gentleman who had all this time been looking at the ceiling of the
court, wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed it up,
and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the next pause,
the counsel looked with great attention and curiosity at the
prisoner.
“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”
The witness was quite sure.
“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”
Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,”
pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look
well upon the prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each
other?”
Allowing for my learned friend’s appearance being careless and
slovenly if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to
surprise, not only the witness, but everybody present, when they
were thus brought into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid
my learned friend lay aside his wig, and giving no very gracious
consent, the likeness became much more remarkable. My Lord
inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner’s counsel), whether they
were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for
treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would
ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
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happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had
seen this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be
so confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was,
to smash this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of
the case to useless lumber.
Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend
while Mr. Stryver fitted the prisoner’s case on the jury, like a
compact suit of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad,
was a hired spy and traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and
one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas—
which he certainly did look rather like. How the virtuous servant,
Cly, was his friend and partner, and was worthy to be; how, the
watchful eyes of those forgers and false swearers had rested on the
prisoner as a victim, because some family affairs in France, he
being of French extraction, did require him making those
passages across the Channel—though what those affairs were, a
consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade
him, even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been
warped and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving
it they had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little
innocent gallantries and politeness likely to pass between any
young gentleman and young lady so thrown together;—with the
exception of that reference to George Washington, which was
altogether too extravagant and impossible to be regarded in any
other light than as a monstrous joke. How it would be a weakness
in the government to break down in this attempt to practise for
popularity on the lowest national antipathies and fears, and
therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it; how,
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nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of
which the State Trials of this country were full. But, there my
Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had not been true),
saying that he could not sit upon that Bench and suffer those
allusions.
Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher
had next to attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole
suit of clothes Mr. Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out:
showing how Barsad and Cly were even a hundred times better
than he had thought them, and the prisoner a hundred times
worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the suit of clothes,
now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole decidedly
trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies
swarmed again.
Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the
court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this
excitement. While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his
papers before him, whispered with those who sat near, and from
time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators
moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even my
Lord himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and down
his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the
audience that his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning
back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as
it happened to light on his head after its removal, his hands in his
pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all day.
Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave
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him a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance
he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary
earnestness, when they were compared together, had
strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him
now, said to one another they would hardly have thought the two
were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next
neighbour, and added, “I’d hold a half a guinea that he don’t get no
law-work to do. Don’t look like the sort of one to get any, do he?”
Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene
than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette’s head
dropped upon her father’s breast, he was the first to see it, and to
say audibly: “Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman
to take her out. Don’t you see she will fall!”
There was much commiseration for her as she was removed,
and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great
distress to him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He
had shown strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and
that pondering or brooding look which made him old, had been
upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since. As he passed out, the
jury, who had turned back and paused a moment, spoke, through
their foreman.
They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps
with George Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that
they were not agreed, but signified his pleasure that they should
retire under watch and ward, and retired himself. The trial had
lasted all day, and the lamps in the court were now being lighted.
It began to be rumoured that the jury would be out a long while.
The spectators dropped off to get refreshment, and the prisoner
withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat down.
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Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her
father went out, now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in
the slackened interest, could easily get near him.
“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep
in the way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don’t
be a moment behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back
to the bank. You are the quickest messenger I know, and you will
get to Temple Bar long before I can.”
Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it
in acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr.
Carton came up at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the
arm.
“How is the young lady?”
“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and
she feels the better for being out of court.”
“I’ll tell the prisoner so. It won’t do for a respectable bank
gentleman like you to be seen speaking to him publicly, you
know.”
Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated
the point in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside
of the bar. The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry
followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes.
“Mr. Darnay!”
The prisoner came forward directly.
“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss
Manette. She will do very well. You have seen the worst of her
agitation.”
“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell
her so for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”
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“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”
Mr. Carton’s manner was so careless as to be almost insolent.
He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow
against the bar.
“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”
“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you
expect, Mr. Darnay?”
“The worst.”
“It’s the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think
their withdrawing is in your favour.”
Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry
heard no more: but left them—so like each other in feature, so
unlike each other in manner—standing side by side, both reflected
in the glass above them.
An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal
crowded passages below, even though assisted off with mutton
pies and ale. The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a
form after taking that refection, had dropped into a doze, when a
loud murmur and a rapid tide of people setting up the stairs that
led to the court, carried him along with them.
“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when
he got there.
“Here, sir! It’s a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”
Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick!
Have you got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”
“If you had sent the message, ‘Recalled to Life,’ again,”
muttered Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you
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meant, this time.”
He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking,
anything else, until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd
came pouring out with a vehemence that nearly took him off his
legs, and a loud buzz swept into the street as if the baffled blue-
flies were dispersing in search of other carrion.
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Chapter X
CONGRATULATORY
F rom the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last
sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all
day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie
Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and
its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles
Darnay—just released—congratulating him on his escape from
death.
It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognize
in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at
him twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of
observation had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low
grave voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully,
without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a
reference to his long lingering agony, would always—as on the
trial—evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also
in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as
incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they
had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a
summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away.
Only his daughter had the power of charming this black
brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united
him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his
misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch
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of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost
always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions
on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and
she believed them over.
Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and
had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver,
a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older
than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of
delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and
physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for
his shouldering his way up in life.
He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself
at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr.
Lorry clean out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off
with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly
infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account.”
“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life—in two
senses,” said his late client, taking his hand.
“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as
good as another man’s, I believe.”
It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,”
Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the
interested object of squeezing himself back again.
“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present
all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”
“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in
the law had now shouldered back into the group, just as he had
previously shouldered him out of it—“as such I will appeal to
Doctor Manette, to break up this conference and order us all to
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our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day,
