noticed it. The President held a brief colloquy with his colleagues, asked the prisoner’s counsel whether he desired to put any questions to the witness, and, receiving a reply in the negative, dismissed Lady Beltham with a word of thanks, and announced that the Court would adjourn.
Immediately a hum of conversation broke out in the warm and sunny court; barristers in their robes moved from group to group, criticising, explaining, prophesying; and in their seats the world of beauty and fashion bowed and smiled and gossiped.
“She’s uncommonly pretty, this Lady Beltham,” one young lawyer said, “and she’s got a way of answering questions without compromising herself, and yet without throwing blame on the prisoner, that is uncommonly clever.”
“You are all alike, you men,” said a pretty, perfectly dressed woman in mocking tones; “if a woman is young, and hasn’t got a hump on her back, and has a charming voice, your sympathies are with her at once! Oh, yes, they are! Now shall I tell you what your Lady Beltham really is? Well, she is nothing more nor less than a barnstormer! She knew well enough how to get on the soft side of the judge, who was quite ridiculously amiable to her, and to capture the sympathy of the Court. I think it was outrageous to declare that she had married a man who was too old for her, and to say that she felt nothing but esteem for him!”
“There’s an admission!” the young barrister laughed. “Vive l’amour, eh? And mariages de convenance are played out, eh?”
On another bench a little further away, a clean-shaven man with a highly intelligent face was talking animatedly.
“Bosh! Your Lady Beltham is anything you like: what do I care for Lady Beltham? I shall never play women’s parts, shall I? She does not stand for anything. But Gurn, now! There’s a type, if you
