"Did you send for him, as soon as you knew that his testimony was
needed?"
"I did not."
"_Why_ did you not?" said the District Attorney, in his sneering
voice.
The color flushed into her face. "Because I--because I"--Her voice
faltered and broke. "I did not _wish_ him sent for," she said, with a
sudden flash of defiance. Then she turned deathly white, and put up
her handkerchief to her lips. "I--will not answer any more questions,"
she added, faintly.
After all, it had been very bad--worse, far worse, than she had
expected. She felt as she left the stand that she had done her cause
only harm. It seemed to her moreover, that whether she were acquitted
or found guilty, she could never, after the abasement of that
cross-examination, hold up her head again.
The outlook was gloomy, and the case for the defence was almost
closed. But when Mrs. Bobby arrived in court the next morning, she was
greeted by Mr. Fenton with a broad smile.
"We must put the handwriting experts on again," he said, cheerfully.
"It will be dull, but anything to gain time. I have had a cable from
Mr. Gerard. He will be here in a few days."
_Chapter XXXVII_
Julian Gerard paced impatiently the deck of the steamer on which, for
eight miserable days, he had existed without sight of a newspaper. It
was early dawn; the outlines of the Goddess of Liberty loomed
uncertainly through a thick fog. He remembered how, when he had last
seen his native shores, he had been distraught with bitter anger
against the woman to whom his heart now turned with an eager longing,
a passionate remorse.
For the hundredth time his mind analyzed and condemned that strange
whim, the expression of a passing but very real phase of his
disappointment and disillusion, which had led him to cut himself off
from the world he had left behind. He had no wish to hear from home,
to be reminded of home ties, or of the woman whom he had resolved to
forget. Beneath his self-repressed exterior there was a strain of
adventure in his blood, which made him turn, in a crisis like this, to
the primitive resources of uncivilized life.
He had left home with no definite plans; but in London he met a
friend, who was about to start for his farm in South Africa. Gerard at
once decided to accompany him. South Africa was as good a place as
any other, when all one desired was solitude and hardship, and to get
away from one's self, and the unsatisfactory tone of the world.
The farm was deep in the interior of the country, many miles distant
from railroad or telegraph station. For months the two men saw no one
but the natives; they had no connection with the outside world. Gerard
rode and hunted and studied, and took notes on the condition of the
country. It was not a bad life on the whole, with a certain charm for
a man satiated with all that wealth can give. He might even have
enjoyed it, if he could have forgotten what had driven him to it, or
erased from his memory the one face which haunted him.
The worst of it was, that she always seemed to be unhappy; he always
saw her as he had left her, white and sad, with pathetic eyes. The
thought of her which he had carried away that night seemed to have
entirely effaced his earlier impressions of her, as she had first
flashed upon him in the vivid radiance of her fresh beauty, as he had
seen her often in a ball-room, a being meant only for smiles. He had
never pictured her then as suffering; but now, he could not think of
her in any other way.
One evening, as he and his friend sat together smoking, he found
himself impelled, as it were, in spite of himself, to tell his story.
The doubts, the misgivings which tortured him had grown too strong; it
was a relief to put them into words. He spoke low and bitterly, in
hurried phrases that were evidently the expression of his constant
thoughts; not excusing the conduct of the woman who had deceived him,
dwelling upon it rather with some harshness, for the very wish perhaps
which he was conscious of to do the reverse. The other man, as he
spoke, scanned his face keenly. At the end he made only one comment.
"And yet she loved you?"
Gerard stared at him for a moment, the color flushing into his dark
cheek. And then his face softened. Yes, it was not his money and
position--he could at least do her that justice. "I believe she did,"
he said at last in a low voice.
"Then, for Heaven's sake," the other man flashed out, "what more do
you want? Why, good Lord, if a woman _loved_ me!"--and here he broke
off and sat in silence, staring fixedly into the fire.
Gerard paced the floor that night, and his friend in the next room
smiled grimly to hear him. The same smile flickered across his
impassive features when Gerard, the next morning, announced his
departure. His reasons were plausible; he wished to go about the
country and study for himself the political situation of which he had
hitherto seen little or nothing. His host, after that first
involuntary smile, heard him through unmoved and expressed his
approval. He escorted him to the nearest town, wrung his hand at
parting, and went back, with a grimmer look than ever, to his own
solitude.
Gerard had no plans; he was conscious of only one wish--to be where he
could have news of home. At Cape Town he met the detective, who had
followed him, led astray by various false clues, till he had at last
found the right track. An hour later the two men started for New
York. And now at last the wretched journey was over, and Gerard paced
the deck of the ship and wondered miserably what new developments
might have occurred.
There was a sensation in the court-room when he appeared. There had
been rumors for days that the trial was being delayed for the arrival
of an important witness, but it had hardly been expected that this
would prove to be Elizabeth's missing lover, who had disappeared from
view, as the prosecution had asserted, to avoid testifying against
her. At least that reason for his absence could not be true, since it
was Mr. Fenton who was bringing him in, with an evident air of
triumph. Gerard himself had a worn and haggard look, which showed even
through the sun-burn which had darkened his face. He had grown very
thin, and there were white threads in his hair which were not visible
a year before; his features were set in lines of absolute, impassive
rigidity. He glanced neither to the right nor left, but sat down at
once in the ranks of witnesses.
There was a short pause of breathless expectancy, and then the
prisoner was brought in. Her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp were with her
as usual, and behind followed the police officer--a little in the
background, and with the air he considerately wore of effacing himself
as much as possible. Those who were near Gerard saw him wince and
flush painfully. He had been prepared for this, but the reality
shocked him, almost beyond his powers of self-control. How changed she
was! Paler even than he remembered her, and thin and worn till, but
for her eyes and hair, he might scarcely have known her. It gave him a
shock, too, somehow to see her all in black; he had always pictured
her, illogically, in white as she had been that last evening.... For a
moment she hardly seemed the same woman he had thought of, dreamed of,
all these months. A rush of remorseful tenderness swept over him, all
the greater because she was so changed. He would have liked to go to
her before them all, and proclaim to the whole world his love and
faith. But what he actually did was to turn his eyes away, to spare
her.
She knew that he was there. She had read the news in the trembling joy
depicted on her aunts' faces, before Eleanor Van Antwerp had
whispered: "Darling, prepare yourself! He has come--he has come to
save you." It hardly seemed a surprise, now that it had happened; she
had always known in her heart that he would come. But she was not
glad, she did not wish to be saved--by him. She still felt as she had
felt from the first, that she would rather die than sit in her place
of humiliation and see the pity in his eyes.... Ah, thank Heaven, he
had turned them away; for him, no doubt, as for her it was a painful
moment. He felt sorry for her, of course--a woman whom he had loved
once, who was being punished more than she deserved. But there was an
invincible pride in her nature which rebelled against his pity, which
would have preferred condemnation, contempt. Yet, after all, pity was
all that she deserved; she had never been worthy of his love. Let her
take what poor remnant of it was left and be thankful. Yet deep down
in her heart, there was, in spite of herself, a feeling of joy that
the world would know that he had not forsaken her.
There was little time for these conflicting thoughts to oppose each
other in Elizabeth's weary brain. Gerard was called to the stand, and
then she could do nothing but listen--and listen gratefully--while in
quiet, even tones, speaking very simply and to the point, he
corroborated all that she herself had testified. Yes, he remembered
perfectly the morning of the twenty-third of December. He had spent it
with Miss Van Vorst at the Metropolitan Museum. They had been at the
Museum for several hours, and he had left her at her home at half-past
one. Had he known then of her marriage to Halleck? No, not then, but
soon afterwards. She had told him on New Year's Eve. No, he had not
suspected it, or drawn out the avowal in any way. It had been entirely
voluntary. Naturally their engagement had been at an end, and he had
gone abroad immediately. That was his evidence. It materially
strengthened the defence on two points; first, that the prisoner had
not bought either the flask or the poison; second, that she had not
expected Paul Halleck's death.
The District Attorney, realizing this, tried to undermine its
credibility. It was not an easy thing with a man of Gerard's character
and high standing; but after all, a man in love is hardly an
accountable being. The District Attorney dwelt sarcastically on the
improbability of his having remained in ignorance all this time of the
impending trial, and insinuated that he must have had serious
objections to returning, which had been finally overcome by the
efforts of the defense. He asked his questions in a blustering way,
which fell just short of insolence. Gerard answered them quietly,
apparently unmoved. Yes, he admitted, it seemed improbable that he
should not have heard of the trial, but it was nevertheless absolutely
true. He had spent the greater part of his absence on a farm in South
Africa; he had led a rough, solitary life, read no newspapers,
received no letters. He had first heard that his evidence was needed
at Cape town, five weeks before. No, he had not received a letter from
the defendant, urging him to come to her rescue, nor did he believe
that any such letter had been sent. It would have been quite
unnecessary.
"Your disinterested chivalry, in other words," sneered the District
Attorney, "was sufficient, without such an appeal?"
"It is not a question of chivalry," said Gerard, coolly, "it is a
question of telling the truth."
"Which of course you are anxious to do."
"Of course."
His imperturbability seemed proof, against all the offensiveness of
the other's manner. The District Attorney, shifting his ground,
questioned him as to the broken engagement; and here he was rejoiced
to find his man more vulnerable. A tremor would cross Gerard's face,
he changed color more than once. But still his answers were given
quietly, in low, measured tones. Yes, it was true that Miss Van Vorst
had kept him in ignorance of her marriage; but he did not think that
her reasons for her silence need be discussed, since they were quite
irrelevant.
"And you mean to assure us," said the District Attorney,
incredulously, "that she told you at last of her own accord, without
the slightest necessity?"
"Most certainly."
"And what she told you then was the only information you received of
her marriage?"
"Yes."
"It was the only reason for breaking the engagement?"
"Yes."
"And now that that reason no longer exists," said the District
Attorney, "the engagement, I suppose, is likely to be renewed?"
The question was so unexpected that Mr. Fenton was not ready with an
objection, and Gerard spoke before he could interpose.
"I don't think that I am bound to answer questions as to what may or
may not occur in the future."
Mr. Fenton hastily agreed with him, and he was sustained by the judge.
But the District Attorney defended his line of inquiry.
"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."