Part 23

"Your Honor, it is important for me to show how far this witness is biassed in favor of the defendant. He has wished to marry her once, it is possible, apparently, that he may be in the same position again. You won't deny," he went on, turning to Gerard, "--that there _is_ such a possibility?"

Gerard hesitated for perhaps a second. Then he looked the lawyer squarely, defiantly in the face. He was very pale, but there was an angry light in his eyes; his voice rang out clearly. "I deny nothing," he said, "except that my feelings toward Miss Van Vorst have influenced the truth of anything I said."

Mr. Fenton again formally entered his objection, and after some wrangling, question and answer were stricken from the record. Still, the jury had heard them and could form their own conclusions. Mr. Fenton was not dissatisfied; there was a romantic element in the situation which must, he thought, appeal irresistibly to the popular imagination. And indeed, as Gerard left the stand, the general sympathy was on his side, even among those who secretly thought that he had stretched a point here and there, on behalf of the woman he loved. It was possible that his evidence was false; but the people who thought thus, if they were men, did not blame him; if they were women, they admired him rather the more.

The eyes of the court-room were fixed upon him as he crossed over to where Elizabeth sat and shook hands with her quietly, as if they had parted yesterday. And then he seated himself near her, in the little circle of her supporters. Eleanor Van Antwerp put out her hand to him, her dark eyes shining through a mist of tears.

"Julian, you don't know how happy I am to have you back."

He shuddered, "Don't speak of it, Eleanor. I can never forgive myself for having gone."

Elizabeth heard the words, but her eyes were resolutely bent on the ground, and she refused to take any of the comfort that his presence might have imparted. It was natural that he should feel remorseful, eager to show to the world as much as possible that he had not forsaken her, that he thoroughly believed in her innocence. But for anything more, such a possibility as the District Attorney had suggested, which he did not deny, could not, of course, very well deny under the circumstances?... Ah, no, there could be no question any more of love between them. Her own pride would not permit it, even if what she called his pity could influence his judgment to that extent. And then, with a start, she remembered that she was still on trial for her life, and that all thoughts of love and marriage were incongruous, almost grotesque. The case for the defense was closed, the District Attorney was to make his final address the next day. The thing would soon be decided, one way or the other.

The next morning, a box of flowers was brought to her; the white roses which he had always sent her. For a moment she hesitated, touched them lovingly, and then at last she took one of them and fastened it in her belt. "It may bring luck," she murmured, as if to excuse her action, and then she bent her head, and pressed her lips to its fragrant petals.

A little later, when she entered the court-room, the eyes of all were fixed on the flower. It was the first touch of color that had ever relieved her black gown.

"You see," one woman whispered, "it's the sign of innocence."

Her companion, less easily moved, replied cautiously: "Perhaps."

_Chapter XXXVIII_

The tide of popular sentiment was turning in Elizabeth's favor. It had not been with her at first, in spite of her youth and the pathetic circumstances of her position; nay, against her all the more on that very account with many people, who feared a display of mawkish sentiment, and to whom the cold-blooded character of the crime stood out the more harshly, by contrast with her soft and girlish looks. But now one thing and another--an intangible something in her manner on the witness-stand; Gerard's return and his evidence on her behalf; his apparently unchanged devotion--all this had created a strong revulsion of feeling, which was increased rather than diminished by the District Attorney's charge.

The District Attorney was in a brutal mood. He did not spare Elizabeth, he left it, he said, to the jury to determine the weight of Gerard's evidence. For himself, he would not for the world suggest that a gentleman of Mr. Gerard's high character would testify falsely; yet he might be--mistaken; he might easily make some slight error in dates, misled by his--his interest in the defendant. While he talked Gerard bit his lip, inwardly cursing that dictate of civilization which had abolished duelling, and made even horsewhipping a doubtful expedient. Mrs. Bobby was considering ways by which one could be avenged on "a horrible man, not in society, whom one couldn't snub by not asking him to dinner, or anything of that kind." Elizabeth felt, with a new thrill of pain, that she was involving Gerard in her own disgrace. But Mr. Fenton surveyed the District Attorney unmoved through half-closed eyes, and said to himself coolly that he was going too far.

His own charge was a skillful defense of Gerard's evidence, a criticism, not too violent, of the District Attorney's brutality, and an appeal, not too open, to the sympathies of the jury. Elizabeth flushed as she realized that this was the point, after all; she was to be saved on issues that would not have been effectual with a man. And then the Judge's charge began, and she forgot all sense of humiliation, forgot everything but the thought that her fate hung in the balance, to be decided one way or the other by those carefully-balanced, judicial phrases. Did she imagine it, or was there, through all the calm analysis of evidence, the impartial weighing of this or that detail, a conviction of her innocence so decided that it made itself felt almost unconsciously?

"Strong on our side!" Bobby Van Antwerp's voice, unusually animated and exultant, sounded in his wife's ear at the end. "The prosecution are furious--they say it's horribly unfair. But of course, we won't quarrel with that."

Eleanor was deathly white; her hands were tightly locked together. At Bobby's words she gave a little sob of hysterical relief. "Oh, Bobby," she murmured, under her breath, "thank God that judges are human, after all! Now, if the jury are anything short of brutes, they'll acquit her at once and make an end of this."

But the jury fell short of this test of humanity, and retired to deliberate. Mrs. Bobby scanned their faces anxiously, as she had done at the beginning of the trial. They were care-worn and gloomy--naturally, with a woman's life in their hands; but surely--surely they should look happier, since it was in their power to save her?

"I wish, Bobby," she murmured, with that sob again in her throat, but this time not one of relief, "I wish we had tried if they wouldn't take money!"

"Don't, Eleanor," said Bobby. "They're all honest men--and besides, one can't do such things!" To himself he was thinking that women really seemed on such occasions as this to be entirely without principle, and yet that somehow one liked them all the better for it.

This was at two o'clock. Three, four, five o'clock came, and still they made no sign. The long deliberation seemed ominous to the anxious group who waited in a small, dark room on the ground floor of the court-house, starting at every sound and counting the moments as they dragged wearily along. Mr. Fenton and the other counsel came restlessly in and out, with a cheerful air that covered but indifferently their intense anxiety; Bobby and Julian Gerard stood by the window, talking occasionally in low tones, more often silent and gazing at the prison walls that rose up grimly before their eyes. Elizabeth sat at a small table in the middle of the room, and her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp sat around her in a forlorn circle. It was a long while since any one had spoken; all consoling suggestions were exhausted.

Elizabeth's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes, wide-open yet unseeing, stared steadily before her. Vaguely she was conscious that there were people in the room, that by the window stood the man whose presence might have mattered more to her at some other time than anything else on earth; that her aunts and Eleanor Van Antwerp were beside her, and would bend forward now and then, one or other of them, to press her hand. In a dull, mechanical way, she was thankful to know that they were there; yet nothing they said or did could help her, a great gulf seemed to yawn between her and the outside world.... It is thus, perhaps, that the dying feel when they see, with their failing sight, the faces of friends, and know that even love is powerless to reach them. Elizabeth suffered, during those hours of suspense, the agony of death a hundred times over. But as the afternoon wore on, hope faded and the numbness of despair crept over her tortured nerves.

"I don't like their staying out so long," Bobby Van Antwerp could not help murmuring to Gerard. "After the charge, I thought they'd let her off at once. They all want to--that's certain. But there were one or two of them who looked--infernally conscientious."

"I don't want any of them"--Gerard began, but stopped. "To go against his convictions," was what he had meant to add, but the words remained unspoken. There are limits to even a Puritan conscience. "Good God! Bobby," he whispered, hoarsely, "a man who could convict her deserves to be shot!"

"I agree with you, old man," said Bobby, tranquilly. And then they once more fell silent, and the shadows lengthened, and some one lit a feeble gas-jet, which brought out, in ghastly relief, the look of strained expectancy on each face.

At six o'clock there was a rustle, an excitement. Mr. Fenton came in and spoke to Bobby, and he spoke to his wife. She touched Elizabeth on the shoulder. "Dear, we--we go up now," she said. Elizabeth rose and mechanically put up her hand to her hair.

"Do I look all right?" she said, and then smiled vaguely at the commonplace question. A merciful stupor had descended upon her in the last hour; when she looked at her aunts, she saw that they were suffering far more than she. "I am not frightened," she said, "please don't be frightened." She was determined that she would be brave. This was the thought uppermost in her mind.

They went up to the court-room, and on the threshold Mr. Fenton said to her: "Remember, that even if the verdict is--is unfavorable, it is not final. We shall appeal." She bent her head, wondering mechanically that any one should speak of things to happen _after_ the verdict. Her whole life seemed bounded by the events of the next few minutes; she could not look beyond.... The thought crossed her mind of how slight a thing would decide her fate--the difference between one word or two, guilty or not guilty. A mere trifle--a word in three letters; yet all the difference between honor and dishonor, life and death. Her mind fastened upon the irrelevant detail and dallied with it; the while she was conscious, with sickening intensity, of each movement in the court-room--the breathless atmosphere of a suspense, in which the mere rustling of a paper jarred upon the nerves; the jury filing in, the formal opening question, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you decided upon your verdict?" Her throat was parched, balls of fire danced before her eyes, there was a sound in her ears like the rushing of many waters. Guilty or not guilty? One word or two? The question beat upon her brain with a dull persistence, and she was conscious, vaguely, that the answer was of vital importance, but somehow she could not bring herself to realize it.

"_Not Guilty._"

The words rang clear and confident, across that gulf which separated her from the outside world. As through a mist she saw the relief on the faces of those around her, but still she herself was conscious of no feeling. She still sat white and dazed, staring before her, while her lips moved mechanically, repeating the words that seemed so meaningless: "_Not Guilty._"

There was a pause, and then a stir, a murmur of relief. Some women sobbed aloud. But she herself still sat staring before her, repeating the answer that seemed to have no meaning: "_Not Guilty._"

_Chapter XXXIX_

By the next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself, the inevitable reaction was setting in.

"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit brows. The fire--it was a long time since she had sat beside one--gave out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene, stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she struggled indeed against it.

She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion, something of a nervous shock.

_"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted. As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer. That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come quickly it may be too late."_

_AMANDA._"

The address was that of a hospital.

"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill."

Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an irrelevant subject.

"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly, "and her mother came down to be near her--but dear me, that girl always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see you, or sending messages, or anything."

"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants me to come and see her, and I think"--she hesitated a moment--"I think I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met with some faint opposition.

Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment.

"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips of each.

"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"--she stopped.

"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"--she faltered as a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you--you must see him. He has been so unhappy. He--he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away her hand.

"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it--it would be more painful than seeing Amanda. And--if he loves me, why, so much the worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest thing I can do for him is--not to see him?" And then the tears sprang to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room.

When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out, in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied a black veil over her face.

"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if--if anything happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both affectionately. "You--you don't mind, do you," she said, with a note of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly.

"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said, feebly.

Elizabeth smiled. "Why should you, dear?" she said, quietly. "I've got to face the world alone some time, I suppose. And it will be nice to see what it's like--I've almost forgotten." She gave a little sigh, but checked it instantly, and went out before they could say any more.

Once in the street the world seemed so strange that it was startling, and for a moment turned her faint and giddy. It was a mild midwinter day--the trial had lasted over Christmas and into the new year--almost there seemed a foretaste of spring in the air. To Elizabeth the sunlight was dazzling; she put up her hand to ward it off. She walked slowly and feebly, as if she were convalescing from a long illness. She had not realized before how weak she was. Fortunately there was but a short walk before her, through the quiet regions of Irving Place, past Gramercy Park, and on to the hospital. She met no one she knew, but several strangers glanced at her curiously, or so she imagined, as if they recognized her, even through her veil. They might know her from the pictures with which the papers had been filled; they had seen one, no doubt, only that morning, with an account of the verdict. They were wondering still, perhaps, if she were guilty or innocent.

She was very tired when she reached the hospital, and the meeting with Amanda loomed up before her like a nightmare. Her hand trembled as she rang the bell. A woman in a sister's dress opened the door--the hospital was under the charge of a Protestant order. There was something conventual about the waiting-room, into which she was shown. There was little furniture, pictures of saints hung on the walls, the wide window was filled with stained glass, through which the light streamed faintly and fell in bars of crimson and purple upon the polished floor. The sister, speaking in the subdued voice which the place seemed to demand, bade Elizabeth seat herself and took up her name.

Elizabeth sank down with a sense of physical relief, which obliterated all other feelings. A moment later she looked up with a start. The door opened and a woman entered. It was Amanda's mother.

"Well Elizabeth, so you've got off!" she said, mechanically touching with dry lips her niece's cheek. "I'm sure I'm glad enough, for the sake of the family. And then I never thought you did it."

Elizabeth flushed painfully. "That was kind of you, Aunt Rebecca," she said.

"Well, a great many people did, you know, and probably do still, for that matter. But lor'--what difference does it make, as long as you've got off? Some people might think all the more of you. There was that girl at----who committed that murder that everybody talked about--she got a hundred offers, they say, right after she was acquitted. And everybody knew that she got off, just because she was a woman."

Elizabeth shuddered. "Please don't talk about it, Aunt Rebecca," she said, faintly. "Tell me about Amanda."

A sort of contraction crossed Aunt Rebecca's face, which might in any one else, have resulted in tears. "Oh, Amanda's pretty poorly," she said, in an odd, dry voice. "I guess all those sanitariums and new-fangled inventions, haven't done her much good. Why the doctor sent her here, I don't know. It's a queer Catholic place, and I don't hold with such notions, but Amanda seems taken with the sisters"--she broke off abruptly as one of their number entered.

She was a woman of middle age, with a grave, fine face and musical voice which harmonized with the place and her own costume. In her presence Amanda's mother, for all her uneasy contempt seemed to sink at once into insignificance. The Sister took possession very gently, but completely, of Elizabeth. Her charge had been very anxious, she said, to see her; it was kind of Miss Van Vorst to come. And then she led the way up the stairs, and down the long white corridors, talking quietly as she went of Amanda's case. The girl was suffering from a complication of maladies, and the Sister thought that there was, besides, some trouble weighing on her mind, under the stress of which she grew daily weaker. No, there was, humanly speaking, little hope, though Amanda's poor mother did not realize it, but the Sister thought it would do her patient good to see Miss Van Vorst, of whom she had talked a great deal. All this time there was not a word, not a curious glance, to show that the Sister knew that she had beside her the subject of so much discussion. And yet Elizabeth felt herself enveloped in an atmosphere of sympathy, a tacit recognition of the fact that she had suffered, which held in it not a trace of blame or suspicion. Elizabeth felt grateful.

The private room which Amanda occupied as one of the few "paying patients," was near the roof of the house, at the head of several flights of stairs. Sunlight poured in through the window, the floor was covered with matting, the walls bare and hung with religious pictures. Opposite the small iron bed, and placed where the light fell full upon it, was an engraving, the copy of a famous picture, of Christ upon the Cross. It was singularly vivid, and the sorrowful dignity of the face had attracted the eyes and soothed the sufferings of many an occupant of the room.

Amanda's strange, light eyes, as they stood out unnaturally large and dilated in her thin, wasted face, were not fixed upon the picture; but turned with eager expectancy towards the door. She was sitting up in bed, her head propped with pillows. Her skin had faded to a duller, more ghastly tint than ever, but a bright spot of red burned in either cheek. As Elizabeth entered she started, and an odd look flitted across her face--it was hard to tell whether it indicated relief, or fear, or perhaps a mingling of both.

"So you've come," she said, and drew a long sobbing breath. It was all her greeting. Elizabeth, embarrassed, murmured a few words of sympathy, as she sank into the chair nearest the door. The Sister, with a keen glance from one to the other, left the two girls alone.

Amanda immediately assumed control of the situation.

"Sit there," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, and pointing to a chair by the window, "sit there so I can look at you." Elizabeth mechanically obeyed and threw back her veil. Amanda's eyes fastened eagerly upon her face.

"Why, you--you've lost your looks," she announced, abruptly. "Did you know it?" There was a note of involuntary satisfaction in her voice.

Elizabeth tried to smile. "Worse things have happened to me than that, Amanda," she said.

"I didn't think anything could be worse--to you," Amanda said, feebly.

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking that suffering had not yet produced in Amanda any regenerating effect.

"Well, after all, I guess it don't matter," Amanda said, drearily, after a pause. "You're acquitted just the same, and Mr. Gerard is just as crazy about you as ever, they say. I guess you've got the best of me still." She sank into a gloomy silence.

Elizabeth dared not speak. She was wondering if she could not escape, since her cousin had nothing to say, beyond the old jealous complaint. But suddenly Amanda turned to her.

"I've something I want to tell you," she said, speaking feebly and with difficulty. "Sister made me promise that I--would; she said that if there was any--any way in which I'd injured you, it would ease my mind to--tell you. But first you must promise"--she looked about her suspiciously--"you must swear to me on your oath that you won't repeat--anything I tell you."