"There is nothing she can have on her mind," Hesba Powlett replied. "You know we had trouble with her about that good-for-nothing George Forester?" The doctor nodded. It was pretty well known throughout the village how matters stood.

"She gave him up weeks and weeks ago, just at the time he went away, when he was wanted for the share he had in that poaching business up in the Carne Woods. She told her father that she saw we had been right, and would have nothing more to say to him. That was a week or more before she had that fall on the hill, and I have never heard her mention his name since. I feel sure that she is not fretting about him. Ruth has always been a sensible girl, and once she has made up her mind she wasn't likely to turn back again."

"No, I should not say that she was fretting on his account, Mrs. Powlett. Fretting in young women shows itself in lowness of spirits and general depression and want of tone. In her case it appears to me to be rather some sort of anxiety, though about what I cannot guess. If it had been any other girl in the village, I should have had my suspicion that she had taken a fancy in some way to Ronald Mervyn, and was anxious about the trial; but of course that is out of the question in Ruth's case. No doubt she is anxious about the trial, and has a nervous dread of being obliged to stand up and describe the scene again in a crowded court, and perhaps be questioned and cross-questioned. It's a trying thing for any one; still more so, of course, for a girl whose nerves have been shattered, and who is in a weak and debilitated state of health. Well, I shall be heartily glad when it's all over, and we settle down into our ordinary ways."

"What do you think will be the verdict, sir? Do you think they will find Captain Mervyn guilty?"

"I do not like to give an opinion, Mrs. Powlett. It depends so much on the jury, and on the way the counsel and judge put it, but I hardly think that the evidence is sufficient to hang a man. There are, of course, grave grounds for suspicion, but I should doubt whether any jury would find Mervyn guilty upon them. It would be amply sufficient if it were merely a case of robbery, but men don't like to find a verdict when there is a possibility of their finding out too late to save a man's life that they have been mistaken. At any rate, Mrs. Powlett, do your best to keep Ruth's thoughts from dwelling on the subject. I wish it was summer weather, and that she could sit out in the garden. Of course she is not strong enough to be able to walk, except for a hundred yards or so, but I would get her to take a little turn, if it's only once round the garden now and then."

"I don't think she would walk if she could, sir. When I was speaking the other day about her getting well enough to go out for walks, she turned white and shivered, and said she didn't want to go outside the door again, not for ever so long. That fall she got seems to have changed her altogether."

"Well, well, we must get her away, as I said, Mrs. Powlett. She wants more bracing air than you have got here, and to have the wind either coming straight off the sea or else to be in some hilly, breezy place."

"I am sure I don't know how it's to be managed. She can't go by herself, and I don't see how I am to leave Hiram."

"You will have to leave Hiram for a day or two, and take her wherever we fix upon as the best place and settle her there. Hiram will get on very well without you for a day or two. She is no more fit to travel alone than a baby. However, I must be off. Keep up her spirits as well as you can, and don't let her brood over this business."

At last the day when Ronald Mervyn was to be tried for murder arrived. The Assizes were at Exeter, and never in the memory of man had there been such numerous applications to the sheriff and other officials for seats in the court. The interest in the case had extended far beyond the limits of Devonshire. The rank in life of the victim and the accused, the cold-blooded nature of the murder, and the nature of the evidence rendered the affair a

cause célèbre

, and the

pros

and

cons

of the case were discussed far and wide.

The story of the curse of Carne's Hold had been given at full length by the reporters of the local papers and copied by all the journals of the kingdom, and the fact that madness was hereditary in the family went for much in the arguments of those who held that Captain Mervyn was guilty. Had it not been for this, the tide of public feeling would have been distinctly in favour of the accused.

By itself, the rest of the evidence was inconclusive. Men who have been jilted not unfrequently use strong language, and even threats, without anything coming of it. The fact of the glove having been found where it was was certainly suspicious, but, after all, that in itself did not count for much; the glove might have been blown to where it was found, or a dog might have picked it up and carried it there. A dozen explanations, all possible even if not probable, could be given for its presence, and before a man could be found guilty of murder upon circumstantial evidence, there must be no room whatever left for doubt. Therefore, the quarrel, the finding of the glove, and even the fact that Captain Mervyn was unable to prove an

alibi

, would scarcely have caused public opinion to decide against him had it not been for the fact of that taint of insanity in his blood. Call a dog mad and you hang him. Call a man mad and the public will easily credit him with the commission of the most desperate crimes; therefore, the feeling of the majority of those who assembled at the Court House at Exeter, was unfavourable to Ronald Mervyn.

The attitude of the prisoner did much to dispel this impression; he was grave, as one might well be with such a charge hanging over him, but there was nothing moody or sombre, still less wild, in his expression; he looked calmly round the court, acknowledged the encouraging nods given him by some of his fellow officers, who had come over to bear witness on the point of character, and who to a man believed him to be innocent. Certainly there was nothing to suggest in the slightest degree the suspicion of madness in his appearance; and many of those who had before been impressed by the story of the family taint, now veered round and whispered to their friends that the story of insanity was all nonsense, and that Ronald Mervyn looked wholly incapable of such a crime as that of which he was accused.

Dr. Arrowsmith had brought Ruth over under his personal charge. As she came out, when he called in his trap to take her to the station, he was surprised at the change which had taken place since he saw her the evening before. The anxious and nervous expression of her face was gone, and she looked calm and composed. There was indeed a certain determined expression in her face that led the doctor to believe that she had by a great effort conquered her fear of the ordeal to which she was to be exposed, and had nerved herself to go through it unflinchingly. As they journeyed in the train she asked him:

"Shall we be in the court all the time, doctor?"

"No, Ruth, I do not think you will be in court. I fancy the witnesses remain in a room together until they are wanted. I myself shall be in court, as the solicitor for the defence is a personal friend of mine, and will give me a place at his table."

"Do you think, sir, that after I have given my evidence they would let me stand there until it is done?"

"I should hardly think so, Ruth, and I am sure it would be a very bad thing for you."

"I have a particular reason for wanting to be there, Dr. Arrowsmith, and to hear it to the end. A most particular reason. I can't tell you what it is, but I must be there."

The doctor looked at her in surprise.

"You think you will not feel the suspense as much if you are in the court as you would outside Ruth? Is that what you mean?"

"That's it, partly, sir. Anyhow, I feel that I must be there."

"Very well, Ruth, if you see it in that way, I will do what I can for you. I will ask Captain Hendricks to speak to the policemen in the court, and tell them to let you remain there after you have given your evidence. There will be a great crowd, you know, and it will be very close, and altogether I think it is foolish and wrong of you."

"I am sorry you think so, sir; but I do want to be there, whatever happens to me afterwards."

"Of course you can do as you like, Ruth; but the probability is that you will faint before you have been there five minutes."

"I will try not to, sir, and I don't think I shall. It is only when I get a sudden shock that I faint, and I don't think I can get one there."

CHAPTER VII.

THE VERDICT

The trial of Ronald Mervyn for the murder of Margaret Carne was marked by none of the unexpected turns or sudden surprises that not unfrequently give such a dramatic interest to the proceedings. All the efforts of the police had failed in unearthing any facts that could throw a new light upon the subject, and the evidence brought forward was almost identical with that given at the coroner's inquest; the counsel asked a great many questions, but elicited no new facts of importance; the only witnesses called for the defence were those as to character, and one after another the officers of Mervyn's regiment came forward to testify that he was eminently popular, and that they had never observed in him any signs of madness.

They said that at times he got out of spirits, and was in the habit of withdrawing himself from their society, and that on these occasions he not infrequently went for long rides, and was absent many hours; he was, perhaps, what might be called a little queer, but certainly not in the slightest degree mad. Old servants of the family and many neighbours gave testimony to the same effect, and Dr. Arrowsmith testified that he had attended him from childhood, and that he had never seen any signs of insanity in his words or actions.

Ruth had escaped the one question which she dreaded, whether she had seen anything in the room that would afford a clue to the discovery of the perpetrator of the crime. She had thought this question over a hundred times, and she had pondered over the answer she should give. She was firmly resolved not to tell an actual lie, but either to evade the question by replying that when she recovered her senses she made straight to the door without looking round; or, if forced to reply directly, to refuse to answer, whatever the consequences might be. It was then with a sigh of deep relief that she left the witness-box, and took up her station at the point to which the policeman made way for her. As she did so, however, he whispered:

"I think you had better go out, my girl. I don't think this is a fit place for you. You look like to drop now;" but she shook her head silently, and took up her station in the corner, grasping in one hand something done up in many folds of paper in her pocket.

The same question had been asked other witnesses by the counsel for the defence, and he had made a considerable point of the fact that the constable and Dr. Arrowsmith both testified that the candles were standing one on each side of the looking-glass, and although the room had been carefully searched, no half-burnt match had been discovered. In his address for the defence he had animadverted strongly upon this point.

"It was a dark night, gentlemen. A dark night in November. You will remember we had the evidence that whoever committed this murder must have moved about the room noiselessly; the evidence shows that the murderer drew down the clothes so gently and softly that he did not awaken the sleeper. Now, as intelligent men, you cannot but agree with me that no man could have made his way about this absolutely dark room with its tables and its furniture, and carried out this murder in the way stated, without making some noise; it would be an utter impossibility. What is the conclusion? He was either provided with a light, or he was forced to strike a match and light a candle.

"In the latter case he must have been provided with silent matches, or the noise would have awakened the sleeper. Of one thing you may be sure, Captain Mervyn had not provided himself with silent matches; but even had not the sound of an ordinary match being struck awakened the sleeper, surely the sudden light would have done so. I ask you from your own experience whether, however soundly you might be sleeping, the effect of a candle being lit in your room would not awaken you; therefore I think it safe to assume that in the first place, because no match was found, and in the second place, because had a candle been lit it would assuredly have awakened the sleeper, and we know that she was not awakened, that no candle was lighted in the room.

"How then did the assassin manage after entering the room to avoid the dressing-table, the chairs, and other furniture, and to see to manipulate the bedclothes so gently that the sleeper was not awakened? Why, gentlemen, by means of the implement carried by every professional burglar, I mean, of course, a dark lantern. Opening the shade slightly, and carefully abstaining from throwing the light towards the bed, the burglar would make his way towards it, showing sufficient light to carry out his diabolical purpose, and then opening it freely to examine the room, open the trinket-box, and carry away the valuables.

"The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, has not even ventured to suggest that the prisoner, Captain Mervyn, was possessed of such an article. His course has been traced through every village that he rode, up to ten o'clock at night, by which time every shop had long been closed, and had he stopped anywhere to buy such an article we should surely have heard of it. Therefore, gentlemen, I maintain that even if this fact stood alone, it ought to convince you of the innocence of the prisoner.

"In his reply, the counsel for the prosecution had admitted that some weight must be attached to this point, but that it was quite possible that whoever entered the window might have felt on the table until he found a candlestick, and lit it, stooping down behind the table, or at the bottom of the bed, and so shading it with his coat that its light would not fall on the face of the sleeper. As for the point made that no match had been found, no great weight could be attached to it; the prisoner might have put it in his pocket or thrown it out of the window."

When the defence was concluded, and the counsel for the prosecution rose to speak, the feeling in the court was still against the prisoner.

In all that had been said the evidence pointed against him, and him only, as the author of the crime; no hint of suspicion had been dropped against any other person; and the manner in which the crime had been committed indicated strongly that it was the act of a person actuated by jealousy, or animosity rather than that of a mere burglar. This view of the case was strongly brought out by the counsel for the prosecution.

"The theory of the prosecution is," he said, "not that this unfortunate gentleman, while in the full possession of his senses, slew this lady, to whom he was nearly related, and for whom he had long cherished a sincere affection – the character you have heard given him by so many witnesses would certainly seem to show him to be a man incapable of such a crime. Our theory is that the latent taint of insanity in his blood – that insanity which, as you have heard from Dr. Arrowsmith and other witnesses, is hereditary in his ancestors on his mother's side, and has, before now, caused calamities, almost if not quite as serious as this – suddenly flamed out. We believe that, as has been shown by witnesses, he galloped away many miles over the country, but we believe that at last, wrought up to the highest pitch of frenzy, he returned, scaled the wall, opened the window, and murdered Miss Carne. You have heard that he was subject to moody fits, when he shunned all society; these fits, these wild rides you have heard of, are symptoms of a disordered mind. Perhaps had all gone happily with him, the malady would not have shown itself in a more serious form.

"Unfortunately, as we know, there was sharp and sudden unhappiness – such unhappiness as tries the fibre even of the sanest men, and might well have struck a fatal blow to his mind. It is not because you see him now, calm and self-possessed, that you are to conclude that this theory is a mistaken one. Many, even the most dangerous madmen, have long intervals when, apparently, their sanity is as perfect as that of other people. Then suddenly, sometimes altogether without warning, a change takes place, and the quiet and self-possessed man becomes a dangerous lunatic – perhaps a murderer.

"Such, gentlemen, is the theory of the prosecution. You will, of course, weigh it carefully in your minds, and it will be your duty, if you agree with it, to give expression to your opinion in your verdict."

The judge summed up the case with great care. After going through the evidence piecemeal, he told the jury that while the counsel for the defence had insisted upon the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the numerous instances of error that had resulted from it, it was his duty to tell them that in the majority of cases of murder there could be, from the nature of things, only circumstantial evidence to go upon, for that men did not commit murder in the open streets in sight of other people. At the same time, when circumstantial evidence alone was forthcoming, it was necessary that it should be of the most conclusive character, and that juries should, before finding a verdict of guilty, be convinced that the facts showed that it was the prisoner, and he only, who could have done the deed.

"It is for you, gentlemen, to decide whether the evidence that has been submitted to you does prove, absolutely and conclusively to your minds, that the prisoner must have been the man who murdered Miss Carne. Counsel on both sides have alluded to the unquestioned fact that madness is hereditary in the family of the prisoner; whether or not it is inherited by him, is also for you to decide in considering your verdict. You will have to conclude first whether the prisoner did or did not commit this murder. If you believe that he did so, and that while he did so he was insane, and incapable of governing his actions, your duty will be to find him not guilty upon the ground of insanity."

The general tenor of the summing-up certainly showed that in the opinion of the judge the evidence, although strong, could not be considered as absolutely conclusive. Still, the bias was not strongly expressed, and when the jury retired, opinions in court were nearly equally divided as to what the verdict would be.

When he left the witness-box, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the corner in which one of the policemen had placed Ruth after giving her evidence. She had done this with a steadiness and composure that had surprised the doctor; she had fortunately escaped much questioning, for the counsel saw how fragile and weak she looked, and as she had but entered the room, seen her mistress dead, fainted and left again, there was but little to ask her. The questions put were: "Was the jewellery safe in the box when she left the room the night before? Did she remember whether the window was fastened or not?" To this her reply was negative. Miss Carne had shut it herself when she went up in the afternoon, and she had not noticed whether it was fastened. "Was the blind a Venetian or an ordinary roller blind?"

"A roller blind."

"Then, if the window opened, it could be pushed aside without noise. Did you notice whether the candlesticks were standing where you had left them?"

"I noticed that they were on the table and in about the same place where they were standing the night before, but I could not say exactly."

"I want you to go out, Ruth," Dr. Arrowsmith said, when he reached her after the jury had retired. "They may be an hour or more before they make up their minds. You are as white as death, child. Let me lead you out."

Ruth shook her head, and murmured, "I must stay." The doctor shrugged his shoulders and returned to his seat. It was an hour and a half before the door opened and the foreman of the jury entered. As he was unaccompanied, it was evident he wanted to ask a question.

"My lord," he said, "we are unanimous as to one part of the verdict, but we can't agree about the other."

"How do you mean, sir?" the judge asked. "I don't want to know what you are unanimous about, but I don't understand what you mean about being unanimous about one part of the verdict and not unanimous on the other."

The foreman hesitated. Then, to the astonishment of the court, the prisoner broke in in a clear steady voice:

"I will not accept acquittal, sir, on the ground of insanity. I am not mad; if I had been the events of the last two months would have driven me so. I demand that your verdict be guilty or not guilty."

The judge was too surprised to attempt to check the prisoner when he first began to speak, and although he attempted to do so before he had finished, the interruption was ineffectual.

"Go back, sir," the judge then said to the foreman. "You must be unanimous as to the whole of your verdict."

The interruption of the prisoner had enlightened those in court as to the nature of the foreman's question. Undoubtedly he had divined rightly. The jury were in favour of the verdict not guilty, but some of them would have added on the ground of insanity. The interruption, although irregular, if not unprecedented, had a favourable effect upon his hearers. The quickness with which the accused had seized the point, and the steady, resolute voice in which he had spoken, told in his favour, and many who before, had they been in the jury-box, would have returned the verdict of not guilty on the ground of insanity, now doubted whether they would add the concluding words.

A quarter of an hour later the jury returned.

"We are now unanimous, my lord. We say that the prisoner at the bar is not guilty."

A sound like a sigh of relief went through the court. Then every one got up, and there was a movement to the doors. The policeman lifted the bar, and Ronald Mervyn stepped out a free man, and in a moment was surrounded by a number of his fellow officers, while some of his neighbours also pressed forward to shake him by the hand.

"I will shake hands with no man," he said, drawing back; "I will greet no man so long as this cloud hangs over me – so long as it is unproved who murdered Margaret Carne."

"You don't mean it, Mervyn; you will think better of it in a few days," one of his fellow officers said, as they emerged into the open air. "What you have gone through has been an awful trial, but now that you are proved to be innocent you will get over it."

"I am not proved to be innocent, though I am not proved to be guilty. They have given me the benefit of the doubt; but to the end of my life half the world will believe I did it. Do you think I would go through life to be pointed at as the man who murdered his cousin? I would rather blow out my brains to-night. No, you will never see me again till the verdict of guilty has been passed on the wretch who murdered my cousin. Good-bye. I know that you believe me innocent, but I will not take your hands now. When you think it over, you will see as well as I do that you couldn't have a man in the regiment against whom men as he passed would whisper 'murderer.' God bless you all." And Ronald Mervyn turned and walked rapidly away. One or two of the officers would have followed him, but the colonel stopped them.

"Leave him alone, lads, leave him alone. We should feel as he does were we in his place. Good Heavens! how he must have suffered. Still, he's right, and however much we pity him, we cannot think otherwise. At the present moment it is clear that he could not remain in the regiment."

As soon as the crowd had turned away, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the point where Ruth had been standing. Somewhat to his surprise he found her still on her feet. She was leaning back in the corner with her eyes closed, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Come, my dear," he said, putting his arm under hers, "let us be moving. Thank God it has all ended right."

"Thank God, indeed, doctor," she murmured. "I had hardly hoped it, and yet I have prayed so much that it might be so."

The doctor found that though able to stand while supported by the wall, Ruth was unable to walk. With the aid of a policeman he supported her from the court, placed her in a vehicle, and took her to an hotel.

"There, my dear," he said, when Ruth had been assisted up to a bedroom by two of the maids, "now you go to bed, and lie there till to-morrow morning. I will have a basin of strong broth sent you up presently. It's quite out of the question your thinking of going home to-night. I have several friends in the town, and am glad of the excuse to stay over the night. I will call for you at ten o'clock in the morning; the train goes at half-past ten; I will have your breakfast sent up here. I will go down to the station now. There are lots of people over here from Carnesford, and I will send a messenger back to your mother, saying that you have got through it better than I expected, but I wanted you to have a night's rest, and you will be home in the morning."

"Thank you, doctor; that is kind of you," Ruth murmured.

"Help her into bed, girls. She has been ill, and has had a very trying day. Don't ask her any questions, but just get her into bed as soon as you can."

Then the doctor went downstairs, ordered the broth and a glass of sherry for Ruth, and a bedroom for himself, and then went off to see his friends. In the morning he was surprised, when Ruth came downstairs, to see how much better she looked.

"My prescription has done you good, Ruth. I am glad to see you look wonderfully better and brighter."

"I feel so, sir. I went to sleep directly I had taken the broth and wine you sent me up, and I did not wake till they called me at half-past eight. I have not slept for an hour together for weeks. I feel as if there was such a load taken off my mind."

"Why, Ruth, you didn't know Captain Mervyn to speak to, did you, that you should feel such an interest in him?" the doctor said, looking at her sharply.

"No, sir, I have never once spoken to him that I know of."

"Then why do you care so much about his being acquitted?"

"It would have been dreadful if he had been found guilty when he was innocent all the time."

"But then no one knew he was innocent for certain," the doctor said.

"I felt sure he was innocent," Ruth replied.

"But why did you feel sure, Ruth?"

"I can't exactly say, sir, but I did feel that he was innocent."

The doctor looked puzzled, but at this moment the cab arrived at the station, and the subject was not renewed, but the doctor afterwards wondered to himself more than once whether Ruth could have any particular reason for her assurance of Ronald Mervyn's innocence.

For another ten days the Mervyn trial was the great topic of conversation throughout the country, and the verdict was canvassed with almost as much keenness and heat as the crime had been before the trial. Now that Ronald Mervyn was no longer in hazard of his life, the feeling of pity which had before told so strongly in his favour was wanting. If a man so far forgets himself as to use threat