JUDGE AND JUDGED. PRIZE TIT-BIT. (By R. G. WHETTEN, Dunedin.)

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 176, 30 October 1886, Page 8 (Supplement)

JUDGE AND JUDGED. PRIZE TIT-BIT. (By R. G. WHETTEN, Dunedin.)

£Thk following story, which appeared in the *»New Zealand Illustrated Titbits," was Awarded first prize in the recent literary competition. There were over sixty contributors.] One lingering ray of the dying sun peeped timidly in at the library window ©f Judge Martineau's country seat, smiled in the fresh young face of the girl of seventeen years, who sat there looking into the garden, and then, peering in the, sad, careworn face of the girl's father, who sat writing near the open window, grew sympathisingly softer and softer. The daughter dreamed; the father "worked — for well he knew the only rest for him just then was work, unceasing work, for troubled thought after thought was throbbing in every tissue of his brain. Tonight, a painful secret whose revelation' he had striven against for years must be revealed, and, moreover, revealed to his daughter. 'Twas a liard task, and 'twas not strange he shrank from it. Must it be told? Must he tell her all ? No escape ; the task must be done. He was too wise in experience to fight longer against the * must ' of circumstances. * 'Dora/ 'Father! 1 was the reply, and she came quickly and knelt before him. As his eyes looked into hers, he hesitated again, but again, with the energy of a brave man, he fought and conquered his hesitation. * Child; to-night I must tell you of your mother.' Then gently, but bitterly he told her of a great love thrown aside and broken— told her of the shame and misery of it all. How eagerly the poor girl listened. Though too inexperienced to understand fully all her father's pain, she gently stole her arm about his neck, and placed her pale cheek close to his bloodless face. * Father, I hate her!' and the words broke bitterly enough from her trembling lips. The words were harsh, no doubt, but then, you must remember, that she, never knowing a mother's love, but only a father's, could only sympathise with him. : ; 'No, no; not hate, but pity her. ' Heaven knows that she needs more of the last than the first. Looking back, as I do now, I see how much I was to blame. Did I not, unknowingly, throw her into an atmosphere of temptation ? When she would have drawn back from the glare and tinsel of it all, did I' not laugh at her scruples as mere childish fancies? One night, I remember it too well, Dora — your mother came to me, knelt where you are now kneeling, and begged that I might take her away. Strange, was it not, that loving her as 'i did, I answered her with a sneer ?' f Oh, father, why did you not take her away ?' * I was then an ambitious author, and to take her away then was to leave for a time the road to fame, but, fool that I was, I shut my ears and eyes. Moreover, I did not know then how sorely she was tempted. .1 suspected nothing. Only six short months after that, and I had, oh ! God, to walk through a fire of my own kindling. Only six months, and I was a husband without a wife ; you a daughter without a mother.' ' Why did mother leave you ?' was one of the questions she asked him. 1 Read that,' was his only answer, as he gave her a torn and crumpled letter. These were the sneering words she read : — MydcarMrVenn, August 4th, 1873. _-„ , , On your return home, you T?Ii 1 ? n^ Oll^ tedl5 ' reca11 the ni( ?ht at Madam R^J^s-for you will find 'the hearth, the Jiearth is ; the bright flrd quenched with S ' y0Ur wif0 lias gone Yours, in retaliation, George Gresham. ' Father, tell me more ; I do not understand,' she said, after waiting silently sometime for him to explain the letter. In answer, he told her how he had detected Dr. Gresham cheating at «carte at Madam D' Albert's. How, in of the moment, he had exJbsed his trickery, and how the other • had threatened him with retaliation. * This, Dora, was his retaliation.' s f But, father, he calls you Venn.' ' That was and isMny name and your name. I could not face the sympathy of those I knew, so leaving the old home and coming here, I changed both my name and my profession/ he replied. ' Why did you tell me this to-night?' was her next query, for intuitively she knew there was a reason. * To-night, child, for to-morrow will most likely bring you and your mother face to face.' * 'Father, what can you mean?' she cried, interrupting him. . He would have spared her, but it was better that she should ,know the worst. < ' ' 'You saw the " Times * to-night ; - you roa£ of the woman that is to be .tried, for murder to-morrow. .That '.7 r P tnan iWas m y wife Jand f your mother.' *i'A lm Jy 4 ti 16^ words -camef but -they i My mother! You 4erJ u'dge^ iW$ f she kno^mrtrSpeafcy fitheV \'<t I * V -*' f N<f/- wasj-thccbitter^reply, • twelve* vears of WofiblSi hav£ le^their^maricl?*

With the morrow came the trjal. Many and eager were the 1 faces* that looked on. There m the prisoner's box stood the woman whose life was to be fought for. Hidden by her veil, her face was no index to the thoughts and impulses throbbing within her. There on : the judge's ' bench sat him she had loved, , him she had left. How strange it "seemed to her to hear the Crown Prosecutor tell how she was supposed to have met Dr .Gresharo, the murdered man, by appointment; how she had been heard to threaten his life ; and how she had been seen to push him into the water, while lie was standing on the edge of the pier. Still stranger it seemed when witness after witness was called to establish these points against her. .Then she dreamily watched the faces of the jurymen, and at length her eyes rested on the judge, who sat with his head bent over his notes. It was then that, with an impulsive ' movement of her hand, she raised her veil, and exposed a careworn face, with a lingering memory of beauty on it still. At that moment the judge raised his head, and their eyes met. % Hi§ flinched, and his head fell again ; hers fixed, as if endeavouring to recall something forgotten. Thus she gazed for a moment or two, and then, with a trembling hand, lowered her veil, and shut out the prying faces of the onlookers. IJad she recognised him ? I think not. She scarcely listened as her own counsel fought hard for her life. Unknown to her, he had determined to plead insanity on her part, as an extenuating circumstance; and, for this purpose, he placed Caroline Marsden, the matron of a private asylum, in the witness-box. ' Mrs Marsden, when did you first meet the prisoner ?" was his first question. 'August 4th, 1873/ was the laconic answer. ' Where ?' was the still more laconic j query. ' In The Hermitage, Dr. Gresham's private asylum/ * Who brought her there ?' ' Dr. Gresham.' ' What orders did he give to you then concerning the prisoner ?' ' His injunctions were never .to leave Mrs Venn, the prisoner, out of my sight.' * When did you last see Mrs Venn V 1 Three months and five days ago — > the same night on which she made her - escape V > ,Here the judge raised his head, and : steadying his voice, asked the witness ;■ the following question : — * During the . twelve years that the prisoner was • under your charge, how often did Dr. , Gresham see her ?' r ' Twice, for it was one of my patient's . illusions that the doctor had cruelly wronged her. 7 At this point the prisoner, raising her . veil with the same impulsive movement as before, asked ' May I speak ?' I To the surprise of all who knew him l the judge hesitated a moment, and then 1 bowed his head in assent to this somewhat irregular proceeding. ' ' Sir, that Dr. Gresham wronged me is no illusion, though God knows how • often my story has been considered the [ raving of a weak mind.' Here she briefly spoke of her husband and L Dr. Gresham. Then she continued: 'On the 4th of August, 1873, I re5 ceived a telegram from my husband, asking me to come to him, as he had j met with an accident. At the station 1 at the end of my journey I was' met by Dr. Gresham, who professedly had ' come to take me to my husband. Instead of that he took me to his own home, where he spoke of a love that a [ wife's ears should never hear. Stung i by his words I cut the coward across . the face with his riding whip, that ,was lying on the table. Then he struck me, and I must have fainted. When I became conscious I found myself a prisoner : in the hands of that woman. Then it ; was that I learnt from his sneering lips how he had told my husband that I had fled with him. I need not tell you how many years I was there, how I escaped, how I met him again, how he told me that my husband and 'child were dead, and how he threatened to send me back to that woman.' Here she stopped speaking, and quietly drew down her veil. But her words had carried conviction of their truthfulness not only to the onlookers but also to the judge. One thought had taken command of his brain, and that was how to save her. He felt — he knew she was innocent, but how to make the twelve stolid jurymen understand that it was no murder, but a mere accident. , Should he speak out and, tell everything? No, for he dreaded the effect of his words on the prisoner. No, the better plan would be to, plead for l^er, not as an impartial judge should, but as a husband pleading for his wife's .life., And so he; did.; jir His words had an almost magical effect" The jury returned an open verdict of ' Not guilty,' seeing'tha't the man's death was due to , an accident. Ml * ■ ' > But the terdiet was too . much sl sur-, - prise j fort he over-strained; prisoner, arid she sank- backitirfefonscibus ift tjie box. v* Wj?^ x^ n ?5^59^s j^e!s(8fcn, 1 her 3 j. iOpening eye§v,res,te l (J pp^aiyma^e^her: think that mllhe;|ha4?w^ of dreamland

judge, for he was her husband. Soon she knew it was no dream, for the kiss, and the words, \ n1 |Vife; forgive rrie 1 for twelve years'- hard thoughts of you/ was too much unlike a dream. , .