examined the patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The
story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had
described it to be—perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly.
Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have
modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged gentleman with
the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to
ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite,
still looking at the ceiling of the court.
Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base
insinuation. What did he live upon? His property. Where was his
property? He didn’t precisely remember where it was. What was
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it? No business of anybody’s. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had.
From whom? Distant relatives. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in
prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtor’s prison? Didn’t see what
that had to do with it. Never in a debtor’s prison?—Come, once
again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five
or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been
kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked
downstairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of the
staircase and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that
occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was said by
the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not true.
Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at play?
Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever
borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not
this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced
upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw
the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the
lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular
government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to
do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and again. No motives
but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever.
The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the
case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in
good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the
prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow,
and the prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner
to take the handy fellow as an act of charity—never thought of
such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to
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keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes,
while travelling, he had seen similar lists in the prisoner’s pockets,
over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of
the prisoner’s desk. He had not put them there first. He had seen
the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at
Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn’t bear it, and had
given information. He had never been suspected of stealing a
silver teapot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but
it turned out to be only a plated one. He had known the last
witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence. He
didn’t call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences
were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true
patriotism was his only motive too. He was a true Briton, and
hoped there were many like him.
The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called
Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson’s Bank?
“I am.”
“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven
hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel
between London and Dover by the mail?”
“It did.”
“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”
“Two.”
“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
“They did.”
“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two
passengers?”
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“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”
“Does he resemble either of those two passengers?”
“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we
were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”
“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him
wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything in his
bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
“No.”
“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”
“No.”
“So at least you say that he may have been one of them?”
“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been—like
myself—timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a
timorous air.”
“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”
“I certainly have seen that.”
“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen
him, to your certain knowledge, before?”
“I have.”
“When?”
“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at
Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I
returned, and made the voyage with me.”
“At what hour did he come on board?”
“At a little after midnight.”
“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came
on board at that untimely hour?”
“He happened to be the only one.”
“Never mind about ‘happening’, Mr. Lorry. He was the only
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passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?”
“He was.”
“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any
companion?”
“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”
“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long
and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
“Miss Manette!”
The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and
were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father
rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his arm.
“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”
To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and
beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted
with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge
of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for
the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried right
hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of
flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady his
breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his
heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on
the same occasion.”
“You are the young lady just now referred to?”
“O! most unhappily, I am!”
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The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less
musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer
the questions put to you, and make no remark upon them.”
“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on
that passage across the Channel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Recall it.”
In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When
the gentleman came on board—”
“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his
brows.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Then say the prisoner.”
“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,”
turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was
much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. My father was so
reduced that I was afraid to take him out of the air, and I had
made a bed for him on the deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on
the deck at his side to take care of him. There were no other
passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good as to
beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from
the wind and weather, better than I had done. I had not known
how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would set when
we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great
gentleness and kindness for my father’s state, and I am sure he felt
it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”
“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board
alone?”
“No.”
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“How many were with him?”
“Two French gentlemen.”
“Had they conferred together?”
“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it
was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their
boat.”
“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to
these lists?”
“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don’t
know what papers.”
“Like these in shape and size?”
“Possibly, but indeed I don’t know, although they stood
whispering very near to me: because they stood at the top of the
cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging there; it
was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not hear what
they said, and saw only that they looked at papers.”
“Now, to the prisoner’s conversation, Miss Manette.”
“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me—which
arose out of my helpless situation—as he was kind, and good, and
useful to my father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay
him by doing him harm today.”
Buzzing from the blue-flies.
“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand
that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give—which you
must give—and which you cannot escape from giving—with great
unwillingness, he is the only person present in that condition.
Please to go on.”
“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he
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was therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this
business had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might,
at intervals, take him backwards and forwards between France
and England for a long time to come.”
“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be
particular.”
“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he
said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one
on England’s part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps
George Washington might gain almost as great a name in history
as George the Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying
this: it was said laughingly, and to beguile the time.”
Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief
actor in a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed,
will be unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was
painfully anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the
pauses when she stopped for the judge to write it down, watched
its effect upon the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on
there was the same expression in all quarters of the court;
insomuch, that a great majority of the foreheads there, might have
been mirrors reflecting the witness, when the Judge looked up
from his notes to glare at that tremendous heresy about George
Washington.
Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed
it necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young
lady’s father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen
him before?”
“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three
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years, or three years and a half ago.”
“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the
packet, or speak to his conversation with your daughter?”
“Sir, I can do neither.”
“Is there any particular and special reason for your being
unable to do either?”
He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”
“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment,
without trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor
Manette?”
He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long
imprisonment.”
“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”
“They tell me so.”
“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”
“None. My mind is a blank, from some time—I cannot even say
what time—when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making
shoes, to the time when I found myself living in London with my
dear daughter here. She had become familiar to me, when a
gracious God restored my faculties; but, I am unable to say how
she had become familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”
Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat
down together.
A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in
hand being to show that the prisoner went down, with some
fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on that Friday night in
November five years ago, and got out of the mail in the night, as a
blind, at a place where he did not remain, but from which he
travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a garrison and
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dockyard, and there collected information; a witness was called to
identify him as having been at the precise time required, in the
coffee-room of an hotel, in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
waiting for another person. The prisoner’s counsel was cross-
examining this witness with no result, except that he had never
seen the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged
