I have made the story of the little dead mouse—it is all imaginary, but
it is what I have resolved to do myself if----
All these are signs not to be disregarded; I know something is about to
happen; I lie in bed and watch for it. Outside, I know that nature is
cool and gray—delightful. I wait; it comes. The fierce yellow light
begins to fade from out the electric globes; and finally, as it becomes
less intense, each little red wire is visible; which fades into pink and
disappears. The fearful light, the cruel, torturing, piercing light is
gone. And that is how dawn comes to us in the Death-Chamber.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CHAPTER XX_
_Impressions_
_While the Jury is Out—The First Jury_
It is said that everything is relative. A fixed period of time, for
instance, is either long or short, according to circumstances. There is
an exception to this rule. Time is always long while the jury is out. Be
this period eight hours or six minutes in duration, either constitutes a
life-time. I know, for I have experienced both.
To a man whose brain is analytical, here is a splendid opportunity to
administer to his mind some of its own medicine. While the first jury
considered my case I noted my impressions in my little red diary, for,
thought I, this is a road over which few travellers pass; it is really a
unique experience, an episode in a life. I will record my impressions.
That jury was most considerate; it did not hurry me in the slightest; it
was out eight hours. I started to record my impressions while the second
jury deliberated; it interrupted me in six minutes—but I have forgiven
it.
Here are the thoughts which came to me during the period at the end of
my first trial; but before I quote from my note-book—it will be
unnecessary to open it, for I shall never forget what is inside—it may
be of interest to know the circumstances under which the entries were
written.
My trial for murder is almost over. The evidence against me has all been
given—there was none offered in my defence, for technical reasons. The
closing arguments by counsels have been made; the judge has charged the
jury, and the jury is out. My fate rests upon the knees of the gods. All
of which means that I am in a little iron pen, and that twelve men
occupy the next room, deliberating whether life or death shall be my
portion. I am very tired; for full three months I have been under a
physical strain and a mental tension—I have been falsely accused, I am
innocent. There are three who know this—myself, the man who did the
murder, and God.
February 10, 1900. The first entry at 3.30 o’clock P.M.
The keepers are watching me curiously. Their trained eyes are like
microscopes, through which they study and compare my conduct with that
of previous defendants whom they have guarded under similar
circumstances. They are calculating how long it will take for me to
break down and show nervousness. I think they have a bet on the subject.
It is irritating. If I should ask for a drink of water, they would
exchange glances. I must not throw away my cigar before it is quite
smoked up, neither must I let it go out—for these are bad signs. No
laughter on my part, even should something impress me as being
amusing—it would sound “forced.” And, above all, no blowing of the nose,
even if I want to. They will suspect a surreptitious use of my
handkerchief for another purpose. Any one may guess, and very cleverly,
at mental agony expressed through physical distress. But what if there
are no visible signs of distress? There shall be none. I wonder how they
will interpret my occupation of writing this? If they imagine I am
making my will they must think me possessed of much to give away.
I have speculated about my guards and answered their kind inquiries. I
am killing time; the afternoon is slipping away quickly. At any rate,
the jury cannot stay out much longer. I look at my watch—eight minutes
and a half have passed. Good God! Only eight minutes and a half!
The second entry at four o’clock.
I am chemist enough to love an experiment. The jury is the unknown
substance; the testimony, the reagent; my case is in solution; what will
precipitate?
I think of the judge’s charge. I can repeat it word for word; it is
seared into my brain; but it would have been more cruel had it aroused a
false hope. How did it impress the jury? Over and over again, the old
question cries out in my mind: “What will the jury do?”
You may be sure I selected pleasant-faced men; men with little fans made
of wrinkles at the corners of their eyes; men who smiled often; who had
pleasant voices.
What a change comes over a talesman when he becomes a juror! He is
sworn. He takes his seat in the box; he will hold your life in his hand;
you cannot get rid of him. Now you look at him in this new aspect, and
there is a leer about his mouth, a cruelty in his eyes you had not seen
before. Why did you select him—a man with a jaw like that? It was
suicide.
I think of the prosecution’s case. They will convict me, of course. I
reconsider it from my point of view. No, they cannot! No jury in the
world could convict on such theories. But on what will they base an
acquittal? There was no defence. I remember the surprises the district
attorney’s office has sprung upon me—the unanswered witnesses, the
fervent experts swearing to the impassioned hypothetical questions of
the prosecutor, and his closing address, scathing, unjust. There is no
chance for me—the odds are thousands to one against acquittal.
Even so, whispers Hope, that happens every day. Think of the
lotteries—the odds in them are many thousands to one against the winning
ticket; but one ticket _must_ win. There can be no—That’s it! “The
reasonable doubt”! But there has been no defence. It is hopeless. Then
the presumption of innocence? Ah, they will disagree; I know it, I am
sure of juror number ----; I shall have another chance; but what will
the jury do? Perhaps they will exonerate me.
The third entry: 5 o’clock.
I have gone over the merits of the case again, coolly, dispassionately.
I have counted the points against me on the fingers of my right hand,
and checked off the points in my favor on the left. I shall be convicted
is my conclusion.
How will they take it at home—my mother, my—Stop that! _Stop that!_ You
are not to speculate on that subject; there must be no redness about the
eyes, no twitching mouth when you face that jury for the last time. Use
your brain—think of something else.
I am sick of the case; it can have but one issue. I must drive it from
my mind by some other subject. I must have a proposition to
prove—anything. Why does time pass so slowly? for instance; that will
do.
It _is_ going slowly. This afternoon is a life-time—but why? That is a
very good subject; it is an intensely real one. That this afternoon is
“a life-time” is not only figurative—it is literal. Think of it; as long
a life-time as you will, is composed of what? Of course I mean
mentally—not what happens; that is hardly worth chronicling. What
constitutes our interest in life? Surely it is because we cannot tell
what the next day—or the next moment, for that matter—may bring forth.
We hope, but uncertainty gives that hope its zest. Because we cannot
discount the future, the unexpected is life, and life is Doubt. Can
enough doubt be crowded into a few hours, or even minutes, to constitute
a life-time? You will know it possible if you have ever waited—while the
jury is out.
This must be the secret of the drama—the mimic life—in which the aroused
hopes and fears and sympathies are but other names for doubt. Imagine,
then, the suspense, the doubt, of the waiting man in this play with real
life or death, and concentrate the emotions of a whole audience into
that single brain.
The fourth entry: 6.30 o’clock.
There is a noise in the street below. I look out of the window at the
crowd; they are waiting also from curiosity. Newspapers are being
sold—newspapers full of unjust and imaginary stories about me and mine.
The journalists are eager to sell these inventions while interest in my
case lasts, hence the newspapers are “extras.” While watching this I see
the jury go to dinner in an old-fashioned white stage, such as used to
carry passengers on Broadway. Perhaps it is the same stage in which I
rode with my mother to Manhattanville thirty years ago—I a little fellow
in kilt skirts and white stockings. How well I remember it!
The fifth entry: 8 o’clock.
They will allow no one to see me; that is, none of my friends, but
curious officials come in on imaginary errands to look me over. The jury
returned some time ago; they have now deliberated for five hours.
Evidently some one is holding out. Having done so for this length of
time, it looks like a disagreement; unless some one changes his mind.
Why should a juror change his mind? He has sworn to go by the evidence.
Do the opinions of his companions change the evidence?
I wish that there was no jury system. Having five judges to preside
would be much better. They would go by facts, their ears would not be
tickled by mere eloquence; experience would teach them when witnesses
were lying. And, best of all, five judges would know the real value of
expert testimony; yes, they would know that, for they would hear the
official experts expounding one theory to-day, have heard its opposite
yesterday, and will hear the repudiation of both to-morrow.
The sixth entry: 8.30 o’clock.
They brought me sandwiches and a cup of coffee. While disposing of them
I talked to my friends the keepers, telling them about my experiences in
the cattle business so long ago and so far away. They paid me the pretty
compliment of saying that I take matters more coolly than any one they
had ever seen; that I show no emotion—I knew they were watching for it.
Am I confident? No, I am not. Strange to say, I am becoming indifferent.
After all, what does it matter so far as I am concerned?
Like the stag making his last stand and being torn by the hounds, better
die than escape wounded to suffer more; better have it over and done
with. And as for my home, my family—stop that!
The seventh entry: 9 o’clock.
The refinement of cruelty. I have been taken into the court-room twice;
each time with exposed nerves which are scraped and singed by the
questions the jury has come in to ask, and the answers which push me
nearer to the edge of the precipice. Each time I have gone prepared for
the end. It is interesting, but not amusing. I saw my father last at two
o’clock, seven hours ago. He has grown seven years older since then. My
brother is in court. He is four years my senior; he looks an old man—I
wonder how I look. My attorneys are very serious as they whisper
together.
The eighth entry: 10 o’clock.
Three months I have been on trial; twice a day I have been taken into
court—morning and afternoon. The signal which summons me is made by
rapping a key on the iron door. This is symbolic—key and door. Which way
will the key turn? Will the door open or close for me? I feel that the
next summons will answer these questions. They are rapping the key on
the door.
The last entry: midnight.
I was right. I found out about the key and the door on the third
summons. It is _not_ three times and—_out_.
I entered the yellow room. It was packed. Every one turned to look at
me. It was a picture of a storm at sea; the pale faces were the
whitecaps. It foreboded trouble—shipwreck. A little strain of music had
run in my head all the afternoon—“The Blessing of the Poniards,” from
the “Huguenots”—a full orchestra seemed to play it then; I marched to
it.
We sat down and waited for the jury. While doing so this thought
intruded itself upon me: Had I the gambler’s fever; would “wheel” or
“bank” ever interest me again after this?
Imagine becoming excited over a hundred dollars placed on the red or
black! Of what concern would be a little white ball running around and
tumbling into holes; or cards, two at a time, being drawn from a silver
box; or, for that matter, five pasteboards held in my own hand?
The jury entered; they would not look at me. I knew. The judge entered;
we all rose to show our respect—for his gown. He looked pleased; he must
have known the verdict as well as I.
“The jury will rise.”
“The prisoner will rise.”
What luck! The chimes from the “New York Life” building, around the
corner, struck eleven. Yes, so it proved. “New York Life” was bidding me
good-by. The gentlemen of the jury had agreed upon a verdict. They found
the prisoner guilty of murder in the first degree.
There was applause from the _judge’s_ chambers; a woman’s voice cried
out, “Oh, good! Good—good!” A window opened and I saw a carrier-pigeon
flash out and fly away. All this to the accompaniment of a groan which
ran around the court-room. One woman—God bless her—fainted; and then I
felt my father’s hand in mine.
The game is over, and I have lost. I must be a good loser, for the crowd
in the corridors cheered me—cheered a convicted man on his way to the
“Bridge of Sighs.”
Then I was under a compound microscope. Convicted men seem to be
interesting men; at least, not one of those unwinking eyes would have
missed a single tit-bit of my agony had I displayed any. But plain,
vulgar pride came to my rescue; for I had seen convicted men carried
back to the Tombs, undressed, and put to bed like sick babies; I had
heard them howl all night and beg for liquor; some of them had tried to
throw themselves downstairs.
But my mother, my—stop that! For God’s sake don’t think of that; perhaps
later, in the dark----
We crossed the “Bridge of Sighs.” We stepped into the prison yard,
flooded with moonlight. It was like the last act of “Romeo and Juliet”
among the tombs. Poor, mad Romeo! I thought of other moonlit scenes; of
another Romeo; of love vows never to be renewed—that is, I started to
think of them—something I must not do. It was all the fault of the queen
of night. I had not bathed in her mysterious light for twelve long
months. (It was three years before I worshipped her glory again.)
Never in my life have I been so touched; never so near breaking down, as
when, on that night, the keepers in the Tombs, where I had lodged so
long, expressed to me their sympathy and confidence. I believed in their
sincerity then; I have never doubted it since.
Next morning.
I went to my little cell; and, with my best philosophy, undid the
chattels I had packed so carefully that morning and addressed to home. I
slept. What? Sleep? Certainly. There was no more suspense; I was legally
dead. Life had stopped with its forfeiture; relief had come from doubt.
I slept. It proved my proposition of the afternoon.
THE SECOND JURY. Nov. 11, 1902.
The jury sitting at my second trial has retired, and three years later I
find myself under almost precisely similar circumstances to those just
described. I will note the variations. The suspense, the doubt, should
be worse than at the previous trial, knowing, as I do, what it is to be
a convicted man, and what it would mean to go all through it again. I
know it, all the way from the ceremony of passing the death sentence to
the opening of the little door.
Strangely enough, that same strain of music hums in my brain, repeating
itself over and over again. I do not believe I have thought of it once
during the last three years. Yet, here it is, and I shall march to it
again.
What will the jury do?
I do not think about my case this time; if acquitted, I shall be pleased
for my father’s and mother’s sake. If convicted, as far as I am
personally concerned I am absolutely indifferent. I am like a man who,
having fallen from the roof of some sky-scraper, lies mangled in the
street below. Suppose an old friend comes along and kicks him? He cannot
feel it because his back is broken. I can suffer no more whatever
happens; and I have forgotten how to rejoice.
Acquitted, convicted—I am indifferent. Since that night I watched the
dawn come to the Death-Chamber, as God lives, I have not cared.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CHAPTER XXI_
_Impressions—The Friendship of Imagination_
I found myself in the Death-Chamber; others were there. Our small
community being an American institution, we were all “free and equal,”
of course with the exception of the former. Unhappy, indeed, would be
the life of any one in that room who did not recognize this equality.
But most of my fellow citizens refused to exist in the present. Making
of the Death-Chamber a half-way house, they alternately lived in the
past, or died in the future; and they were perfectly logical in doing
so; it was quite excusable. Our existence there was certainly not life,
and it was not nearly as comfortable as death. So they brooded, and the
Death-Chamber is a bad place in which to brood. Some of my companions
acted very foolishly when those long, hot, humid summer days arrived.
Here, then, was a problem. I must learn to amuse myself, I must
cultivate my own acquaintance; I must make friends with my own identity.
This was not difficult, for we possessed a mutual friend—a close,
personal, dearly intimate friend. One who had been with me in the mines
of Mexico and on the alkali plains of Texas. Together we had paced the
white decks of yachts in summer; had spent the evenings in my library,
and the days in my color factory in the winter. A friend, who, by
special permission of the warden came to live with me, to share my
degradation. Wasn’t he a good fellow? I consulted my friend: I have
always done so. I am consulting him now, for I am smoking my favorite
pipe. The introduction took place, was accepted on both sides, and I
formed the acquaintance, and afterwards friendship, of my own
Imagination.
My new friend—I hope you will meet him some day, if you have not done so
already—taught me to “penetrate the veil,” to look right through and
beyond and above all conditions. I cultivated the friendship of
Imagination still further, and the whole earth and its fulness became
mine. No one could sentence my thoughts to imprisonment, they were free.
I began to live mentally. It was my birthday.
He counselled me not to waste those years. “What an opportunity!” he
said. So for twenty months I devoured books from the prison library. No
telephones, or duns, or bores could interrupt me; there were no social
duties, no business to interfere. I read, I dreamed, I improvised. Then
it was but a step to writing, and I must say Imagination was very nasty
about that. He made me review my grammar with diligence. To satisfy him,
I had to study rhetoric anew.
He opened my eyes. The Death-Chamber was full of—_life_. There was
Romance, Tragedy, of course; and even Comedy looked in through the
skylight and set me laughing now and then. Material was all around me;
stories about the Death-Chamber came into my mind so quickly that I
could not write half of them down; they sprang up and choked me, where
before had been only barren land. I set down the least horrible, for
some—yes, many—could not be printed; and if you have found these grim or
out of line, it is because of environment and of their truth.
Then Imagination and I went away to England. We wrote a novel. In it are
no prisoners and no crime, but it is full of the sea, brave men, a cruel
woman. It is a tale of love.
Imagination is a humorous fellow—he must have his joke. He made me
interested in things dramatic; he advised the purchase of everything I
could hear of on the subject—text-books, essays. I bought two hundred
plays, and he and I went to the theatre every evening at eight, and
attended matinées on Saturday at two. Just one play each evening, and
after the curtain fell we talked it over and criticised—we analyzed
those two hundred plays—Imagination and I. We laughed at costume
comedies, studied the plays of social life—from Sheridan to Fitch—and
delved for motives in the modern problem plays; watched Mansfield, Drew,
and Sothern in all their rôles. Over Cyrano de Bergerac and L’Aiglon we
poured the tribute of a tear to Rostand’s genius.
And then (how did he keep from laughing in my face?) Imagination egged
me on into writing plays—many of them. If he made me think the
“actable,” he well deserved the name.
It was all my own fault: the smoke from my older friend often got up
into my eyes and warned me. This old pipe of mine played the cynic and
was perfectly frank about my dramas. But I wouldn’t listen. I blundered
on until I found a “_fidus Achates_” to help and guide me. Together we
hope to restrain this strenuous fellow a little.
* * * * *
It’s all over now. My pipe, Imagination, and a faithful friend, I have
found them all, and I “found _myself_” in the Death-Chamber.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CHAPTER XXII_
_The Last Story_
This is the story I can never tell, yet will spend all the rest of my
life in telling—but how hopelessly. I cannot even think of it without
something coming up into my throat to choke me. It is about my love for
the soldier father, and the mother almost divine, who have suffered with
and for me.
I can no more express this emotion than the sorrow they have borne for
me can be told. Ah, but both are written—written in the deeper lines
upon their dear faces, and illustrated in their grayer hairs; while how
and why I love them, is imprinted eternally upon my heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CHAPTER XXIII—APPENDIX_
_“The Story of the Ring”_
_By Vance Thompson_
_(By the courtesy of the New York “Journal”)_
It was bludgeon against rapier which began yesterday; it was the
battle-axe against the stiletto; it was Osborne against Molineux; and
Molineux won.
Never, I think, was so dramatic a duel fought out in a court-room. There
was very little noise. The surface of it was quiet as a pool. The casual
observer would have seen merely two men—the one in the witness chair and
the other lounging against the lawyers’ table—who seemed to be
exchanging polite commonplaces. They were courteous. Now and again they
smiled at each other, with polite amiability. They “mistered” each
other. Yet underneath this unrippled surface was a tremendous tragic
depth, in which they clutched and struggled, fierce and silent. It was a
fight for life. For Molineux it was life and honor—or the throttling
shame of the electric chair. For Osborne it was either a vindication of
his methods as a prosecuting officer, or it was bitter defeat. He was
fighting for his professional life as truly as the haggard prisoner was
fighting for the breath of life.
Never again will you see such a battle waged—so tense, so watchful, so
merciless.
Molineux, to be sure, came pallid and wasted from the cell where they
have shut him up for nearly four years. He had the look of one of those
mouldy men who creep up into the sunlight now and then from the cellars
of the world. But no sooner had he taken his seat in the witness chair,
no sooner had he faced his adversary, than the race showed in him. He
threw back his prison-worn head and squared his shoulders; he set his
jaws until his thin lips made a straight line, like a sabre gash, across
his face. He was ready; every nerve and ounce of brain in him was alert.
He was ready to do battle for his life. The apathy and sluggishness of
the cell-dweller fell away from him. In this supreme moment he was
almost the man he had been before they arrested him and put him away.
As for Osborne, he was flushed, savagely earnest. His eyes blazed
whether he would or not, and every now and again he smote his great red
hands together. The joy of battle was upon him. Such joy the Apache
knows when he sights his enemy; such joy must have stirred the gladiator
when he rushed into the arena. To be sure this exaltation did not last
through the day, but for a few hours it added zest to the duel.
Just such a mob as should have watched this duel gathered in the
court-room. Heaven knows where they came from—these women with
out-of-date clothes and pendent earrings; these perfumed girls with
slashing hats and equivocal eyes. They crowded in, guarded by fatted
municipal underlings; they filled one-third of the court-room; and all
day, like cigarette girls at a bullfight, they chewed sweetmeats and
craned and whispered and grinned. Then there were those who had business
there—that honest, white old man, General Molineux, unwavering in belief
in his “boy,” for one; for another, there was Harry Cornish—gray from
head to foot this one. He was dressed in gray; his gloves were gray; his
very face was gray, and the eyes in his deep-lined face were the color
of ashes. All day he sat watching the prisoner with swift, furtive
glances; watching the reporters; watching the audience; always watching,
watching.
There was never so observing a man.
What of Molineux? He made an excellent witness. He gave an impression of
utter sincerity. Perhaps this was due to Mr. Black’s admirable
examination. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he was telling the
truth. In any case, he scored heavily. The jurymen nodded approval. Had
the case gone to them last night they would have given him—beyond all
doubt—the key of the street. Molineux, too, looked content.
The Assistant District Attorney began slowly. Round-shouldered, stooping
a bit, in an ill-fitting new coat, with red face and prognathous jaw, he
stood for a moment staring at the prisoner. His eyes were burned out as
though from lack of sleep. Molineux straightened up in his chair and
joined his hands in his lap. Evidently he was summoning all his
resolution and all his self-possession. At last he was face to face with
the man who for nearly four years had bent every energy of his fierce
nature to the task of destroying him; of blackening his home, and
branding him with the red mark of murder. And this he knew would be the
fiercest assault of all—the final one. He was on guard.
They crossed swords very ceremoniously at first. Beneath all the
politeness there was, on one side, a deadly and savage earnestness; on
the other was the wariness of the man whose back is to the wall and who
fences for his life. And yet how suave they were! They might have been
rehearsing the amiable history of Gaston and Alphonse. It was “Mr.
Molineux” and “Mr. Osborne.” One almost expected the “My dear Mr.
Molineux” and “My dear Mr. Osborne.” And so, with a curious, almost
artificial smile on his red and heavy face, the great Apache of the
District-Attorney’s office began. He wanted to know about the divorce
case.
“How old were you, Mr. Molineux?” he asked.
“Fifteen, Mr. Osborne,” was the answer.
Mr. Osborne looked painfully shocked; just so a man might look should he
be arrested as a burglar while making a midnight call upon a friend.
“Fifteen!” he repeated. “And the husband was a dear personal friend of
yours, was he not?”
Molineux acknowledged that he knew the husband. The prosecutor nodded
significantly to the jurymen. They, being men of the world, and some of
them bull-necked men of the world, did not seem to take it very
seriously. Molineux seemed rather ashamed of it. Osborne, however, would
not let go. Three times he went over it, as a woman wipes a dish,
turning it first on this side and then on that. At last the good gray
judge wearied of it.
“He’s already answered all that,” he said quietly.
Osborne flashed up like gunpowder. All the savagery in him showed in an
instant. It was as though a bulldog had shown his teeth. He took a step
forward toward the bench and half snarled, half shouted:
“Your Honor, I can’t cross-examine this witness if you interrupt me like
that!”
Mr. Jerome clutched his assistant’s arm and tried to quiet him, but
Osborne shook him off. Justice Lambert looked at him and smiled his
enigmatic, up-the-State smile.
“I will interrupt you, Mr. Osborne,” he said, “whenever I think it
necessary. Now go on.”
Mr. Osborne went back to his place and drank a large glass of water.
That soothed him, but for the rest of the session his nerves were out of
tune, and then the burden of politeness lay heavy upon him. Then for a
little while he questioned the prisoner as to his knowledge of
chemistry. Molineux admitted that his attainments were fairly good. He
knew of it all a paint maker need know.
So far Osborne had been defeated all along the line. The defendant had
answered every question unhesitatingly and with engaging frankness. He
had parried every thrust, even that deadly lunge of his fifteen-year-old
co-respondent.
The Assistant District Attorney seemed to think in lumps. He jumped
backward and forward in his cross-examination in a way that would have
baffled an ordinary witness.
Never once, however, did he lead Molineux into a quagmire. Osborne sat
down, drank a glass of water, and whispered to Jerome. While his
adversary sought for a new weapon, Molineux turned and looked through
the green-shaded window. For an instant the alert air of
self-possession, the look of the ready swordsman, fell away from his
face. The old, weary prison look crept over it. It was as though a mask
had slipped from some tired dancer’s face. He looked haggard, yellow,
old. As he turned he saw, just over his head, the cruel Roman symbol of
vengeance—the faces and the axe; saw, too, the calm women who spin the
thread of life, crouching on the shadowy, frescoed wall, a naked skull
at their feet. Something seemed to grip his throat. He strangled a
moment, then he coughed and spat. With a sudden gesture he drew his
hands across his eyes and pulled himself together. Osborne’s burnt-out
eyes were fixed on him. At that very instant he had himself in hand
again. From that moment he never for a second lowered his guard. His
attention was persistent as the pull of a magnet. His will was like
steel. He shunned every quagmire and escaped every pitfall with
marvellous dexterity, and with seeming unconsciousness that he had
passed the peril by.
He is an extraordinary man. The brain in him is first rate. His
intelligence is high above the average. Withal there seems no
insincerity in him. He was fighting for his life, but he talked as
calmly as though he had been in a drawing-room. Not only did he answer
every question, he went out of his way to volunteer information. He
answered questions to which his counsel objected until Mr. Black said:
“Oh, well, let him answer—let him tell everything.” And it was this very
frankness that at first confused and finally baffled the great Apache of
the prosecution. Moreover, his courtesy was charming. When Mr. Osborne
floundered in the midst of an intricate sentence the defendant would
help him out.
Gradually this told upon the Assistant District Attorney’s nerves. It
is difficult to bully a polite, accomplished man, and Mr. Osborne’s
successful cross-examinations have always been those in which he
banged the witness about the ears with a bludgeon. An hour before the
usual time for the adjournment of court he had had enough of it. To
his ill-concealed discontent he was told to go on with his
cross-examination. He shifted from subject to subject, playing, as it
were, round the case. Always the little prisoner met him, cool,
efficient, ready. At last, upon the insistence of District-Attorney
Jerome, an adjournment was granted. Mr. Osborne went away to furbish
up new weapons for to-day.
Molineux stood up. He glanced at the jury. They were whispering
together. Evidently it had been a good day for the defence. The rapier
had mastered the bludgeon. And as he stood there, waiting for the
jailmen to take him to his cell and lock him in, his father came up, a
smile on his careworn, tragic face, and laid one arm around his neck.
“I am proud of you, my boy,” he said; “proud of you.”
That was bravely said. It is easy enough to be proud of a son who wins
his way in the world and gets honor and fame. It is finer, perhaps, to
be proud of the son who carries himself well in the hour of black shame
and peril; who can bear himself well even though the next day may send
him to the electric chair. What was he proud of, the old fighting man?
Of the good blood, perhaps, that flows the steadier the greater the
danger is.
* * * * *
For fifteen fateful minutes Molineux was on the stand this morning.
Assistant District-Attorney Osborne had spent the greater part of the
night preparing for his promised attack. He had assured the court that
he would occupy two hours in probing the pallid little man who stands
charged with murder. He promised a sensation.
“Osborne has something up his sleeve,” said the lawyers.
The spectators buzzed it among themselves.
“Osborne has something up his sleeve!”
And so he had; but it was only his arm. The expected did not happen. The
sensation did not materialize. And yet Molineux could not foretell this
when he took his seat in the witness chair and clasped his nervous hands
upon his knee. He was cold and white and firm; watchful, too, for
Osborne faced him with an air of savage concentration.
It was the crisis of the trial. It was the crucial moment. It was the
crossroads, whence one path led to freedom and the other ran darkly away
to shame and death. Molineux knew it. Osborne knew it. They eyed each
other like men who are to meet in the death struggle. The Assistant
District Attorney was evidently nervous. He moistened his lips with ice
water and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he threw one leg
across the table in his free and easy way and leaned forward. Having
failed by direct questions to tangle the little prisoner in the net, he
attacked him indirectly—and not very chivalrously—by dragging in the
name of that unhappy woman who is now Molineux’s wife. Of course, from
the viewpoint of a prosecuting officer, all is fair in law. It is fair
to help a witness, fair to throw mud at a woman—even though she is
outside the case and aloof—but it is not always wise. In a low voice he
began questioning the prisoner.
“Did Barnet pay any attention to your wife?” he asked.
Molineux’s face hardened. He brought his jaws together; a glimmer like
that of steel leaped into his misty eyes; but that was all. He answered
the question quietly enough, but it was evident that the introduction of
his wife’s name touched him on the raw. All that was chivalrous in him
came to the surface. And in spite of the fact that he was rusted in
prison for four years, there is still a deal of chivalry in him.
He admitted that Barnet had paid many attentions to Miss Cheeseborough
in the days before he and she had become betrothed. It was another
indirect way of getting Barnet into the case and of insinuating a motive
for murder.
“Did you give your wife an engagement ring?” the Assistant District
Attorney asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I should like to explain that, Mr. Osborne.”
“I am not trying to entrap you, Mr. Molineux,” said the prosecutor,
sweetly, “but suppose you answer my question. Wasn’t that ring bought
November 18, 1898—one week after Barnet died?”
“There were two rings,” said Molineux.
Then he told the story of the ring. It was a strange romance to listen
to in the stifling home of crime. It was like a lily blooming in a
pesthouse. As Molineux told it his voice softened into wonderful
tenderness. He did not look at Osborne. He did not seem to see the jury
or the crowded, morbid court-room. He was living again the days of love.
“There were two rings,” he repeated. “One was a mizpah ring—like this
one,” and he drew the ring from his finger. “My mother gave this ring to
me long ago. I have always worn it. Miss Cheeseborough admired it, and I
gave her one like it for a Christmas present. Then, when we became
engaged, she said that should be her engagement ring—she would have no
other. But when we came to arrange for our wedding she decided that the
mizpah ring should be our wedding ring. It was sentiment,” he added; “it
was her wish. And so I bought the second ring, of which Mr. Osborne has
just spoken.”
All this was said very simply. There was, however, such pathos in the
voice, so fine a sincerity in the face, that the effect upon the jury
and upon the audience was extraordinary. It was the first time that
Molineux had shown his heart—he held it out for the Assistant District
Attorney to peck at. And there was a pause. Mr. Osborne fumbled his
papers and hesitated. Then he asked a few unimportant questions, which
did not mask his defeat. Abruptly he sat down. The famous duel had been
fought and lost. Molineux had outpointed him at every turn. For a while
the Mad Mullah of the District Attorney’s office sulked, refusing
comfort. In vain Jerome hugged him round the neck and patted his
shoulder.
It has lasted fifteen minutes. In that time the case was virtually
tried. Osborne’s last attack was not his best. The Apache who goes out
for a scalp should not loiter by the way to throw stones at a woman. So
far from helping his case by bringing in Mrs. Molineux, he hurt it.
Osborne’s attack upon the prisoner’s wife paved the way for his most
telling defeat. It opened the door for Molineux. It permitted him to
recount the romance of the ring. It gave him an opportunity to show that
there was more in him than a keen and wary brain—that there was a heart.
And that went home to the jury. All the world loves love, and a juryman
is like the rest of us—part of the world.
He gave Molineux his opportunity, for the man who defends a woman is
always in the right.
And he used it superbly. There were no heroics. There was only the story
of the ring. There was only romance. There was only a hint of true love
and an old love story. That was all, but it turned the truculent
prosecutor’s attack into utter defeat. Osborne knew it. Molineux knew
it. The great cross-examiner’s promised flaying of Molineux had
miscarried. Had Osborne been retained for the defence he could have done
no more for the pallid little prisoner. He flung himself into his chair
and sat there, gulping ice water, mopping his red face.
The prisoner kept his seat in the witness chair.
Governor Black arose. His hands in his pockets, a smile on his face, he
looked at his client.
“I have no questions to ask,” he said cheerfully. “That is all, Mr.
Molineux.”
The prisoner went back to his accustomed place. The old father got him
by the hand. They laughed softly as they gripped hands. The little
prisoner was years younger than he was two days ago. His eyes looked
human and bright. At last he could see the sunlight shining. He and hope
were together again. His lawyers shook his hand again and again. The old
General whispered to him, proud and happy. It was as though the case was
already won.
And it all happened in fifteen minutes—in ten minutes—in five
minutes—while Molineux was telling the story of the ring.
A better witness never took the stand. Unguided, without a single
interruption from his counsel, he foiled the great Apache of the
prosecution at every turn. If he did not win his case, it is because the
case is past winning. He won, at all events, the sympathy of the
swarming spectators. He impressed, in any case, the wearied jurors.
Again it was rapier first and bludgeon second.