It came at once. “My dear, I believe you have been indiscreet?” The words, perhaps, had been chosen with some idea of mercy, but certainly there was no mercy in the tone. The man’s voice was loud, and there was something in it almost of a jeer—something which seemed to leave an impression on the hearer that there had been pleasure in the asking it. She struggled to make an answer, and the monosyllable, yes, was formed by her lips. The man who was acting as her mouthpiece stooped down his ears to her lips, and then shook his head. Assuredly no sound had come from them that could have reached his sense, had he been ever so close. The burly barrister waited in patience, looking now at her, and now round at the court. “I must have an answer. I say that I believe you have been indiscreet. You know, I dare say, what I mean. Yes or no will do; but I must have an answer.” She glanced round for an instant, trying to catch her father’s eye; but she could see nothing; everything seemed to swim before her except the broad face of that burly barrister. “Has she given any answer?” he asked of the mouthpiece; and the mouthpiece again shook his head. The heart of the mouthpiece was tender, and he was beginning to hate the burly barrister. “My dear,” said the burly barrister, “the jury must have the information from you.”
Then gradually there was heard through the court the gurgling sounds of irrepressible sobs—and with them there came a moan from the old man, who was only divided from his daughter by the few steps—which was understood by the whole crowd. The story of the poor girl, in reference to the trial, had been so noised about that it was known to all the listeners. That spark of sympathy, of which we have said that its course cannot be arrested when it once finds its way into a crowd, had been created, and there was hardly present then one, either man or woman, who would not have prayed that Carry Brattle might be spared if it were possible. There was a juryman there, a father with many daughters, who thought that it might not misbecome him to put forward such a prayer himself.
“Perhaps it mayn’t be necessary,” said the softhearted juryman.
But the burly barrister was not a man who liked to be taught his duty by anyone in court—not even by a juryman—and his quick intellect immediately told him that he must seize the spark of sympathy in its flight. It could not be stopped, but it might be turned to his own purpose. It would not suffice for him now that he should simply defend the question he had asked. The court was showing its aptitude for pathos, and he also must be pathetic on his own side. He knew well enough that he could not arrest public opinion which was going against him, by showing that his question was a proper question; but he might do so by proving at once how tender was his own heart.
“It is a pain and grief to me,” said he, “to bring sorrow upon anyone. But look at those prisoners at the bar, whose lives are committed to my charge, and know that I, as their advocate, love them while they are my clients as well as any father can love his child. I will spend myself for them, even though it may be at the risk of the harsh judgment of those around me. It is my duty to prove to the jury on their behalf that the life of this young woman has been such as to invalidate her testimony against them;—and that duty I shall do, fearless of the remarks of anyone. Now I ask you again, Caroline Brattle, whether you are not one of the unfortunates?”
This attempt of the burly barrister was to a certain extent successful. The juryman who had daughters of his own had been put down, and the barrister had given, at any rate, an answer to the attack that had been silently made on him by the feeling of the court. Let a man be ready with a reply, be it ever so bad a reply, and any attack is parried. But Carry had given no answer to the question, and those who looked at her thought it very improbable that she would be able to do so. She had clutched the arm of the man who stood by her, and in the midst of her sobs was looking round with snatched, quick, half-completed glances for protection to the spot on which her father and brother were standing. The old man had moaned once; but after that he uttered no sound. He stood leaning on his stick with his eyes fixed upon the ground, quite motionless. Sam was standing with his hands grasping the woodwork before him and his bold gaze fastened on the barrister’s face, as though he were about to fly at him. The burly barrister saw it all and perceived that more was to be gained by sparing than by persecuting his witness, and resolved to let her go.
“I believe that will do,” he said. “Your silence tells all that I wish the jury to know. You may go down.” Then the man who had acted as mouthpiece led Carry away, delivered her up to her father, and guided them both out of court.
They went back to the room in which they had before been seated, and there they waited for Sam, who was called into the witness-box as they left the court.
“Oh, father,” said Carry, as soon as the old man was again placed upon the bench. And she stood over him, and put her hand upon his neck.
“We’ve won through it, girl, and let that be enough,” said the miller. Then she sat down close by his side, and not another word
