The judge gazed around him with a vacant stare.
“I feel cold,” he said, shivering; “very
cold, very faint, too. But I’ve made all
right here,” and he held out a document.
“I wrote this paper in my room last night—in
case of accident—confessing everything.
I brought it down here, signed and witnessed, unread,
intending to read it out if the verdict went against
me—I mean, against Waring.... But
I feel too weak now to read anything further....
I’m so cold, so cold. Take the paper, Forbes-Ewing.
It’s all in your line. You’ll know
what to do with it.” He could hardly utter
a word, breath failed him so fast. “This
thing has killed me,” he went on, mumbling.
“I deserved it. I deserved it.”
“How about the prisoner?” the authority
from the gaol asked, as the judge collapsed rather
than sat down on the bench again.
Those words roused Sir Gilbert to full consciousness
once more. The judge rose again, solemnly, in
all the majesty of his ermine. “The prisoner
is discharged,” he said, in a loud, clear voice.
“I am here to do justice—justice
against myself. I enter a verdict of not guilty.”
Then he turned to the polices “I am your prisoner,”
he went on, in a broken, rambling way. “I
give myself in charge for the manslaughter of Montague
Nevitt. Manslaughter, not murder. Though
I don’t even admit myself, indeed, it was anything.
more than justifiable homicide.”
He sank back again once more, and murmured three times
in his seat, as if to himself, “Justifiable
homicide! Justifiable homicide! Just—ifiable
homicide!”
Somebody rose in court as he sank, and moved quickly
towards him. The judge recognised him at once.
“Granville Kelmscott,” he said; in a weary
voice, “help me out of this. I am very,
very ill. You’re a friend. I’m
dying. Give me your arm! Assist me!”
All’s well that ends well.
Granville helped him on his arm into the judge’s
room amid profound silence. All the court was
deeply stirred. A few personal friends hurried
after him eagerly. Among them were the Warings,
and Mrs. Clifford, and Elma.
The judge staggered to a seat, and held Granville’s
hand long and silently in his. Then his eye caught
Elma’s. He turned to her gratefully.
“Thank you, young lady,” he said, in a
very thick voice. “You were extremely good.
I forget your name. But you helped me greatly.”
There was such a pathetic ring in those significant
words, “I forget your name,” that every
eye about stood dimmed with moisture. Remorse
had clearly blotted out all else now from Sir Gilbert
Gildersleeve’s powerful brain save the solitary
memory of his great wrong-doing.
“Something’s upon his mind still,”
Elma cried, looking hard at him. “He’s
dying! he’s dying! But he wants to say something
else before he dies, I’m certain. ...
Mr. Kelmscott, it’s to you. Oh, Cyril,
stand back! Mother, leave them alone! I’m
sure from his eye he wants to say something to Mr.
Kelmscott.”
