There are who, living by the legal pen, Are held in honour--honourable men. CRABBE. At five minutes before two, Job Legh stood upon the door-step of the house where Mr Bridgenorth lodged at Assize time. He had left Mrs Wilson at the dwelling of a friend of his, who had offered him a room for the old woman and Mary: a room which had frequently been his, on his occasional visits to Liverpool, but which he was thankful now to have obtained for them, as his own sleeping place was a matter of indifference to him, and the town appeared crowded and disorderly on the eve of the Assizes. He was shown in to Mr Bridgenorth who was writing Mary and Will Wilson had not arrived, being, as you know, far away on the broad sea; but of course, of this Job knew nothing, and he did not as yet feel much anxiety about their non-appearance; he was more curious to know the result of Mr Bridgenorth's interview that morning with Jem. "Why, yes," said Mr Bridgenorth, putting down his pen, "I have seen him, but to little purpose, I'm afraid. He's very impracticable--very. I told him, of course, that he must be perfectly open with me, or else I could not be prepared for the weak points. I named your name with the view of unlocking his confidence, but----" "What did he say?" asked Job, breathlessly. "Why, very little. He barely answered me. Indeed, he refused to answer some questions--positively refused. I don't know what I can do for him." "Then you think him guilty, sir," said Job, despondingly. "No, I don't," replied Mr Bridgenorth, quickly and decisively. "Much less than I did before I saw him. The impression (mind, 'tis only impression;
I rely upon your caution, not to take it for fact)--the impression," with an emphasis on the word, "he gave we is, that he knows something about the affair, but what, he will not say; and so, the chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy, he'll be hung. That's all." He began to write again, for he had no time to lose. "But he must not be hung," said Job, with vehemence. Mr Bridgenorth looked up, smiled a little, but shook his head. "What did he say, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?" continued Job. "His words were few enough, and he was so reserved and short, that, as I said before, I can only give you the impression they conveyed to me.
I told him, of course, who I was, and for what I was sent. He looked pleased, I thought,--at least his face (sad enough when I went in, I assure ye) brightened a little; but he said he had nothing to say, no defence to make.
I asked him if he was guilty, then; and, by way of opening his heart, I said I understood he had had provocation enough, inasmuch as I heard that the girl was very lovely, and had jilted him to fall desperately in love with that handsome young Carson (poor fellow!). But James Wilson did not speak one way or another. I then went to particulars. I asked him if the gun was his, as his mother had declared. He had not heard of her admission, it was evident, from his quick way of looking up, and the glance of his eye; but when he saw I was observing him, he hung down his head again, and merely said she was right; it was his gun." "Well!" said Job, impatiently, as Mr Bridgenorth paused. "Nay! I have little more to tell you," continued that gentleman. 'I asked him to inform me, in all confidence, how it came to be found there. He was silent for a time, and then refused. Not only refused to answer that question, but candidly told me he would not say another word on the subject, and, thanking me for my trouble and interest in his behalf, he all but dismissed me. Ungracious enough on the whole, was it not, Mr Legh? And yet, I assure ye, I am twenty times more inclined to think him innocent than before I had the interview." "I wish Mary Barton would come," said Job, anxiously. "She and Will are a long time about it." "Aye, that's our only chance, I believe," answered Mr Bridgenorth, who was writing again. "I sent Johnson off before twelve to serve him with his subpoena, and to say I wanted to speak with him; he'll be here soon, I've no doubt." There was a pause. Mr Bridgenorth looked up again, and spoke. "Mr Duncombe promised to be here to speak to his character. I sent him a subpoena on Saturday night. Though, after all, juries go very little by such general and vague testimony as that to character. It is very right that they should not often; but in this instance I unfortunate for us, as we must rest our case on the alibi ." The pen went again, scratch, scratch over the paper. Job grew very fidgety. He sat on the edge of his chair, the more readily to start up when Will and Mary should appear. He listened intently to every noise and every step on the stair. Once he heard a man's footstep, and his old heart gave a leap of delight.
