Part 11

The prosecuting officer, with a significant smile, declines to cross-examine, and so far as the Commonwealth is concerned, submits the case without argument to the jury. His assistant questions the propriety of this.

“Always wins,” he laughs. “The jury think either that it is not worth while, or that I think it safe, and agree accordingly. Juries haven’t much mind, you know. Besides, think of those idle golf sticks!” They laugh together. “And, further, it will flabbergast the doughty champion of the foreign gentleman. He won’t know how to begin—since he will have nothing of mine to answer or suggest.”

VI THE FOOLISHNESS OF PREACHING

This seems true. Forrest knows the trick, and now he rises with manifest fear and trembling.

“Although the Commonwealth does not care to address you,” he says, “I conceive it my duty to do so—”

“I told you he would be caught,” whispers the district attorney to his assistant, in glee. “There is only one counter to that trick, and that is to submit your own case. Then the jury is compelled to think that the defence has as much or more confidence in its case than the Commonwealth. For it has more to gain from a speech.”

“—It is not proven that a watch has been stolen, nor that an officer was assaulted, yet that is exactly and only what the prisoner is charged with. All that is proven is that a man had a watch before he collided with the prisoner, and that he did not have it afterward. The law in its mercy has provided that every man shall be presumed innocent until he is proven guilty—_proven_, remember!—not guessed guilty—”

His address is now, unfortunately, to the court, who is getting more and more hungry.

“Why, sir, if anybody be guilty here, I am the one. But a short while ago I was his guest in that little kingdom hedged by the mountain and the glacier. I sang to him the stirring songs of our country. Those songs of which the theme is liberty alone! I thrilled his very soul with the tales of its freedom and justice and equality. I watched his nostrils expand at the words of our great battle-hymn. I beguiled him here with these things—though I did not mean to. And he came—to you, Columbia, land of the brave, who hold out your arms to all the nations of the earth and cry Come! You—you—who invited him! And you meet him with pistol and club and shackles; the home of the free is a prison! He begs for a crust, and you give him a bullet. And what has he done? He has but entered the door you hold open to him. And what will you do? Sick, wounded, and miserable—in peril of his life—at your own hands—what is your verdict? He is in your keeping. And as you hope for mercy at the great day, as you respect the sanctity of your oath, deal in justice and mercy with this stranger who has come within your opened gates—”

“One of the difficulties of the young lawyer is to know when he is done,” says the district attorney, slyly, leaning his elbow on the bench and speaking to the judge.

The judge nods in a certain gastric irritation which is not well for either the prisoner or his counsel, but answers nothing.

“And to cease from college orations in a court of law. Somewhere these things should be taught as part of the law course. I am not aware that they are.”

The champion perspires and plunges on—when he had better stop—as any one but he—even the meanest of the benchers—can see.

“And there are others in your—keeping, beyond that moaning sea—beside that desolate mountain—by that frozen glacier—on that little spot of earth where the ice always threatens. There they sit desolated—by the graves of their kindred—waiting for him. For he came to make a home for them. Will you send him back to them? Will you send them even the wreck you have made of him? So that he may die there and lie with his fathers? So that he may once more embrace his young wife? Touch the hand of blind Agra? Make smile again simple Lars?”

The advocate pauses a moment and his face grows stern with the duty he has set himself.

“He thinks the doom of God is upon him. But it is the doom of the American system. The doom of the American administration of justice. The doom of the American jury—which gives never the verdict of twelve, but of four or three or two—most often of one. In this day of reason verdicts should be the result of reason. But they are, as they were in the Middle Ages, the result of force. Twelve men are imprisoned together until seven men yield to five. Not because the five have better reasons, but because they are stronger—either in mind or body. Because they can better endure privation and hunger and segregation. Five are set to prey upon seven in a place they cannot escape from until the morality of the seven is sufficiently broken and corrupted to vote, not for the righteousness of justice, but for release from incarceration. And this the judges permit because they must hurry. Because the hours are fixed from ten to three—and because in that time twenty-five causes must be heard. Because officers of courts are politicians and must work—after hours—for the party. Because, in short, everything is well considered in a court but the securing of exact justice. And in small cases such as this—where it is a foreigner who does not understand us or our language or procedure—what does it matter? He is a foreigner anyhow. This is the doom he faces and which every one must face—until our courts concern themselves with but the one thing for which they are—the administration of justice—the discovery of truth!”

The district attorney sighs and knows that neither the young advocate nor his cause nor his client has a friend within hearing now. As for him, he is indifferent, and would gladly see the man acquitted could he but get away to his game. What profit or honor is there in so small a case as this?

“Are you that kind of a jury? Is this that kind of a court? Is this the kind of victim who has come here for sacrifice time out of mind? Can this man’s life and liberty be trusted to you? Is there a man among you—five—six—twelve—who can stop and think only of this poor captive? Can you so far escape from the American system as to consider pure justice and nothing else? Dare you imagine yourselves in his place and then consider what you would do—what you would wish done by the twelve who sit where you do? Have you the courage to treat this as you would treat a ‘great’ case?—with many ‘great’ attorneys? Dare you defy the court—the district attorney—the laughter of these idlers—and send this man back to his home? I am asking much—I know that. It is revolution to disagree from the court—to offend the district attorney. But I do so now and shall always.”

And now fear and embarrassment have fled from the young advocate and he is informed only with his great theme. His voice suddenly rings and thunders about the walls, so that the judge sits uncomfortably up and the benchers lean forward, and even the gentlemen of the bar are silent.

“And if you will not send him back to them, what message will you send? You cannot escape. You must do one or the other. And one will be infamy, the other will be as the grace of the Lord. Listen, each man of you twelve! It is a commandment you hear. Something more than myself is speaking through me. And look! Look at him, each one of you! For you are writing your own glorification or your own damnation in the sentence of this humble captive. I say to you, in the presence of God, that you cannot escape your duty. If you will not send this remnant of a man you have wounded home to his country, what message will you send—to them that wait and wait and wait? You! You twelve! Hope, joy, bread, feasting, life? Or the sullen clang of the prison door—the horrid, shuddering clang—which is a knell of death? For your verdict, whether you will it so or not, means life or death not only to him who is chained there before you—but to them!”

A juror shakes his head in protest—a thing which the fatuous pleader should regard. But he speaks an answer instead:

“I tell you I know. For I have seen. There are aged heads bent low by misfortune—there are little children, there is a wife—young and fair and red-lipped. Do you condemn them to hunger—to cold—to slow death—these, huddled together, waiting—waiting—in the long gray polar night—for your word of fate, or do you send to them life and hope and joy? I ask you, before God, what message do you send? They are in your keeping as irrevocably as he is!”

VII TO A HIGHER TRIBUNAL

Counsel for the prisoner sits down overcome by his own evocation of emotion. The more somnolent jurors scowl at him. He has made them uncomfortable. The court, now having control of the matter, hastens the adjournment.

“Gentlemen, you will find the prisoner not guilty of assaulting an officer. It is not fully proven. As to the charge of larceny, if you find that he took the watch out of the possession of the prosecutor, as he seems to think, he is guilty, and I instruct you to find him so. Otherwise, acquit him. If you are in doubt, acquit him. You have been told that there is no evidence of the larceny. That is for you, not counsel, to say.”

The jury, thinking from this that it is not much of a case, consult a moment, and are ready with their verdict—while the court taps the bench impatiently with the gilt menu. The crier asks for the verdict:

“Gentlemen of the jury, how say you? Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty, with a recommendation to the mercy of the court,” answers the foreman, yawning.

John Forrest rises to his feet, not knowing, in his confusion, what he ought to do.

“If the court pleases,” he begins, “I had expected another verdict. But since—”

“Your duty is done, sir,” smiles the chilly court, “and well done. I congratulate you, sir.” Then he turns to the jury. “Gentlemen, I cannot pass your recommendation to mercy lightly. I shall not forget it. It is better that ten guilty men escape than that one suffer innocently. I am now in a trifle of a hurry. I shall suspend sentence until I can think your recommendation well over. Crier, adjourn the court.”

The district attorney had his golf.

The judge had his witty dinner.

The recommendation to mercy was forgotten.

The sentence of the court was never passed.

A higher tribunal claimed jurisdiction.

Christof Nielsen died in his cell.

John Hall sent this note to the judge on the same day:

“My watch was in the pocket of my Sunday vest. I forgot to change it on Monday. Have that young man set free. I am sorry.”

“Let him be discharged as soon as possible,” said the righteous judge to the district attorney, flinging the note on his desk.

But death is swifter than justice when her wheels turn backward.

VIII THE SHADOWS OF DEATH

Over the sea, many months after, a runner brings a letter to those who sit beside a failing rushlight. The faces are too white—the eyes too brilliant for well-nourished bodies. Signs of wolfish poverty abound. They are but three. The rest are dead of hunger. One is old and blind. Upon his pathetic face the shadow of death has passed. Another has the smile of the simple—tortured into pain by the tight-drawn lines of want. Another is young and fair—yes—still young and fair—but not red-lipped now. For these many months which might all be years they have borne together the weariness of this watching and cold and hunger. The ice hangs just above their small thatch now, and the sea is at the door. Yet more than the hunger of their bodies—more than the cold and terror—have been the hunger and the cold and the terror of their souls. They have prayed God with agony to let their cup pass. Is there to be no word? No sign? If God wills—yes. They have both trusted and doubted God.

Yet now they repent. Here, in this letter, is the answer to their prayers. After all God is righteous—altogether righteous! Is it to bid them come? Is it to tell them when he will come? If the first, they will go in haste—for the ice is close, as he foretold. God has spoken. If the last, he must take them quickly, or the ice will come.

They gather a little closer about the dying light. The blind one clasps his hands hard on his staff to stop their shaking. The simple face is all one ghastly smile. The wan one—wiping her dry eyes where there should be tears—kneels before them, and with a quivering supplication breaks the seal. Her face is as ashes. She has not a word in her dry throat. The writing is not his. At her silence a shiver creeps over the blind one. The simple one smiles anew.

“Ha, ha!” he says, “I am hungry!”

The enclosure falls into the lap of the wan one. A short note in a stranger hand—that unruly curl she cut for him the day he went—an old letter of her own, beginning with a love word. The note tells a brief story ending in death.

There is nothing more. These are the tidings. This is the answer to their prayers.

Yet still they sit there—like ghosts—until their stony eyes are fixed—until the smile on the simple face passes into eternal calm—until the rushlight dies, and pitying darkness falls.

When the fickle northern summer comes again it lingers wonderingly about the idle cottage doors, fixed close in the ice, pausing at one with the reverence which befits the unclosing of a tomb. It stays for but a little day, then flies before the conquering ice and comes no more.

Yet, that tomb, far out toward the eternal ice cap, where the cottage is in the embrace of the ice, was “made in America,” the land of the brave and the home of the free—while the gentlemen of the bar and the benchers laughed, and in that city whose proudest boast is of the sublime quality of its justice—because a judge was impatient for his dinner—because a prosecuting officer would play golf. Was it wrong? And who will right the wrong? And where will it be righted? Is there a forum for such causes as these? And who will be punished for it? The judge—the jury—the district attorney—all of them?

GUILE

I CHILLY WISDOM

“Guile,” said John Estover, savagely, to his wife, “is as communicable as—as—tuberculosis!”

“Yes, John,” sighed his wife.

“And when there is a predisposition to it—segregation is absolutely imperative.”

“Yes—yes! But I confessed _my_ frivolities before the Great Meeting, and they prayed for me in our silent fashion—and said: Go in peace! Does thee remember?”

Estover’s face relaxed a trifle.

“I meant our child.”

“We were bride and groom then, John,” his little wife whispered, on seeing his softening.

She did not see, though, that he had at once forbidden the softness to his face, and went on.

“You didn’t care then that I was French and had a most unquakerish name—”

“Say ‘thee,’ please, Ann (her name was Jeanne), and when thee thinks ‘Quaker’ say Friend.”

“Yes, John.”

It is true that the smiles the thought of her bridehood brought had gone from her face with the sigh which followed. But another smile was there—for him. For she knew perfectly what was beneath this ecclesiastical chill. The very man who had been her bridegroom, and had never been anything else.

“Some people blame it on heredity—their poor parents; some upon temperament. But it is neither thee nor me now. I think it is nothing but temptation—the getting into contact with evil—just as that is necessary to contract tuberculosis.”

“But, John,” smiled the wife, “_I_ was a wicked little girl when thee found me in Paris—”

“And saved thee!” thundered John.

“Yes, John. Wasn’t it queer that I should like thee with no collar on thy coat? At first I think it was because thee was so different—so very strong thee seemed.”

“It proves,” said John, with chilly wisdom, “that if evil is communicable, goodness, also, is, and that it is stronger than evil.”

“But what, then, brought thee to the theatre, where I danced? I had never before seen a Quaker there—I had never before seen one anywhere.”

She laughed happily.

“I had heard of thee—thy grace and beauty—and I desired to know if God permitted such gifts to be so sadly used.”

“And then?”

“After I saw thee I wished to save thee.”

“Thank thee, my dear, dear John.”

“I think, Ann,” said John Estover, reflectively, “that I am not telling the exact truth. There is such a thing, thee knows, as telling the truth without exactness.”

“Oh, yes,” admitted his wife with an alacrity which would have alarmed any one less good than her husband.

“I have often supposed that the exact truth is, that, travelling to cure an illness becomes, when the illness is cured, a travelling for pleasure. This, I fear, was my sinful state when I reached wicked but beautiful Paris. I was, therefore, the prey of all temptation. And no temptation, we are told, is so potent as woman. Observe the matter of Adam and Eve, then Rahab and Jezebel—and, indeed, countless instances, where good men have fallen by the way at the beckoning of a woman. I think, Ann dear, that perhaps the world, the flesh, and the devil had an undue grip upon my soul there in Paris, and that I was saved by suddenly seeing what it had made of thee. It was an example I shall never forget. Nor shall I ever cease to return thanks for its outcome.”

“Nor I, John dear,” laughed his little wife, with an incontinent embrace.

“There, there,” said John, putting her off tenderly. “Yet—it all remains to us in this one greatest difficulty of our lives—this keeping from our child the history of thy life. But I am convinced that it is best. A daughter must respect and look up to her mother. She must seem to her to have always been immaculate. And this could not be if she knew all about thee. She would not understand how well thee has redeemed thyself. She would despise thee, and thy precepts would be of little avail. Yet must thou continue thy exhortations to good.”

Ann smiled. The unwisdom of husbands kept him from the knowledge that these exhortations were made in each other’s arms. This the mother not only thought likely to be most effective, but much more lovely than any other way.

She threatened a caress.

“Yes—yes,” said John, suppressing a suspicious movement of the arms toward her. “But it is of Mary Ann. She is of an age. And she is as pretty as thee—in that day thee speaks of. Therefore watch that she enter not into any temptation.”

“Such as thee was to me?” laughed his wife. “Oh, John!”

And this time John did not resist her.

“I meant our child,” said he softly, “not thee.”

Now all of this might have been said concerning one Doctor John Rem, of whom they had never heard. And John Estover might have added that, when two people predisposed to what he had called guile met, one as tempter, one willing to be tempted, the danger was excessive.

Nay, had he known this Doctor Rem, he would have taken every precaution that he and his daughter Mary Ann should not meet. For Rem had left behind at college an example for the emulation of sophomore hoodlums.

And now, just returned from college, filled with really valuable learning concerning disease, but having no practice at all and much idleness, it was exceedingly dull and he exceedingly ready for amorous experiment. And you may be sure that if it should happen to come in the shape of a pretty Quaker, it would be only a little more piquant.

All these sayings are necessary—though, I admit, somewhat dull—that you may understand the doings between this very doctor and this very Quaker maid. For you cannot suppose that I have them both in the same story for any other purpose than such troublous joys as make up that curious thing called love.

II PATCHOULY

Now it happened that while their discussion was at this point, the subject of it arrived. She did not at all come as a Quaker maiden ought, but like a breeze when the door is let suddenly open. And, indeed, in the coming, she had left the door open.

Her father solemnly closed it.

Meanwhile she had pounced upon her mother and kissed her, and now she attacked her father in the same way.

“Thank thee, daddy,” she laughed, and when he put her off, none too strongly, she ran up the stairs, still laughing, whence she called downward for her mother.

John stopped Ann as she would have gone, and, sniffing stealthily, pointed with his glasses up the stairs, saying ominously:

“Perfume!”

She sniffed and smiled.

“Patchouly!” she murmured. “John, it is my fault. I told her some things about myself the other day. They made us both very happy. I _must_ tell some one. I think I mentioned patchouly. I thought it was extinct. What a time she must have had getting it!”

John frowned.

“Yea, yea—she takes after thee.”

“And is that so bad—as long as it is only kisses and perfume?”

He had sat quite hopelessly in his chair, with his head turned. Before he could resist, her arms were about him and she had kissed him and was gone to the steps. There she paused—on the third step—looking as she had looked long ago—she never seemed to get older—as John thought she ought—and called:

“John!”

Her husband looked. And, looking, he had to smile. No one could have helped doing that.

“John, I love thee, anyhow!”

And she rebelliously and defiantly sniffed the perfume and ran up the stair—precisely as Mary Ann had done.

“Takes after her mother,” he sighed—and smiled.

For another thought had come with the smile.

“Or does her mother take after her?”

At this moment a double laugh came down the stair. And he, down there, answered it. So that you will understand that John Estover, Friend and Overseer, and John Estover, Husband, were very different individuals.

Upstairs it was hard to distinguish one from the other of these two pretty women—which was daughter, which mother—for they were locked in a laughing, weeping embrace, and the one was showing the other a long-necked, old-fashioned bottle, labelled

“PATCHOULY.”

Well, she was like her mother, and so, when I describe the one, you will see the other. The daintiest of retroussé noses, eyes entirely too large for her face, a mouth that _would_ smile her very thoughts—and sometimes, tell them—a curiously deep dimple in her chin. But for her attire no one would have thought her a subdued Quaker. Yet upon that even the little mother insisted.