Chapter 2

The
relationship between father and daughter had become cold and distant.
Quarrels were constant in the unhappy home. Often in the midst of
her passion she was heard to mutter deep curses against the old man.
Indeed, so banished was her love that she talked without emotion to the
servants of the likelihood of his death, in fulfilment of the witch’s
prophecy.

Some weeks later, when another consignment of the mysterious ‘Scotch
pebbles’ had arrived for Miss Blandy, it was noticed that her conduct
became still more dark and strange. Slinking through the house with
slow and stealthy tread, she appeared to shun all eyes, as though bent
upon some hidden purpose. A glance within the box from the North would
have revealed the secret. When the crafty accomplice found that she was
unable to procure the means of taking her father’s life, he had been
forced to supply her with the weapons. During the spring, the health
of the old lawyer, who suffered more or less from chronic ailments,
began to grow more feeble. His garments hung loosely upon his shrunken
limbs, while the teeth dropped from his palsied jaws. The old witch’s
curse seemed to have fallen upon the home, and, to those who looked
with apprehension for every sign and portent, it was fulfilled in many
direful ways. Early in June, Ann Emmet, an old charwoman employed
about the house, was seized with a violent illness after drinking from
a half-emptied cup left at Mr Blandy’s breakfast. A little later,
Susan Gunnel, one of the maid-servants, was affected in a similar way
through taking some tea prepared for her master. One August morning,
in the secrecy of her own chamber, trembling at every footfall beyond
the locked door, Mary Blandy gazed with eager, awestruck eyes upon a
message sent by her lover.

“I am sorry there are such occasions to clean your pebbles,” wrote the
murderous little Scotsman. “You must make use of the powder to them, by
putting it into anything of substance, wherein it will not swim a-top
of the water, of which I wrote to you in one of my last. I am afraid it
will be too weak to take off their rust, or at least it will take too
long a time.”

From the language of metaphor it is easy to translate the ghastly
meaning. She must have told Cranstoun that the white arsenic, which he
had sent to her under the pseudonym of ‘powder to clean the pebbles,’
remained floating on the surface of the tea. Possibly her father had
noticed this phenomenon, and, not caring to drink the liquid, had
escaped the painful sickness which had attacked the less cautious
servants. But now she had found a remedy--‘anything of substance!’--a
safe and sure vehicle that could not fail. Louder still in the ears of
the lost woman rang the mocking words, “When the old man is dead you
shall be happy.”

During the forenoon of Monday, the 5th of August, Susan Gunnel, the
maid, met her young mistress coming from the pantry.

“Oh, Susan,” she exclaimed, “I have been stirring my papa’s water
gruel”; and then, perceiving other servants through the half-open door
of the laundry, she added gaily, “If I was ever to take to eating
anything in particular it would be oatmeal.”

No response came from the discreet Susan, but she marvelled, calling to
mind that Miss Blandy had said to her some time previously, noticing
that she appeared unwell:

“Have you been eating any water gruel? for I am told that water gruel
hurts me, and it may hurt you.”

Later in the day, her wonder was increased when she saw her mistress
stirring the gruel in a half-pint mug, putting her fingers into the
spoon, and then rubbing them together. In the evening the same mug
was taken as usual to the old man’s bedroom. On Tuesday night Miss
Blandy sent down in haste to order gruel for her father, who had been
indisposed all day, and such was her solicitude that she met the
footman on the stairs, and taking the basin from his hands, carried
it herself into the parlour. Early the next morning, while Ann Emmet,
the old charwoman, was busy at her wash-tub, Susan Gunnel came from
upstairs.

“Dame,” she observed, “you used to be fond of water gruel. Here is a
very fine mess my master left last night, and I believe it will do you
good.”

Sitting down upon a bench, this most unfortunate old lady proceeded to
consume the contents of the basin, and for a second time was seized
with a strange and violent illness. Soon afterwards Miss Blandy came
into the kitchen.

“Susan, as your master has taken physic, he may want some more water
gruel,” said she. “As there is some in the house you need not make
fresh, for you are ironing.”

“Madam, it will be stale,” replied the servant. “It will not hinder me
much to make fresh.”

A little later, while tasting the stuff, Susan noticed a white sediment
at the bottom of the pan. Greatly excited, she ran to show Betty
Binfield, the cook, who bore no good-will towards her young mistress.

“What oatmeal is this?” asked Betty, significantly. “It looks like
flour.”

“I have never seen oatmeal as white before,” said the maid.

Carefully and thoroughly the suspicious servants examined the contents
of the saucepan, taking it out of doors to view it in the light. And
while they looked at the white gritty sediment they told each other in
low whispers that this must be poison. Locking up the pan, they showed
it next day to the local apothecary, who, as usual in those times, was
the sick man’s medical attendant.

Nothing occurred to alarm the guilty woman until Saturday. On that
morning, in the homely fashion of middle-class manners, the lawyer, who
wanted to shave, came into the kitchen, where hot water and a good fire
were ready for him. Accustomed to his habits, the servants went about
their work as usual. Some trouble seemed to be preying upon his mind.

“I was like to have been poisoned once,” piped the feeble old man,
turning his bloodshot eyes upon his daughter, who was in the room.

“It was on this same day, the tenth of August,” he continued, in his
weak, trembling voice, for his frame had become shattered during the
last week. “It was at the coffee-house or at the Lyon, and two other
gentlemen were like to have been poisoned by what they drank.”

“Sir, I remember it very well,” replied the imperturbable woman, and
then fell to arguing with her querulous father at which tavern the
adventure had taken place.

“One of the gentlemen died immediately,” he resumed, looking at her
with a long, reproachful glance. “The other is dead now, and I have
survived them both. But”--his piteous gaze grew more intense--“it is my
fortune to be poisoned at last.”

A similar ordeal took place in a little while. At breakfast Mr Blandy
seemed in great pain, making many complaints. As he sipped his tea, he
declared that it had a gritty, bad taste, and would not drink it.

“Have you not put too much of the black stuff into it?” he demanded
suddenly of his daughter, referring to the canister of Bohea.

This time she was unable to meet his searching eyes.

“It is as usual,” she stammered in confusion.

A moment later she rose, trembling and distressed, and hurriedly left
the room.

There was reason for the old man’s suspicion. Before he had risen from
his bed, the faithful Susan Gunnel told him of the discovery in the pan
of water gruel, and both agreed that the mysterious powder had been
sent by Cranstoun. Yet, beyond what he had said at breakfast, and in
the kitchen, he questioned his daughter no more! Still, although no
direct charge had been made, alarmed by her father’s hints she hastened
to destroy all evidence that could be used against her. During the
afternoon, stealing into the kitchen under pretence of drying a letter
before the fire, she crushed a paper among the coals. As soon as she
was gone the watchful spies--servants Gunnel and Binfield--snatched it
away before it had been destroyed by the flames. This paper contained a
white substance, and on it was written ‘powder to clean the pebbles.’
Towards evening famous Dr Addington arrived from Reading, summoned by
Miss Blandy, who was driven on account of her fears to show a great
concern. After seeing his patient the shrewd old leech had no doubt as
to the symptoms. With habitual directness he told the daughter that her
father had been poisoned.

“It is impossible,” she replied.

On Sunday morning the doctor found the sick man a little better, but
ordered him to keep his bed. Startling proofs of the accuracy of his
diagnosis were forthcoming. One of the maids put into his hands the
packet of arsenic found in the fire; while Norton the apothecary
produced the powder from the pan of gruel. Addington at once took the
guilty woman to task.

“If your father dies,” he told her sternly, “you will inevitably be
ruined.”

Nevertheless she appears to have brazened the matter out, but desired
the doctor to come again the next day. When she was alone, her first
task was to scribble a note to Cranstoun, which she gave to her
father’s clerk to “put into the post.” Having heard dark rumours
whispered by the servants that Mr Blandy had been poisoned by his
daughter, the man had no hesitation in opening the letter, which he
handed over to the apothecary. It ran as follows:--

“DEAR WILLY,--My father is so bad that I have only time to
tell you that if you do not hear from me soon again, don’t be
frightened. I am better myself. Lest any accident should happen
to your letters be careful what you write.

“My sincere compliments.--I am ever, yours.”

That evening Norton ordered Miss Blandy from her father’s room,
telling Susan Gunnel to remain on the watch, and admit no one. At
last the heartless daughter must have seen that some other defence
was needed than blind denial. Still, the poor old sufferer persisted
that Cranstoun was the sole author of the mischief. On Monday morning,
although sick almost to death, he sent the maid with a message to his
daughter.

“Tell her,” said he, “that I will forgive her if she will bring that
villain to justice.”

In answer to his words, Miss Blandy came to her father’s bedroom in
tears, and a suppliant. Susan Gunnel, who was present, thus reports the
interview.

“Sir, how do you do?” said she.

“I am very ill,” he replied.

Falling upon her knees, she said to him:

“Banish me or send me to any remote part of the world. As to Mr
Cranstoun, I will never see him, speak to him, as long as I live, so as
you will forgive me.”

“I forgive thee, my dear,” he answered. “And I hope God will forgive
thee, but thee should have considered better than to have attempted
anything against thy father. Thee shouldst have considered I was thy
own father.”

“Sir,” she protested, “as to your illness I am entirely innocent.”

“Madam,” interrupted old Susan Gunnel, “I believe you must not say you
are entirely innocent, for the powder that was taken out of the water
gruel, and the paper of powder that was taken out of the fire, are now
in such hands that they must be publicly produced. I believe I had one
dose prepared for my master in a dish of tea about six weeks ago.”

“I have put no powder into tea,” replied Miss Blandy. “I have put
powder into water gruel, and if you are injured,” she assured her
father, “I am entirely innocent, for it was given me with another
intent.”

The dying man did not wait for further explanation, but, turning in his
bed, he cried:

“Oh, such a villain! To come to my house, eat of the best, drink of
the best that my house could afford--to take away my life, and ruin my
daughter! Oh, my dear,” he continued, “thee must hate that man, thee
must hate the ground he treads on. Thee canst not help it.”

“Oh, sir, your tenderness towards me is like a sword to my heart,” she
answered. “Every word you say is like swords piercing my heart--much
worse than if you were to be ever so angry. I must down on my knees and
beg you will not curse me.”

“I curse thee, my dear!” he replied. “How couldst thou think I could
curse thee? I bless thee, and hope that God will bless thee and amend
thy life. Go, my dear, go out of my room.... Say no more, lest thou
shouldst say anything to thy own prejudice.... Go to thy uncle Stevens;
take him for thy friend. Poor man,--I am sorry for him.”

The memory of the old servant, who repeated the above conversation
in her evidence at Miss Blandy’s trial, would seem remarkable did
we not bear in mind that she went through various rehearsals before
the coroner and magistrates, and possibly with the lawyers for the
prosecution. Some embellishments also must be credited to the taste
and fancy of Mr Rivington’s reporters. Still, the gist must be true,
and certainly has much pathos. Yet the father’s forgiveness of his
daughter, when he must have known that her conduct was wilful, although
piteous and noble, may not have been the result of pure altruism.
Naturally, the wish that Cranstoun alone was guilty was parent to the
thought. Whether the approach of eternity brought a softening influence
upon him, and he saw his follies and errors in the light of repentance,
or whether the ruling passion strong in death made the vain old man
struggle to avert the black disgrace that threatened his good name, and
the keen legal intellect, which could counsel his daughter so well,
foresaw the coming escheatment of his small estate to the lord of the
manor, are problems for the student of psychology.

During the course of the day brother leech Lewis of Oxford--a
master-builder of pharmacopœia--was summoned by the sturdy begetter of
statesmen, and there was much bobbing of learned wigs and nice conduct
of medical canes. Addington asked the dying man whom he suspected to be
the giver of the poison.

“A poor love-sick girl,” murmured the old lawyer, smiling through his
tears. “I forgive her--I always thought there was mischief in those
cursed Scotch pebbles.”

In the evening a drastic step was taken. Acting on the principle of
‘thorough,’ which made his son’s occupancy of the Home Office so
memorable at a later period, the stern doctor accused Miss Blandy
of the crime, and secured her keys and papers. Conquered by fear,
the stealthy woman for a while lost all self-possession. In an agony
of shame and terror she sought to shield herself by the pretence of
superstitious folly. Wringing her hands in a seeming agony of remorse,
she declared that her lover had ruined her.

“I received the powder from Mr Cranstoun,” she cried, “with a present
of Scotch pebbles. He had wrote on the paper that held it, ‘The powder
to clean the pebbles with.’ He assured me that it was harmless, and
that if I would give my father some of it now and then, a little and a
little at a time, in any liquid, it would make him kind to him and to
me.”

In a few scathing questions the worldly-wise Addington cast ridicule
upon this weird story of a love philtre. Taking the law into his own
resolute hands, with the consent of colleague Lewis he locked the
wretched woman in her room and placed a guard over her. Little could be
done to relieve the sufferings of poor ten-thousand-pound Blandy--who
proved to be a mere four-thousand-pound attorney when it came to the
test--and on Wednesday afternoon, the 14th of August, he closed his
proud old eyes for ever. In her desperation the guilty daughter could
think of naught but escape. On the evening of her fathers death,
impelled by an irresistible frenzy to flee from the scene of her
butchery, she begged the footman in vain to assist her to get away.
During Thursday morning--for it was not possible to keep her in custody
without legal warrant--a little group of children saw a dishevelled
figure coming swiftly along the High Street towards the river. At once
there arose the cry of ‘Murderess!’ and, surrounded by an angry mob,
she was driven to take refuge in a neighbouring inn. It was vain to
battle against fate. That same afternoon the coroner’s inquest was
held, and the verdict pronounced her a parricide. On the following
Saturday, in charge of two constables, she was driven in her father’s
carriage to Oxford Castle. An enraged populace, thinking that she was
trying again to escape, surrounded the vehicle, and sought to prevent
her from leaving the town.

Owing to the social position of the accused, and the enormity of her
offence, the eyes of the whole nation were turned to the tragedy at
Henley. Gossips of the day, such as Horace Walpole and Tate Wilkinson,
tell us that the story of Miss Blandy was upon every lip. In spite of
the noble irony of ‘Drawcansir’ Fielding, journalists and pamphleteers
had no scruple in referring to the prisoner as a wicked murderess or a
cruel parricide. Yet the case of Henry Coleman, who, during the August
of this year, had been proved innocent of a crime for which he had
suffered death, should have warned the public against hasty assumption.
For six months the dark woman was waiting for her trial. Although it
was the custom for a jailor to make an exhibition of his captive to
anyone who would pay the entrance fee, nobody was allowed to see Miss
Blandy without her consent. Two comfortable rooms were set apart for
her in the keeper’s house; she was free to take walks in the garden,
and to have her own maid. At last, when stories of a premeditated
escape were noised abroad, Secretary Newcastle, in a usual state of
fuss, fearing that she might repeat the achievement of Queen Maud, gave
orders that she must be put in irons. At first Thomas Newell, who had
succeeded her father as town clerk of Henley four years previously, was
employed in her defence, but he offended her by speaking of Cranstoun
as “a mean-looking, little, ugly fellow,” and so she dismissed him in
favour of Mr Rives, a lawyer from Woodstock. Her old invincible courage
had returned, and only once--when she learnt the paltry value of her
father’s fortune--did she lose self-possession. For a dismal echo must
have come back in the mocking words, “When the old man is in his grave
you shall be happy.”

At last the magistrates--Lords Cadogan and ‘New-Style’ Macclesfield,
who had undertaken duties which in later days Mr Newton or Mr
Montagu Williams would have shared with Scotland Yard--finish their
much-praised detective work, and on Tuesday, the 3rd of March 1752,
Mary Blandy is brought to the bar. The Court meets in the divinity
school, since the town-hall is in the hands of the British workman,
and because the University, so ‘Sir Alexander Drawcansir’ tells his
readers, will not allow the use of the Sheldonian Theatre. Why the most
beautiful room in Oxford should be deemed a fitter place of desecration
than the archbishop’s monstrosity is not made clear. An accident
delays the trial--this second ‘Great Oyer of Poisoning!’ There is a
small stone or other obstruction in the lock--can some sentimental,
wry-brained undergraduate think to aid the gallows-heroine of his
fancy?--and while it is being removed, Judges Legge and Smythe return
to their lodgings.

At eight o’clock, Mary Blandy, calm and stately, stands beneath the
graceful fretted ceiling, facing the tribunal. From wall to wall an
eager crowd has filled the long chamber, surging through the doorway,
flowing in at the open windows, jostling even against the prisoner.
A chair is placed for her in case of fatigue, and her maid is by
her side. A plain and neat dress befits her serene manner--a black
bombazine short _sacque_ (the garb of mourning), white linen kerchief,
and a thick crape shade and hood. From the memory of those present
her countenance can never fade. A broad high forehead, above which
her thick jet hair is smoothed under a cap; a pair of fine black
sparkling eyes; the colouring almost of a gipsy; cheeks with scarce
a curve; mouth full, but showing no softness; nose large, straight,
determined--it is the face of one of those rare women who command, not
the love, but the obedience of mankind. Still it is intelligent, not
unseductive, compelling; and yet, in spite of the deep, flashing eyes,
without radiance of soul--the face of a sombre-hearted woman.

Black, indeed, is the indictment that Bathurst, a venerable young
barrister who represents the Crown, unfolds against her, but only once
during his burst of carefully-matured eloquence is there any change in
her serenity. When the future Lord Chancellor declares that the base
Cranstoun “had fallen in love, not with her, but with her fortune,” the
woman’s instinct cannot tolerate the reflection upon her charms, and
she darts a look of bitterest scorn upon the speaker. And only once
does she show a trace of human softness. When her godmother, old Mrs
Mountenay, is leaving the witness-box, she repeats the curtsey which
the prisoner had previously disregarded, and then, in an impulse of
pity, presses forward, and, seizing Miss Blandy’s hand, exclaims, “God
bless you!” At last, and for the first time, the tears gather in the
accused woman’s eyes.

Many abuses, handed down from a previous century, still render
barbarous the procedure of criminal trials. The case is hurried over in
one day; counsel for the prisoner can only examine witnesses, but not
address the jury; the prosecution is accustomed to put forward evidence
of which the defence has been kept in ignorance. Yet no injustice is
done to Mary Blandy. Thirteen hours is enough to tear the veil from her
sombre heart; the tongue of Nestor would fail to show her innocent; of
all that her accusers can say of her she is well aware. Never for one
moment is the issue in doubt. What can her scoffing, sceptic age, with
its cold-blooded sentiment and tame romance, think of a credulity that
employed a love-potion in the guise of affection but with the result
of death! How is it possible to judge a daughter who persisted in her
black art, although its dire effects were visible, not once, but many
times! Her defence, when at last it comes, is spoken bravely, but
better had been left unsaid.

“My lords,” she begins, “it is morally impossible for me to lay down
the hardships I have received. I have been aspersed in my character. In
the first place, it has been said that I have spoke ill of my father;
that I have cursed him and wished him at hell; which is extremely
false. Sometimes little family affairs have happened, and he did not
speak to me so kind as I could wish. I own I am passionate, my lords,
and in those passions some hasty expressions might have dropt. But
great care has been taken to recollect every word I have spoken at
different times, and to apply them to such particular purposes as my
enemies knew would do me the greatest injury. These are hardships, my
lords, extreme hardships!--such as you yourselves must allow to be
so. It was said, too, my lords, that I endeavoured to make my escape.
Your lordships will judge from the difficulties I laboured under. I
had lost my father--I was accused of being his murderer--I was not
permitted to go near him--I was forsaken by my friends--affronted
by the mob--insulted by my servants. Although I begged to have the
liberty to listen at the door where he died, I was not allowed it. My
keys were taken from me, my shoe-buckles and garters too--to prevent
me from making away with myself, as though I was the most abandoned
creature. What could I do, my lords? I verily believe I was out of my
senses. When I heard my father was dead and the door open, I ran out
of the house, and over the bridge, and had nothing on but a half sack
and petticoat, without a hoop, my petticoats hanging about me. The mob
gathered about me. Was this a condition, my lords, to make my escape
in? A good woman beyond the bridge, seeing me in this distress, desired
me to walk in till the mob was dispersed. The town sergeant was there.
I begged he would take me under his protection to have me home. The
woman said it was not proper, the mob was very great, and that I had
better stay a little. When I came home they said I used the constable
ill. I was locked up for fifteen hours, with only an old servant of the
family to attend me. I was not allowed a maid for the common decencies
of my sex. I was sent to gaol, and was in hopes, there, at least, this
usage would have ended, but was told it was reported I was frequently
drunk--that I attempted to make my escape--that I never attended the
chapel. A more abstemious woman, my lords, I believe, does not live.

“Upon the report of my making my escape, the gentleman who was High
Sheriff last year (not the present) came and told me, by order of the
higher powers, he must put an iron on me. I submitted, as I always
do to the higher powers. Some time after, he came again, and said he
must put a heavier upon me, which I have worn, my lords, till I came
hither. I asked the Sheriff why I was so ironed? He said he did it by
command of some noble peer, on his hearing that I intended to make my
escape. I told them I never had such a thought, and I would bear it
with the other cruel usage I had received on my character. The Rev. Mr.
Swinton, the worthy clergyman who attended me in prison, can testify
that I was very regular at the chapel when I was well. Sometimes I
really was not able to come out, and then he attended me in my room.
They likewise published papers and depositions which ought not to have
been published, in order to represent me as the most abandoned of my
sex, and to prejudice the world against me. I submit myself to your
lordships, and to the worthy jury. I can assure your lordships, as I
am to answer it before that Grand Tribunal where I must appear, I am
as innocent as the child unborn of the death of my father. I would not
endeavour to save my life at the expense of truth. I really thought
the powder an innocent, inoffensive thing, and I gave it to procure
his love. It was mentioned, I should say, I was ruined. My lords,
when a young woman loses her character, is not that her ruin? Why,
then, should this expression be construed in so wide a sense? Is it
not ruining my character to have such a thing laid to my charge? And
whatever may be the event of this trial, I am ruined most effectually.”

A strange apology--amazing in its effrontery!

Gentle Heneage Legge speaks long and tenderly, while the listeners
shudder with horror as they hear the dismal history unfolded in all
entirety for the first time. No innocent heart could have penned that
last brief warning to her lover--none but an accomplice would have
received his cryptic message. Every word in the testimony of the stern
doctor seems to hail her parricide--every action of her stealthy career
has been noted by the watchful eyes of her servants. And, as if in
damning confirmation of her guilt, there is the black record of her
flight from the scene of crime. Eight o’clock has sounded when the
judge has finished. For a few moments the jury converse in hurried
whispers. It is ominous that they make no attempt to leave the court,
but merely draw closer together. Then, after the space of five minutes
they turn, and the harsh tones of the clerk of arraigns sound through
the chamber.

“Mary Blandy, hold up thy hand.... Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the
prisoner. How say you: Is Mary Blandy guilty of the felony and murder
whereof she stands indicted, or not guilty?”

“Guilty!” comes the low, reluctant answer.

Never has more piteous drama been played within the cold fair walls
of the divinity school than that revealed by the guttering candles on
this chill March night. Amidst the long black shadows, through which
gleam countless rows of pallid faces, in the deep silence, broken at
intervals by hushed sobs, the invincible woman stands with unruffled
mien to receive her sentence. As the verdict is declared, a smile seems
to play upon her lips. While the judge, with tearful eyes and broken
voice, pronounces her doom, she listens without a sign of fear. There
is a brief, breathless pause, while all wait with fierce-beating hearts
for her reply. No trace of terror impedes her utterance. Thanking the
judge for his candour and impartiality, she turns to her counsel, among
whom only Richard Aston rose to eminence, and, with a touch of pretty
forethought, wishes them better success in their other causes.