MARRIAGE IS IMPOSSIBLE.
Directly the Judge had finished his summing-up, the jury rose and left
the Court to consider their verdict.
The general opinion was that they would not take much time before coming
to a decision, and so quite half the people remained in their places. A
subdued hum of conversation arose; women surreptitiously powdered their
faces, others fanned themselves. In the corridors outside barristers
discussed the case.
"Guilty, right enough!" the majority agreed. A few wiseacres shook their
heads. They were not so sure. Certainly Rupert Dale's attitude had
been that of a guilty man, so much so that to those who had had a wide
experience of criminals he seemed innocent.
It's the guilty man who invariably assumes the mask of innocence to
perfection.
It was in vain that both counsel and solicitors tried to persuade Ruby
Strode to leave the Court. She was as white as death and looked as if at
any moment she might faint. Her friend Iris Colyer sat by her side and
did her best to comfort and console her. But Ruby seemed scarcely
conscious of her surroundings. Feeling had almost deserted her.
She was possessed by just one thought. She had failed to save her
lover. Twice she had tried to save him. And each time she had failed.
Now she had been prepared to take his place in the dock--to suffer for
the crime she had committed. And they would not believe her. The fools
would not believe her when she confessed she was guilty. In her own mind
she had proved her guilt. She sat huddled up, her hands clasped between
her knees, her eyes fixed on the door through which the jury had
disappeared. But ever and again she muttered to herself, and those
sitting near her caught fragments of what she said:
"_I alone am guilty. I did it._"
Once Robert Despard strolled across to her side, and the solicitors made
way for him. He made a few conventional remarks in the usual strain.
Ruby took no notice. But suddenly he said something which caused her to
sit upright and look at him with flaming eyes, eyes in which contempt
and hatred shone.
"You could have saved him!" she hissed under her breath. "I believe you
know I am guilty. You came into his room that afternoon, and you saw the
cheque in my hand. I felt then, for the moment, that you had some
suspicion."
Despard smiled and laid his hand on hers. "I never suspected you. I
never could!"
She snatched her hand away. "I believe you want him to go to prison
because----"
She faltered, and for a moment her white cheeks grew scarlet. Despard
knew what she was going to say, and he could not resist being brutal.
"Because I loved you?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, I was very
fond of you once, Ruby. But you rejected and snubbed me, remember.
That's all over now, and I've found some one who will be kinder than you
were. No, I shouldn't have much cared if you had gone to prison." He
lowered his voice: "Though on the whole it will suit my book better if
Rupert is found guilty. As a matter of fact, I suppose you're both in
the same boat, and if justice were done, both of you would suffer."
"And you called yourself his friend!" she cried. "If Rupert goes to
prison I swear you shall pay; for I know, if you had chosen to speak,
you could have saved him, and helped to prove the truth of my
confession."
Despard rose, and picking up his velour hat, brushed it carelessly.
"I shouldn't get so excited; if you raise your voice like that you'll be
turned out of Court." He bowed mockingly. "In case we don't meet
again, Miss Strode, good-bye."
"We shall meet again one day!" she said between her teeth.
Then her head sank forward; she clasped her hands together again between
her knees and resumed her former attitude.
Half an hour passed; three-quarters. The tension became unbearable.
She heard a man laugh in the corridor. Behind her a couple of
barristers were telling a funny story under their breath. In the
gallery a woman dropped her fan; and as she happened to be good-looking,
there was quite a little commotion to recover it. And her lover's
honour, his freedom, his very life, lay in the balance. She swept the
Court fearlessly with her eyes; half of these people had come out of
curiosity, as they would go to the theatre. Not one of them cared.
She knew what it was to hate, for she hated them now--heartless and
selfish. An hour passed. A minute later there was a sudden commotion.
People began to flock into the Court. The door on which Ruby's eyes had
been fixed opened, and the jury slowly returned to their places. The
usher shouted for order, and the Judge resumed his seat.
Silence came. A pin could have been heard fall. Then the Judge leaned
slightly forward towards the Foreman of the Jury. The little
formalities that took place now seemed needlessly cruel. Ruby scarcely
heard what was said--she was waiting for one of two words: Guilty, or
Not Guilty!
It seemed a long pause before the Foreman answered the final question
addressed to him by the Judge. The answer was what every one expected:
"We find the prisoner guilty, my Lord."
Ruby Strode staggered to her feet; but the solicitors who had been
watching her seized her arm and dragged her down. The Judge passed
sentence: Five years' penal servitude.
The silence was broken, and straightway the Judge rose. A few people
were surprised at the severity; others said that Dale thoroughly
deserved it. For the public the excitement was over, the show was
finished, and in the hurry to get outside into the fresh air, no one
noticed Ruby Strode. She had risen to her feet and stretched out her
arms imploringly to the retreating figure of the Judge.
"My Lord, I did it! I swear to God I did it!" Then she swayed, lost
consciousness, would have fallen had not Mr. Marshall stepped forward
and caught her.
"Poor girl!" he whispered, as with the assistance of one of the ushers
he carried her off to another room. "Poor girl! how she must have loved
him. By gad! they say women haven't as much pluck as men!"
* * * * *
The result was brought to John Dale in Charing Cross Hospital by Mr.
Redway. The kindly solicitor broke the bad news as best he could. He
knew it was no use beating about the bush or trying to deceive the old
man. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to alleviate
the blow. He could only tell him, and in a gentle pressure of the hand
try to convey his deep sympathy--and then leave him.
Dale said nothing. He prepared himself for the worst, but the news for
the moment was almost more than he could bear. He covered his face, so
that none should see it.
Fate could deal him no more crushing blow. His son--his first-born--his
only son!
He prayed that death would come and take him, since there was nothing
left to live for.
It was so Sir Reginald Crichton a few hours later found him and obtained
permission to sit by his side until late into the night. He knew words
were useless; but the old man was alone in London, apparently without a
friend, and he felt that he could not leave him alone in the great
hospital.
"You--why are you here?" John Dale asked at last. "You whom we have
wronged so grievously."
"I, too, am a father," Sir Reginald replied, bending over him. "I also
have one son who is the apple of my eye. This thing might have happened
to him, Mr. Dale--to my boy. That's why I am here. We have got to
share this thing together."
Then for the first time tears shone in Dale's eyes and ran down his
cheeks. He tried to speak, but the poor lips trembled and quivered.
"Your son--is a--gentleman. He could never do anything--mean, Sir
Reginald."
"One never knows," Crichton replied. "Your boy must have been sorely
tempted--if he did it."
Dale raised himself in his bed, and dashed the tears from his eyes. "He
did it," he cried fiercely, "and he must suffer for his sin. It is just
he should pay the penalty. I'm an old man; it won't be easy to hold up
my head and face the world now; but I'll do it. I'll fight still!"
"That's right!" Sir Reginald said cheerily. "You still have something to
fight for.... There's your daughter, Mr. Dale."
Dale started and dropped back on the pillows, hiding his face again.
His daughter Marjorie. Sir Reginald's son loved her--and she loved him.
A great wave of hatred for his son swept over him. Not only had he
ruined his father, but he would break his sister's heart and ruin her
life.
"I shall have to leave town to-morrow," Sir Reginald said as he took his
leave. "But I understand you will be fit to be moved in a few days'
time. Mr. Despard wished to be remembered to you, and said he would
look in and see you to-morrow; and when you're fit to travel he says
he'll take you down to Devonshire himself. He made a proposal to me
directly the trial was over which I must say does him great credit. I
am not at liberty to say what this thing was, but I hope you will be
able to accept it--if not for your own, then for your daughter's sake.
We have got to consider her now, Mr. Dale, before ourselves. She is
young, and life is still sweet to her."
Dale shook his head. "Nothing seems to matter now, Sir Reginald. I
can't conceive what proposal Mr. Despard has to make. He is my son's
friend, not mine. But as you justly say, I must consider Marjorie. For
her I must live and fight in spite of the shame that has fallen upon
me."
Sir Reginald nodded. "That's right. I think you will find Mr. Despard
means well, and sincerely wishes to help you--for Rupert's sake."
He turned to go--then stopped. "Have you written or telegraphed to
Marjorie--the result of the trial I mean?"
Dale shook his head: "She's alone. If she were to hear from the lips of
strangers----"
Crichton nodded. "I tell you what I'll do; I'll wire to Jim the first
thing to-morrow morning and tell him to go over and break the news.
They're old friends and playmates. It will be better than if she sees
it in the newspapers or gets it from the gossips----"
But Dale started up in his bed and stretched out his hands. "No, you
mustn't do that, Sir Reginald. You mustn't do it. Your boy must never
see my daughter again--never!"
"Why not?" Sir Reginald asked, laying his hand on the old man's
shoulder.
Dale looked at him with haggard eyes. "Don't you know? Your son is in
love with Marjorie. He wants to make her his wife!"
Sir Reginald Crichton started and turned away: "My God!" he said under
his breath. "I never suspected that! You're right, Dale, I'm afraid
they must never meet again. I'm sorry--but it's impossible. Any
thought of marriage. Utterly impossible now!"