A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS.
Every one expected that the jury would come into court with a verdict
at the opening of the session on Tuesday morning. There was much
difference of opinion, however, as to what that verdict would be.
But the morning hours went by and the jury still remained in their
room. The constable who watched at the door shook his head and smiled
when asked about the probability of an early agreement. No one seemed
to know just how the jury stood.
Sharpman and his client had been greatly disheartened on Monday night,
and had confessed as much to each other; but the longer the jury
remained out the more hope they gathered. It was apparent that the
verdict would not be rendered under the impulses of the moment; and
that the jury were applying the principles of cold law and stern logic
to the case, there seemed to be little doubt.
But, as a matter of fact, the jury were doing no such thing.
They believed, to a man, that Ralph had told the truth, and that such
an event as he had described had actually taken place in Sharpman's
office; and, notwithstanding the judge's charge, they were trying to
harmonize Ralph's statement with the evidence of the witnesses who
had corroborated Simon Craft's story. This led them into so many
difficulties that they finally abandoned the effort, and the questions
before them were gradually reduced to just one. That question was not
whether Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham; but it was: which would
be better for the boy, to decide in favor of the plaintiff or of the
defendant. If they found for the plaintiff, they would throw the
boy's fortune into the hands of Craft and Sharpman, where they feared
the greater part of it would finally remain. If they found for the
defendant, they would practically consign the lad to a life of
homelessness and toil. It was to discuss and settle this question,
therefore, that the jury remained locked up in their room through so
many hours.
The day wore on and no verdict was rendered. Sharpman's spirits
continued to rise, and Goodlaw feared that his case was lost.
At four o'clock the jury sent in word that they had agreed, and a few
minutes later they filed into the court-room. When their verdict had
been inspected by the judge it was given to the prothonotary to read.
He faced the jury, saying:--
"Gentlemen of the jury, listen to your verdict as the court has it
recorded. In the case wherein Simon Craft, guardian of the estate
of Ralph Burnham, a minor, is plaintiff, and Margaret Burnham,
administrator of the estate of Robert Burnham, deceased, is defendant,
you say you find for the defendant, and that the boy Ralph is _not_
the son of Robert Burnham. So say you all?"
The jury nodded assent, and the verdict was filed. That settled it.
Craft and Sharpman were beaten.
It was very strange that a solid truth, backed up by abundant and
irreproachable evidence, presented under the strict rules of law and
the solemn sanction of an oath, should be upset and shattered by a
flimsy falsehood told by an unknown adventurer, heard unawares by
a listening child, and denied a proper entrance into court. It was
strange but it was very true. Yet in that ruin was involved one of
the boldest schemes for legal plunder that was ever carried into the
courts of Luzerne County.
Sharpman felt that a fortune had slipped from his grasp, and that he
had lost it by reason of his own credulity and fear. He saw now the
mistake he had made in not defying Rhyming Joe. He knew now that the
fellow never would have dared to appear in court as a witness. He felt
that he had not only lost his money, but that he had come dangerously
near to losing what character he had, also. He knew that it was all
due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself,
and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant.
But if Sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was
tenfold greater.
Simon Craft was in a most unenviable mood. At times, indeed, he grew
fairly desperate. The golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight
years had burst and vanished. He had told the truth, he had been
honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's
mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict
of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. This was the
burden of his complaint. But aside from this he was filled with bitter
regret. If he had only closed his bargain with Robert Burnham on the
day it had been made! If he had only made his proposition to Mrs.
Burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild
scheme with this visionary lawyer! This was his silent sorrow. His
misery was deep and apparent. He had grown to be ten years older in a
day. This misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to
be honest and to do good. This was the reward of virtue, these the
wages of charity.
Tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned
his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. The
judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a
share of his malignant hatred and abuse. For Mrs. Burnham he had only
silent contempt. Her honest desire to have right done had been too
apparent from the start. The only fault he had to find with her was
that she did not come to his rescue when the tide was turning against
him. But against Ralph the old man's wrath and indignation were
intense.
Had he not saved the child from death? Had he not fed and clothed and
cared for him during five years? Had he not rescued him from oblivion,
and made every effort to endow him with wealth and position and an
honored name? And then, to think that in the very moment when these
efforts were about to meet with just success, this boy had turned
against him, and brought ruin and disgrace upon him. Oh, it was too
much, too much!
If he could only have the lad in his possession for a week, he
thought, for a day, for an hour even, he would teach him the cost of
turning traitor to his friends. Oh, he would teach him!
Then it occurred to him that perhaps he might get possession of the
boy, and permanent possession at that. Had not Ralph sworn that he was
Simon Craft's grandson? Had not the jury accepted Ralph's testimony
as true? And had not the court ordered judgment to be entered on the
jury's verdict? Well, if the court had declared the boy to be his
grandson, he was entitled to him, was he not? If the boy was able to
earn anything, he was entitled to his earnings, was he not? If he was
the child's grandfather, then he had authority to take him, to govern
him, to punish him for disobedience--was not that true?
Old Simon rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room,
hammering his cane upon the floor at every step.
The idea was a good one, a very good one, and he resolved to act upon
it without delay. He would go the very next day and get the boy and
take him to Philadelphia.
But suppose Ralph should refuse to go, and suppose Bachelor Billy,
with his strong arms, should stand by to protect the lad from force,
what then? Well, there was a law to meet just such a case as that. He
knew of an instance where a child had been taken by its grandfather by
virtue of a writ of _habeas corpus_.
He would get such a writ, the sheriff should go with him, they would
bring Ralph to court again; and since the law had declared the boy to
be Simon Craft's grandson, the law could do nothing else than to place
him in Simon Craft's custody. Then the old man went to bed, thinking
that in the morning he would get Sharpman to prepare for him the
papers that would be necessary to carry his plan into execution.
He derived much pleasure from his dreams that night, for he dreamed
of torturing poor Ralph to his heart's content.
When Bachelor Billy left the court-room that Monday evening with his
unconscious burden in his arms, he remained only long enough in the
court-house square to revive the boy, then he took him to the railway
station, and they went together, by the earliest train, to Scranton.
The next morning Ralph felt very weak and miserable, and did not leave
the house; and Bachelor Billy came home at noon to see him and to
learn what news, if any, had been received from Wilkesbarre. Both he
and Ralph expected that a verdict would be rendered for the defendant,
in accordance with Ralph's testimony, and neither of them were
surprised, therefore, when Andy Gilgallon came up from the city after
supper and informed them that the jury had so found. That settled the
matter, at any rate. It was a relief to Ralph to know that it was at
an end; that he was through with courts and lawyers and judges and
juries, and that there need be no further effort on his part to escape
from unmerited fortune. The tumult that had raged in his mind through
many hours was at last stilled, and that night he slept. He wanted
to go back the next morning to his work at the breaker, but Bachelor
Billy would not allow him to do so. He still looked very pale and
weak, and the anxious man resolved to come home at noon again that day
to see to the lad's health.
Indeed, as the morning wore on, Ralph acknowledged to himself that he
did not feel so well. His head was very heavy, and there was a bruised
feeling over the entire surface of his body. It was a dull day, too;
it rained a little now and then, and was cloudy all the morning. He
sat indoors the most of the time, reading a little, sleeping a little,
and thinking a great deal. The sense of his loss was coming back upon
him very strongly. It was not so much the loss of wealth, or of name,
or of the power to do other and better things than he had ever done
before that grieved him now. But it was that the dear and gentle lady
who was to have been his mother, who had verily been a mother to him
for one sweet day, was a mother to him no longer. To feel that he was
nothing to her now, no more, indeed, than any other ragged, dust-black
boy in Burnham Breaker, this was what brought pain and sorrow to his
heart, and made the hot tears come into his eyes in spite of his
determined effort to hold them back.
He was sitting in his accustomed chair, facing the dying embers of a
little wood fire that he had built, for the morning was a chilly one.
Behind him the door was opened and some one entered the room from the
street. He thought it was Bachelor Billy, just come from work, and
he straightened up in his chair and tried to wipe away the traces of
tears from his face before he should turn to give him greeting.
"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said; "ain't you home early?"
He was still rubbing industriously at his eyes. Receiving no answer he
looked around.
It was not Uncle Billy. It was Simon Craft.
Ralph uttered a cry of surprise and terror, and retreated into a
corner of the room. Old Simon, looking at him maliciously from under
his bushy brows, gradually extended his thin lips into a wicked smile.
"What!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you are afraid of your
affectionate old grandfather? Why, I thought you desired nothing so
much as to go and live with him and be his pet."
The boy's worst fears were realized. Old Simon had come for him.
"I won't go back with you!" he cried. "I won't! I won't!" Then,
changing his tone to one of appealing, he continued: "You didn't come
for me, did you, gran'pa? you won't make me go back with you, will
you?"
"I'm afraid I can't do without you any longer," said Craft, coming
nearer and looking Ralph over carefully. "I'm getting old and sick,
and your presence will be a great comfort to me in my declining years.
Besides, my affection for you is so great that I feel that I couldn't
do without you; oh, I couldn't, I couldn't possibly!" And the old man
actually chuckled himself into a fit of coughing at his grim sarcasm.
"But I don't want to go," persisted the boy. "I'm very happy here.
Uncle Billy's very good to me, an' I'd ruther stay, a good deal
ruther."
At the mention of Uncle Billy's name Old Simon's smile vanished and he
advanced threateningly toward the boy, striking his cane repeatedly on
the floor.
"It don't matter what you want," he said, harshly; "you were crazy to
be my grandson; now the law says you are, and the law gives me the
right to take you and do what I choose with you. Oh, you've got to go!
so get your hat and come along, and don't let's have any more nonsense
about it!"
"Gran'pa--Gran'pa Simon!" exclaimed the terrified boy, shrinking still
farther away, "I can't go back to Philadelphy, I can't! I couldn't
live, I'd die if I went back there! I'd--"
Craft interrupted him: "Well, if you do die, it won't be because
you're killed with kindness, I warrant you. You've cheated me out of
a living and yourself out of a fortune; you've made your own bed, now
you've got to lie in it. Come on, I say! get your hat and come along!"
The old man was working himself into a passion. There was danger in
his eyes. Ralph knew it, too, but the thought of going back to live
with Simon Craft was such a dreadful one to him that he could not
refrain from further pleading.
"I know I belong to you, Gran'pa Simon," he said, "an' I know I've got
to mind you; but please don't make me go back to live with you; please
don't! I'll do anything else in the world you want me to; I'll give
you ev'ry dollar I earn if you'll let me stay here, ev'ry dollar; an'
I'll work hard, too, ev'ry day. I'll--I'll give you--I'll give you--
"Well, what'll you give me? Out with it!"
It was a desperate chance; it called for sacrifice, but Ralph felt
that he would offer it gladly if he could thereby be saved.
"I'll give you," he said, "all the money I've got saved up."
"How much money have you got saved up?" The light of hatred in the
man's eyes gave place, for the time being, to the light of greed.
"About thirty-two dollars."
"Well, give it to me, then, and be quick about it!"
Ralph went to a small closet built into the wall over the chimney, and
took from it a little box.
That box contained his accumulated savings. With a large portion of
the money he had thought to buy new clothing for himself. He had
determined that he would not go to live with Mrs. Burnham, dressed
like a beggar. He would have clothes befitting his station in life.
Indeed, he and Uncle Billy were to have gone out the day before to
make the necessary purchases; but since the change came the matter had
not been thought of. Now he should pay it to Simon Craft as the price
of his freedom. He was willing and more than willing to do so. He
would have given all he ever hoped to earn to save himself from that
man's custody, and would have considered it a cheap release.
He took the money from the box,--it was all paper money,--and counted
it carefully out into Old Simon's trembling hand. There were just
thirty-two dollars.
"Is that all?" said Craft, folding the bills and putting them into an
inside pocket as he spoke.
"Yes, that's all."
"You haven't got any more hidden around the house anywhere, have you?
Don't lie to me, now!"
"Oh, no! I've given you ev'ry cent I had, ev'ry single cent."
"Well, then, get your hat and come along."
"Wh--what?" Ralph was staring at the man in astonishment. He thought
he had just bought his freedom, and that he need not go.
"Get your hat and come along, I say; and be quick about it? I can't
wait here all day."
"Where--where to?"
"Why, home with me, of course. Where would I take you?"
"But I gave you the money to let me stay here with Uncle Billy; you
said you would take it for that."
"No, I didn't. I told you to give it to me. The money belongs to me
the same as you do. Now, are you coming, or do you want me to help
you?"
Ralph's face was white with indignation. He had been willing to do
what was right. He thought he had made a fair bargain; but now,
this--this was an outrage. His spirit rose against it. The old sense
of fearlessness took possession of him. He looked the man squarely
in the eyes. His voice was firm and his hands were clenched with
resolution. "I will not go with you," he said.
"What's that?" Craft looked down on the boy in astonishment.
"I say I will not go with you," repeated Ralph; "that's all--I won't
go."
Then the old man's wrath was let loose.
"You beggar!" he shouted, "how dare you disobey me! I'll teach you!"
He raised his cane threateningly as he spoke.
"Hit me," said Ralph, "kill me if you want to; I'd ruther die than go
back to live with you."
Old Simon grasped his cane by its foot and raised it above his
head. In another instant it would have descended on the body of the
unfortunate boy; but in that instant some one seized it from behind,
wrenched it from Craft's weak grasp, and flung it into the street.
It was Bachelor Billy; He had entered at the open door unseen. He
seized Craft's shoulders and whirled him around till the two men stood
face to face.
"Mon!" he exclaimed, "mon! an' yon steck had a-fallen o' the lad's
head, I dinna ken what I s'ould 'a' done till ye. Ye're lucky to be
auld an' sick, or ye s'ould feel the weight o' ma han' as it is."
But Craft was not subdued. On the contrary his rage grew more fierce.
"What's the boy to you?" he shouted, savagely. "You leave us alone. He
belongs to me; he shall go with me."
It was a full half-minute before Bachelor Billy's dull mind grasped
the situation. Meanwhile he was looking down into Ralph's white face.
Then he turned again to Craft.
"Never!" he said, solemnly. "Ye s'all never tak' 'im. I'll see the lad
in his grave first." After a moment he continued, "It's no' safe for
ye to stay longer wi' us; it's better ye s'ould go."
Then another man entered at the open door. It was the sheriff of
Luzerne County. He held the writ of _habeas corpus_ in his hand.
"Why didn't you wait for me," he said, turning angrily to Craft,
"instead of coming here to pick a quarrel with these people?"
"That's none of your business," replied the old man. "You've got your
writ, now do your duty or I'll--" A fit of coughing attacked him, and
he dropped into a chair to give way to it.
The sheriff looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he turned
to Bachelor Billy.
"This miserable old man," he said, "has had a writ of _habeas corpus_
issued, commanding you to produce immediately before the judge at
Wilkesbarre the body of the boy Ralph. It is my place to see that the
writ is properly executed. There's no help for it, so I think you had
better get ready, and we will go as soon as possible." And he handed
to Bachelor Billy a copy of the writ.
"I ha' no time to read it," said Billy, "but if the judge says as the
lad s'ould gae to court again, he s'all gae. We mus' obey the law. An'
I s'all gae wi' 'im. Whaur the lad gae's I s'all gae. I s'all stay by
'im nicht an' day. If the law says he mus' live wi' Seemon Craft, then
I s'all live wi' Seemon Craft also. I ha' nursit 'im too long, an'
lovit 'im too weel to turn 'im alone into the wolfs den noo."
In a minute or two Craft recovered, but the coughing had left him very
weak. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked around for his cane.
He had grown calm. He thought that the game was his at any rate, and
that it was of no use for him to lose strength over it. "You'll walk
faster than I," he said, "so I'll be going. If I miss this train I
can't get started to Philadelphia with the boy before to-morrow." He
tottered out into the road, picked up his cane, and trudged on down
the hill toward the city.
It was not long before the two men and the boy were ready to go also.
"Keep up your courage, my son," said the sheriff kindly, for the sight
of Ralph's face aroused his sympathy. "Keep up your courage; the court
has got to pass on this matter yet. You don't have to go with the old
man till the judge says so."
"Tak' heart," added Bachelor Billy, "tak' heart, laddie. It's not all
ower wi' us yet. I canna thenk as any law'd put a lamb i' the wolf's
teeth."
"I don't know," said the sheriff, as they stood on the step for a
moment before leaving the house. "I don't know how you'll make it. I
suppose, as far as the law's concerned, the old man's on the right
track. As near as I can make out, the way the law-suit turned, he has
a legal right to the custody of the child and to his earnings. But, if
I was the lad, he'd no sooner get me to Philadelphia than I'd give him
the slip. You've done it once, Ralph, you can do it again, can't you?"
"I don't know," answered the boy, weakly; "I don't believe I'd try. If
I have to go back with him I wouldn't live very long any way, an' it
wouldn't pay to run away again. It don't make much difference; I ain't
got anybody left now but Uncle Billy, an', if he goes with me, I guess
I can stan' it till it's through with."
It was the first time in his life that Ralph had ever spoken in so
despondent a way, and Bachelor Billy was alarmed. "Bear up, lad," he
said, "bear up. We'll mak' the best o' it; an' they canna do much harm
till ye wi' Uncle Billy a-stannin' by."
Mrs. Maloney had come to her door and stood there, looking at the trio
in sorrowful surprise.
"Good-by, Mrs. Maloney!" said Ralph going up to her. "It ain't likely
I'll ever come back here any more, an' you've been very good to me,
Mrs. Maloney, very good indeed, an'--an'--good-by!"
"An' where do ye be goin' Ralphy?"
"Back to Gran'pa Simon's, I s'pose. He's come for me and he's got a
right to take me."
The sheriff was looking uneasily at his watch. "Come," he said, "we'll
have to hurry to catch the train."
The good woman bent down and kissed the boy tenderly. "Good-by to ye,
darlin'," she said, "an' the saints protict ye." Then she burst into
tears, and, throwing her apron up before her face, she held it against
her eyes and went, backward, into the house.
Ralph laid hold of Bachelor Billy's rough hand affectionately, and
they walked rapidly away.
At the bend in the street, the boy turned to look back for the last
time upon the cottage which had been his home. A happy home it had
been to him, a very happy home indeed. He never knew before how dear
the old place was to him. The brow of the hill which they were now
descending hid the house at last from sight, and, with tear-blinded
eyes, Ralph turned his face again toward the city, toward the misery
of the court-room, toward the desolate and dreadful prospect of a life
with Simon Craft.