Джон Голсуорси
Plays : Second Series
WALTER. [Dryly] We hadn't noticed that before.
JAMES. [Brushing the remark aside] I've seen lots of those fellows in my time. No doing anything with them except to keep 'em out of harm's way. They've got a blind spat.
WALTER. It's penal servitude.
COKESON. They're nahsty places-prisons.
JAMES. [Hesitating] I don't see how it's possible to spare him. Out of the question to keep him in this office—honesty's the 'sine qua non'.
COKESON. [Hypnotised] Of course it is.
JAMES. Equally out of the question to send him out amongst people who've no knowledge of his character. One must think of society.
WALTER. But to brand him like this?
JAMES. If it had been a straightforward case I'd give him another chance. It's far from that. He has dissolute habits.
COKESON. I didn't say that—extenuating circumstances.
JAMES. Same thing. He's gone to work in the most cold-blooded way to defraud his employers, and cast the blame on an innocent man. If that's not a case for the law to take its course, I don't know what is.
WALTER. For the sake of his future, though.
JAMES. [Sarcastically] According to you, no one would ever prosecute.
WALTER. [Nettled] I hate the idea of it.
COKESON. That's rather 'ex parte', Mr. Walter! We must have protection.
JAMES. This is degenerating into talk.
He moves towards the partners' room.
WALTER. Put yourself in his place, father.
JAMES. You ask too much of me.
WALTER. We can't possibly tell the pressure there was on him.
JAMES. You may depend on it, my boy, if a man is going to do this sort of thing he'll do it, pressure or no pressure; if he isn't nothing'll make him.
WALTER. He'll never do it again.
COKESON. [Fatuously] S'pose I were to have a talk with him. We don't want to be hard on the young man.
JAMES. That'll do, Cokeson. I've made up my mind. [He passes into the partners' room.]
COKESON. [After a doubtful moment] We must excuse your father. I don't want to go against your father; if he thinks it right.
WALTER. Confound it, Cokeson! why don't you back me up? You know you feel–
COKESON. [On his dignity] I really can't say what I feel.
WALTER. We shall regret it.
COKESON. He must have known what he was doing.
WALTER. [Bitterly] "The quality of mercy is not strained."
COKESON. [Looking at him askance] Come, come, Mr. Walter. We must try and see it sensible.
SWEEDLE. [Entering with a tray] Your lunch, sir.
COKESON. Put it down!
While SWEEDLE is putting it down on COKESON's table, the detective, WISTER, enters the outer office, and, finding no one there, comes to the inner doorway. He is a square, medium-sized man, clean-shaved, in a serviceable blue serge suit and strong boots.
COKESON. [Hoarsely] Here! Here! What are we doing?
WISTER. [To WALTER] From Scotland Yard, sir. Detective-Sergeant Blister.
WALTER. [Askance] Very well! I'll speak to my father.
He goes into the partners' room. JAMES enters.
JAMES. Morning! [In answer to an appealing gesture from COKESON] I'm sorry; I'd stop short of this if I felt I could. Open that door. [SWEEDLE, wondering and scared, opens it] Come here, Mr. Falder.
As FALDER comes shrinkingly out, the detective in obedience to a sign from JAMES, slips his hand out and grasps his arm.
FALDER. [Recoiling] Oh! no,—oh! no!
WALTER. Come, come, there's a good lad.
JAMES. I charge him with felony.
FALTER. Oh, sir! There's some one—I did it for her. Let me be till to-morrow.
JAMES motions with his hand. At that sign of hardness, FALDER becomes rigid. Then, turning, he goes out quietly in the detective's grip. JAMES follows, stiff and erect. SWEEDLE, rushing to the door with open mouth, pursues them through the outer office into the corridor. When they have all disappeared COKESON spins completely round and makes a rush for the outer office.
COKESON: [Hoarsely] Here! What are we doing?
There is silence. He takes out his handkerchief and mops the sweat from his face. Going back blindly to his table, sits down, and stares blankly at his lunch.
The curtain falls.
ACT II
A Court of Justice, on a foggy October afternoon crowded with barristers, solicitors, reporters, ushers, and jurymen. Sitting in the large, solid dock is FALDER, with a warder on either side of him, placed there for his safe custody, but seemingly indifferent to and unconscious of his presence. FALDER is sitting exactly opposite to the JUDGE, who, raised above the clamour of the court, also seems unconscious of and indifferent to everything. HAROLD CLEAVER, the counsel for the Crown, is a dried, yellowish man, of more than middle age, in a wig worn almost to the colour of his face. HECTOR FROME, the counsel for the defence, is a young, tall man, clean shaved, in a very white wig. Among the spectators, having already given their evidence, are JAMES and WALTER HOW, and COWLEY, the cashier. WISTER, the detective, is just leaving the witness-box.
CLEAVER. That is the case for the Crown, me lud!
Gathering his robes together, he sits down.
FROME. [Rising and bowing to the JUDGE] If it please your lordship and gentlemen of the jury. I am not going to dispute the fact that the prisoner altered this cheque, but I am going to put before you evidence as to the condition of his mind, and to submit that you would not be justified in finding that he was responsible for his actions at the time. I am going to show you, in fact, that he did this in a moment of aberration, amounting to temporary insanity, caused by the violent distress under which he was labouring. Gentlemen, the prisoner is only twenty-three years old. I shall call before you a woman from whom you will learn the events that led up to this act. You will hear from her own lips the tragic circumstances of her life, the still more tragic infatuation with which she has inspired the prisoner. This woman, gentlemen, has been leading a miserable existence with a husband who habitually ill-uses her, from whom she actually goes in terror of her life. I am not, of course, saying that it's either right or desirable for a young man to fall in love with a married woman, or that it's his business to rescue her from an ogre-like husband. I'm not saying anything of the sort. But we all know the power of the passion of love; and I would ask you to remember, gentlemen, in listening to her evidence, that, married to a drunken and violent husband, she has no power to get rid of him; for, as you know, another offence besides violence is necessary to enable a woman to obtain a divorce; and of this offence it does not appear that her husband is guilty.
JUDGE. Is this relevant, Mr. Frome?
FROME. My lord, I submit, extremely—I shall be able to show your lordship that directly.
JUDGE. Very well.
FROME. In these circumstances, what alternatives were left to her? She could either go on living with this drunkard, in terror of her life; or she could apply to the Court for a separation order. Well, gentlemen, my experience of such cases assures me that this would have given her very insufficient protection from the violence of such a man; and even if effectual would very likely have reduced her either to the workhouse or the streets—for it's not easy, as she is now finding, for an unskilled woman without means of livelihood to support herself and her children without resorting either to the Poor Law or—to speak quite plainly—to the sale of her body.
JUDGE. You are ranging rather far, Mr. Frome.
FROME. I shall fire point-blank in a minute, my lord.
JUDGE. Let us hope so.
FROME. Now, gentlemen, mark—and this is what I have been leading up to—this woman will tell you, and the prisoner will confirm her, that, confronted with such alternatives, she set her whole hopes on himself, knowing the feeling with which she had inspired him. She saw a way out of her misery by going with him to a new country, where they would both be unknown, and might pass as husband and wife. This was a desperate and, as my friend Mr. Cleaver will no doubt call it, an immoral resolution; but, as a fact, the minds of both of them were constantly turned towards it. One wrong is no excuse for another, and those who are never likely to be faced by such a situation possibly have the right to hold up their hands—as to that I prefer to say nothing. But whatever view you take, gentlemen, of this part of the prisoner's story—whatever opinion you form of the right of these two young people under such circumstances to take the law into their own hands—the fact remains that this young woman in her distress, and this young man, little more than a boy, who was so devotedly attached to her, did conceive this—if you like— reprehensible design of going away together. Now, for that, of course, they required money, and—they had none. As to the actual events of the morning of July 7th, on which this cheque was altered, the events on which I rely to prove the defendant's irresponsibility —I shall allow those events to speak for themselves, through the lips of my witness. Robert Cokeson. [He turns, looks round, takes up a sheet of paper, and waits.]
COKESON is summoned into court, and goes into the witness-box, holding his hat before him. The oath is administered to him.
FROME. What is your name?
COKESON. Robert Cokeson.
FROME. Are you managing clerk to the firm of solicitors who employ the prisoner?
COKESON. Ye-es.
FROME. How long had the prisoner been in their employ?
COKESON. Two years. No, I'm wrong there—all but seventeen days.
FROME. Had you him under your eye all that time?
COKESON. Except Sundays and holidays.
FROME. Quite so. Let us hear, please, what you have to say about his general character during those two years.
COKESON. [Confidentially to the jury, and as if a little surprised at being asked] He was a nice, pleasant-spoken young man. I'd no fault to find with him—quite the contrary. It was a great surprise to me when he did a thing like that.
FROME. Did he ever give you reason to suspect his honesty?
COKESON. No! To have dishonesty in our office, that'd never do.
FROME. I'm sure the jury fully appreciate that, Mr. Cokeson.
COKESON. Every man of business knows that honesty's 'the sign qua non'.
FROME. Do you give him a good character all round, or do you not?
COKESON. [Turning to the JUDGE] Certainly. We were all very jolly and pleasant together, until this happened. Quite upset me.
FROME. Now, coming to the morning of the 7th of July, the morning on which the cheque was altered. What have you to say about his demeanour that morning?
COKESON. [To the jury] If you ask me, I don't think he was quite compos when he did it.
THE JUDGE. [Sharply] Are you suggesting that he was insane?
COKESON. Not compos.
THE JUDGE. A little more precision, please.
FROME. [Smoothly] Just tell us, Mr. Cokeson.
COKESON. [Somewhat outraged] Well, in my opinion—[looking at the JUDGE]—such as it is—he was jumpy at the time. The jury will understand my meaning.
FROME. Will you tell us how you came to that conclusion?
COKESON. Ye-es, I will. I have my lunch in from the restaurant, a chop and a potato—saves time. That day it happened to come just as Mr. Walter How handed me the cheque. Well, I like it hot; so I went into the clerks' office and I handed the cheque to Davis, the other clerk, and told him to get change. I noticed young Falder walking up and down. I said to him: "This is not the Zoological Gardens, Falder."
FROME. Do you remember what he answered?
COKESON. Ye-es: "I wish to God it were!" Struck me as funny.
FROME. Did you notice anything else peculiar?
COKESON. I did.
FROME. What was that?
COKESON. His collar was unbuttoned. Now, I like a young man to be neat. I said to him: "Your collar's unbuttoned."
FROME. And what did he answer?
COKESON. Stared at me. It wasn't nice.
THE JUDGE. Stared at you? Isn't that a very common practice?
COKESON. Ye-es, but it was the look in his eyes. I can't explain my meaning—it was funny.
FROME. Had you ever seen such a look in his eyes before?
COKESON. No. If I had I should have spoken to the partners. We can't have anything eccentric in our profession.
THE JUDGE. Did you speak to them on that occasion?
COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, I didn't like to trouble them about prime facey evidence.
FROME. But it made a very distinct impression on your mind?
COKESON. Ye-es. The clerk Davis could have told you the same.
FROME. Quite so. It's very unfortunate that we've not got him here. Now can you tell me of the morning on which the discovery of the forgery was made? That would be the 18th. Did anything happen that morning?
COKESON. [With his hand to his ear] I'm a little deaf.
FROME. Was there anything in the course of that morning—I mean before the discovery—that caught your attention?
COKESON. Ye-es—a woman.
THE JUDGE. How is this relevant, Mr. Frome?
FROME. I am trying to establish the state of mind in which the prisoner committed this act, my lord.
THE JUDGE. I quite appreciate that. But this was long after the act.
FROME. Yes, my lord, but it contributes to my contention.
THE JUDGE. Well!
FROME. You say a woman. Do you mean that she came to the office?
COKESON. Ye-es.
FROME. What for?
COKESON. Asked to see young Falder; he was out at the moment.
FROME. Did you see her?
COKESON. I did.
FROME. Did she come alone?
COKESON. [Confidentially] Well, there you put me in a difficulty. I mustn't tell you what the office-boy told me.
FROME. Quite so, Mr. Cokeson, quite so–
COKESON. [Breaking in with an air of "You are young—leave it to me"] But I think we can get round it. In answer to a question put to her by a third party the woman said to me: "They're mine, sir."
THE JUDGE. What are? What were?
COKESON. Her children. They were outside.
THE JUDGE. HOW do you know?
COKESON. Your lordship mustn't ask me that, or I shall have to tell you what I was told—and that'd never do.
THE JUDGE. [Smiling] The office-boy made a statement.
COKESON. Egg-zactly.
FROME. What I want to ask you, Mr. Cokeson, is this. In the course of her appeal to see Falder, did the woman say anything that you specially remember?
COKESON. [Looking at him as if to encourage him to complete the sentence] A leetle more, sir.
FROME. Or did she not?
COKESON. She did. I shouldn't like you to have led me to the answer.
FROME. [With an irritated smile] Will you tell the jury what it was?
COKESON. "It's a matter of life and death."
FOREMAN OF THE JURY. Do you mean the woman said that?
COKESON. [Nodding] It's not the sort of thing you like to have said to you.
FROME. [A little impatiently] Did Falder come in while she was there? [COKESON nods] And she saw him, and went away?
COKESON. Ah! there I can't follow you. I didn't see her go.
FROME. Well, is she there now?
COKESON. [With an indulgent smile] No!
FROME. Thank you, Mr. Cokeson. [He sits down.]
CLEAVER. [Rising] You say that on the morning of the forgery the prisoner was jumpy. Well, now, sir, what precisely do you mean by that word?
COKESON. [Indulgently] I want you to understand. Have you ever seen a dog that's lost its master? He was kind of everywhere at once with his eyes.
CLEAVER. Thank you; I was coming to his eyes. You called them "funny." What are we to understand by that? Strange, or what?
COKESON. Ye-es, funny.
COKESON. [Sharply] Yes, sir, but what may be funny to you may not be funny to me, or to the jury. Did they look frightened, or shy, or fierce, or what?
COKESON. You make it very hard for me. I give you the word, and you want me to give you another.
CLEAVER. [Rapping his desk] Does "funny" mean mad?
CLEAVER. Not mad, fun–
CLEAVER. Very well! Now you say he had his collar unbuttoned? Was it a hot day?
COKESON. Ye-es; I think it was.
CLEAVER. And did he button it when you called his attention to it?
COKESON. Ye-es, I think he did.
CLEAVER. Would you say that that denoted insanity?
He sits downs. COKESON, who has opened his mouth to reply, is left gaping.
FROME. [Rising hastily] Have you ever caught him in that dishevelled state before?
COKESON. No! He was always clean and quiet.
FROME. That will do, thank you.
COKESON turns blandly to the JUDGE, as though to rebuke counsel for not remembering that the JUDGE might wish to have a chance; arriving at the conclusion that he is to be asked nothing further, he turns and descends from the box, and sits down next to JAMES and WALTER.
FROME. Ruth Honeywill.
RUTH comes into court, and takes her stand stoically in the witness-box. She is sworn.
FROME. What is your name, please?
RUTH. Ruth Honeywill.
FROME. How old are you?
RUTH. Twenty-six.
FROME. You are a married woman, living with your husband? A little louder.
RUTH. No, sir; not since July.
FROME. Have you any children?
RUTH. Yes, sir, two.
FROME. Are they living with you?
RUTH. Yes, sir.
FROME. You know the prisoner?
RUTH. [Looking at him] Yes.
FROME. What was the nature of your relations with him?
RUTH. We were friends.
THE JUDGE. Friends?
RUTH. [Simply] Lovers, sir.
THE JUDGE. [Sharply] In what sense do you use that word?
RUTH. We love each other.
THE JUDGE. Yes, but–
RUTH. [Shaking her head] No, your lordship—not yet.
THE JUDGE. 'Not yet! H'm! [He looks from RUTH to FALDER] Well!
FROME. What is your husband?
RUTH. Traveller.
FROME. And what was the nature of your married life?
RUTH. [Shaking her head] It don't bear talking about.
FROME. Did he ill-treat you, or what?
RUTH. Ever since my first was born.
FROME. In what way?
RUTH. I'd rather not say. All sorts of ways.
THE JUDGE. I am afraid I must stop this, you know.
RUTH. [Pointing to FALDER] He offered to take me out of it, sir. We were going to South America.
FROME. [Hastily] Yes, quite—and what prevented you?
RUTH. I was outside his office when he was taken away. It nearly broke my heart.
FROME. You knew, then, that he had been arrested?
RUTH. Yes, sir. I called at his office afterwards, and [pointing to COKESON] that gentleman told me all about it.
FROME. Now, do you remember the morning of Friday, July 7th?
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. Why?
RUTH. My husband nearly strangled me that morning.
THE JUDGE. Nearly strangled you!
RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes, my lord.
FROME. With his hands, or–?
RUTH. Yes, I just managed to get away from him. I went straight to my friend. It was eight o'clock.
THE JUDGE. In the morning? Your husband was not under the influence of liquor then?
RUTH. It wasn't always that.
FROME. In what condition were you?
RUTH. In very bad condition, sir. My dress was torn, and I was half choking.
FROME. Did you tell your friend what had happened?
RUTH. Yes. I wish I never had.
FROME. It upset him?
RUTH. Dreadfully.
FROME. Did he ever speak to you about a cheque?
RUTH. Never.
FROZE. Did he ever give you any money?
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. When was that?
RUTH. On Saturday.
FROME. The 8th?
RUTH. To buy an outfit for me and the children, and get all ready to start.
FROME. Did that surprise you, or not?
RUTH. What, sir?
FROME. That he had money to give you.
Ring. Yes, because on the morning when my husband nearly killed me my friend cried because he hadn't the money to get me away. He told me afterwards he'd come into a windfall.
FROME. And when did you last see him?
RUTH. The day he was taken away, sir. It was the day we were to have started.
FROME. Oh, yes, the morning of the arrest. Well, did you see him at all between the Friday and that morning? [RUTH nods] What was his manner then?
RUTH. Dumb—like—sometimes he didn't seem able to say a word.
FROME. As if something unusual had happened to him?
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. Painful, or pleasant, or what?
RUTH. Like a fate hanging over him.
FROME. [Hesitating] Tell me, did you love the prisoner very much?
RUTH. [Bowing her head] Yes.
FROME. And had he a very great affection for you?
RUTH. [Looking at FALDER] Yes, sir.
FROME. Now, ma'am, do you or do you not think that your danger and unhappiness would seriously affect his balance, his control over his actions?
RUTH. Yes.
FROME. His reason, even?
RUTH. For a moment like, I think it would.
FROME. Was he very much upset that Friday morning, or was he fairly calm?
RUTH. Dreadfully upset. I could hardly bear to let him go from me.
FROME. Do you still love him?
RUTH. [With her eyes on FALDER] He's ruined himself for me.
FROME. Thank you.
He sits down. RUTH remains stoically upright in the witness-box.
CLEAVER. [In a considerate voice] When you left him on the morning of Friday the 7th you would not say that he was out of his mind, I suppose?
RUTH. No, sir.
CLEAVER. Thank you; I've no further questions to ask you.
RUTH. [Bending a little forward to the jury] I would have done the same for him; I would indeed.
THE JUDGE. Please, please! You say your married life is an unhappy one? Faults on both sides?
RUTH. Only that I never bowed down to him. I don't see why I should, sir, not to a man like that.
THE JUDGE. You refused to obey him?
RUTH. [Avoiding the question] I've always studied him to keep things nice.
THE JUDGE. Until you met the prisoner—was that it?
RUTH. No; even after that.
THE JUDGE. I ask, you know, because you seem to me to glory in this affection of yours for the prisoner.
RUTH. [Hesitating] I—I do. It's the only thing in my life now.
THE JUDGE. [Staring at her hard] Well, step down, please.
RUTH looks at FALDER, then passes quietly down and takes her seat among the witnesses.
FROME. I call the prisoner, my lord.
FALDER leaves the dock; goes into the witness-box, and is duly sworn.
FROME. What is your name?
FALDER. William Falder.
FROME. And age?
FALDER. Twenty-three.
FROME. You are not married?
FALDER shakes his head
FROME. How long have you known the last witness?
FALDER. Six months.
FROME. Is her account of the relationship between you a correct one?
FALDER. Yes.
FROME. You became devotedly attached to her, however?
FALDER. Yes.
THE JUDGE. Though you knew she was a married woman?
FALDER. I couldn't help it, your lordship.
THE JUDGE. Couldn't help it?
FALDER. I didn't seem able to.
The JUDGE slightly shrugs his shoulders.
FROME. How did you come to know her?
FALDER. Through my married sister.
FROME. Did you know whether she was happy with her husband?
FALDER. It was trouble all the time.
FROME. You knew her husband?
FALDER. Only through her—he's a brute.
THE JUDGE. I can't allow indiscriminate abuse of a person not present.
FROME. [Bowing] If your lordship pleases. [To FALDER] You admit altering this cheque?
FALDER bows his head.
FROME. Carry your mind, please, to the morning of Friday, July the 7th, and tell the jury what happened.
FALDER. [Turning to the jury] I was having my breakfast when she came. Her dress was all torn, and she was gasping and couldn't seem to get her breath at all; there were the marks of his fingers round her throat; her arm was bruised, and the blood had got into her eyes dreadfully. It frightened me, and then when she told me, I felt—I felt—well—it was too much for me! [Hardening suddenly] If you'd seen it, having the feelings for her that I had, you'd have felt the same, I know.
FROME. Yes?
FALDER. When she left me—because I had to go to the office—I was out of my senses for fear that he'd do it again, and thinking what I could do. I couldn't work—all the morning I was like that—simply couldn't fix my mind on anything. I couldn't think at all. I seemed to have to keep moving. When Davis—the other clerk—gave me the cheque—he said: "It'll do you good, Will, to have a run with this. You seem half off your chump this morning." Then when I had it in my hand—I don't know how it came, but it just flashed across me that if I put the 'ty' and the nought there would be the money to get her away. It just came and went—I never thought of it again. Then Davis went out to his luncheon, and I don't really remember what I did till I'd pushed the cheque through to the cashier under the rail. I remember his saying "Gold or notes?" Then I suppose I knew what I'd done. Anyway, when I got outside I wanted to chuck myself under a bus; I wanted to throw the money away; but it seemed I was in for it, so I thought at any rate I'd save her. Of course the tickets I took for the passage and the little I gave her's been wasted, and all, except what I was obliged to spend myself, I've restored. I keep thinking over and over however it was I came to do it, and how I can't have it all again to do differently!
FALDER is silent, twisting his hands before him.
FROME. How far is it from your office to the bank?
FALDER. Not more than fifty yards, sir.
FROME. From the time Davis went out to lunch to the time you cashed the cheque, how long do you say it must have been?
FALDER. It couldn't have been four minutes, sir, because I ran all the way.
FROME. During those four minutes you say you remember nothing?
FALDER. No, sir; only that I ran.
FROME. Not even adding the 'ty' and the nought?'
FALDER. No, sir. I don't really.
FROME sits down, and CLEAVER rises.
CLEAVER. But you remember running, do you?
FALDER. I was all out of breath when I got to the bank.
CLEAVER. And you don't remember altering the cheque?
FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir.
CLEAVER. Divested of the romantic glamour which my friend is casting over the case, is this anything but an ordinary forgery? Come.
FALDER. I was half frantic all that morning, sir.
CLEAVER. Now, now! You don't deny that the 'ty' and the nought were so like the rest of the handwriting as to thoroughly deceive the cashier?
FALDER. It was an accident.
CLEAVER. [Cheerfully] Queer sort of accident, wasn't it? On which day did you alter the counterfoil?
FALDER. [Hanging his head] On the Wednesday morning.
CLEAVER. Was that an accident too?
FALDER. [Faintly] No.
CLEAVER. To do that you had to watch your opportunity, I suppose?
FALDER. [Almost inaudibly] Yes.
CLEAVER. You don't suggest that you were suffering under great excitement when you did that?
FALDER. I was haunted.
CLEAVER. With the fear of being found out?
FALDER. [Very low] Yes.
THE JUDGE. Didn't it occur to you that the only thing for you to do was to confess to your employers, and restore the money?
FALDER. I was afraid. [There is silence]
CLEAVER. You desired, too, no doubt, to complete your design of taking this woman away?
FALDER. When I found I'd done a thing like that, to do it for nothing seemed so dreadful. I might just as well have chucked myself into the river.
CLEAVER. You knew that the clerk Davis was about to leave England —didn't it occur to you when you altered this cheque that suspicion would fall on him?
FALDER. It was all done in a moment. I thought of it afterwards.
CLEAVER. And that didn't lead you to avow what you'd done?
FALDER. [Sullenly] I meant to write when I got out there—I would have repaid the money.
THE JUDGE. But in the meantime your innocent fellow clerk might have been prosecuted.
FALDER. I knew he was a long way off, your lordship. I thought there'd be time. I didn't think they'd find it out so soon.
FROME. I might remind your lordship that as Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book in his pocket till after Davis had sailed, if the discovery had been made only one day later Falder himself would have left, and suspicion would have attached to him, and not to Davis, from the beginning.
THE JUDGE. The question is whether the prisoner knew that suspicion would light on himself, and not on Davis. [To FALDER sharply] Did you know that Mr. Walter How had the cheque-book till after Davis had sailed?
FALDER. I—I—thought—he–
THE JUDGE. Now speak the truth-yes or no!
FALDER. [Very low] No, my lord. I had no means of knowing.
THE JUDGE. That disposes of your point, Mr. Frome.
[FROME bows to the JUDGE]
CLEAVER. Has any aberration of this nature ever attacked you before?
FALDER. [Faintly] No, sir.
CLEAVER. You had recovered sufficiently to go back to your work that afternoon?
FALDER. Yes, I had to take the money back.
CLEAVER. You mean the nine pounds. Your wits were sufficiently keen for you to remember that? And you still persist in saying you don't remember altering this cheque. [He sits down]
FALDER. If I hadn't been mad I should never have had the courage.
FROME. [Rising] Did you have your lunch before going back?
FALDER. I never ate a thing all day; and at night I couldn't sleep.
FROME. Now, as to the four minutes that elapsed between Davis's going out and your cashing the cheque: do you say that you recollect nothing during those four minutes?
FALDER. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson's face.
FROME. Of Mr. Cokeson's face! Had that any connection with what you were doing?
FALDER. No, Sir.
FROME. Was that in the office, before you ran out?
FALDER. Yes, and while I was running.
FROME. And that lasted till the cashier said: "Will you have gold or notes?"
FALDER. Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself—and it was too late.
FROME. Thank you. That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord.
The JUDGE nods, and FALDER goes back to his seat in the dock.
FROME. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship—Gentlemen of the Jury,—My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness. My friend has alluded to the "romantic glamour" with which I have sought to invest this case. Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind. I have merely shown you the background of "life"—that palpitating life which, believe me—whatever my friend may say—always lies behind the commission of a crime. Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter. But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love—what then? Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner's age; and then look at him. Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached. Yes, gentlemen, look at him! He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face. He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions. You have heard the description of his eyes. My friend may laugh at the word "funny"—I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used. I don't pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility—was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal intent and treated as a patient. I admit that this is a plea which might well be abused. It is a matter for discretion. But here you have a case in which there is every reason to give the benefit of the doubt. You heard me ask the prisoner what he thought of during those four fatal minutes. What was his answer? "I thought of Mr. Cokeson's face!" Gentlemen, no man could invent an answer like that; it is absolutely stamped with truth. You have seen the great affection [legitimate or not] existing between him and this woman, who came here to give evidence for him at the risk of her life. It is impossible for you to doubt his distress on the morning when he committed this act. We well know what terrible havoc such distress can make in weak and highly nervous people. It was all the work of a moment. The rest has followed, as death follows a stab to the heart, or water drops if you hold up a jug to empty it. Believe me, gentlemen, there is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done. Once this cheque was altered and presented, the work of four minutes—four mad minutes —the rest has been silence. But in those four minutes the boy before you has slipped through a door, hardly opened, into that great cage which never again quite lets a man go—the cage of the Law. His further acts, his failure to confess, the alteration of the counterfoil, his preparations for flight, are all evidence—not of deliberate and guilty intention when he committed the prime act from which these subsequent acts arose; no—they are merely evidence of the weak character which is clearly enough his misfortune. But is a man to be lost because he is bred and born with a weak character? Gentlemen, men like the prisoner are destroyed daily under our law for want of that human insight which sees them as they are, patients, and not criminals. If the prisoner be found guilty, and treated as though he were a criminal type, he will, as all experience shows, in all probability become one. I beg you not to return a verdict that may thrust him back into prison and brand him for ever. Gentlemen, Justice is a machine that, when some one has once given it the starting push, rolls on of itself. Is this young man to be ground to pieces under this machine for an act which at the worst was one of weakness? Is he to become a member of the luckless crews that man those dark, ill-starred ships called prisons? Is that to be his voyage-from which so few return? Or is he to have another chance, to be still looked on as one who has gone a little astray, but who will come back? I urge you, gentlemen, do not ruin this young man! For, as a result of those four minutes, ruin, utter and irretrievable, stares him in the face. He can be saved now. Imprison him as a criminal, and I affirm to you that he will be lost. He has neither the face nor the manner of one who can survive that terrible ordeal. Weigh in the scales his criminality and the suffering he has undergone. The latter is ten times heavier already. He has lain in prison under this charge for more than two months. Is he likely ever to forget that? Imagine the anguish of his mind during that time. He has had his punishment, gentlemen, you may depend. The rolling of the chariot-wheels of Justice over this boy began when it was decided to prosecute him. We are now already at the second stage. If you permit it to go on to the third I would not give—that for him.