MARK TIME, MARCH!
Now that Robert's acquittal was almost assured, Emily's pity began to
overflow toward Harry Arnold and Rosalie, whose position was exactly her
own of the day before. For the vox populi had generally determined on
Harry's guilt, though there were not wanting some who, like the father
in the parable, were disposed to welcome the brilliant prodigal with
lavish entertainment, freely extending the forgiveness he implored,
while slighting the steadfastly loyal son who had never wandered from
the path of virtue. This was poor recompense to Robert for his
summer-long immurement, but he was put together of a substance
impervious to the acid actions of criticism or neglect--the oaken fiber
of the English Arnolds.
In all quarters curiosity was active about the defense. It was said by
some that the prosecution had broken down, or might break down at any
minute, and even if the last reluctant victim were haled up by Bigelow
to the shambles, where Shagarach stood, ax in hand, awaiting her, that
it would be hammering on a driven nail to put on the long array of
witnesses who had been summoned in behalf of the accused. Nevertheless
the newspapers were at pains to worm out the names of these witnesses
and to diet the public with prophetic outlines of their testimony.
The gist of it all was that Shagarach meant to clinch his client's
defense by building up a case against Harry.
Of course Emily found it hard to communicate her own confidence to
Rosalie March, although Bertha was to take the stand the following
morning and her theory would then (as she believed) receive a triumphant
demonstration. What made Harry's face fall more bitter was that the date
of his espousal to the beautiful actress had just been given to the
world. From Rosalie's hard glance at Shagarach, Emily knew there was as
much blame in her heart for the lawyer as for her lover. And Rosalie was
not the only girl who would have ransomed Harry Arnold, perjurer,
self-seeker, gambler, as he owned himself to have been, with her life,
if such a price should be asked.
"Are they sisters?" asked the thoughtless, misled by their golden hair,
when the two beautiful girls went out together, leaving Mme. Violet
behind. But a student of faces would never have fallen into such an
error. One placid and aloof, even toward the audiences whose favor she
courted, the other impulsive and approachable, throwing out tentacles of
sympathy toward every human being with whom she came in contact, they
supplemented rather than reflected each other; otherwise they would
hardly have been drawn together so strongly, and made such a concord of
friendliness.
Several surprises awaited Emily when she reached home. The first and
pleasantest was an envelope, surcharged in the upper left-hand corner
with the name of a certain magazine. This she opened with trembling
fingers, for it was not quite three weeks since she mailed to the
editor, unsigned, Robert's article on, "Proposals for a Consumers'
Trust," that fruit of his prison reflections which Dr. Silsby had found
so unpalatable. When an oblong slip of paper, perforated at the margin,
slipped out, she knew it was a check; and the editor's letter was very
urgent that "so striking a contribution should not be given to the world
without its author's signature." Here was the beginning of a career for
her sweetheart. She looked forward to the time when his qualities and
talents should be recognized, and she herself perhaps be pointed out as
the wife of Floyd, the famous writer, or thinker, or worker, or
whatsoever other name they chose to give to the best, the truest and the
most abused of men. The check, too, was of comforting value, and, since
she was a shrewd little housekeeper withal, this discovery did not abate
one particle of Emily's joy.
And yet, so little was she a lover of lucre for its own sake, the very
first item on which her eye lighted in the evening paper, though it
meant a money loss which the whole cash box of the Forum, converted into
checks, could not make good, evoked almost a scream of delight from
Emily and sent her flying into the kitchen where her mother was steeping
the tea. The good lady wiped her honest hands on her apron and with a
"Do tell!" fingered the Evening Beacon, which to-day is skimmed and
tomorrow cast into the oven, as respectfully as if it had been a fancy
valentine; then read, with Jennie, a slip of 14, on tiptoe leaning over
her shoulder, that Judge Dunder had finally decided to uphold the late
Prof. Arnold's will. Even Shagarach had hardly expected this decision.
For Judge Dunder was a confirmed devotee of legal technique and it had
been supposed that nothing less than a verbatim copy of a destroyed will
would be sustained by him.
But the main clauses of the will had certainly been reproduced, with an
abundance of circumstantial detail. The only hiatus was a remote
possibility. There may have been some smaller bequests that could not be
traced. Apparently Judge Dunder had in this case resolved to wink a
little at chicane and decide for justice in the broader sense.
"Harry Arnold may have to do something to justify his existence now,"
said Mrs. Barlow after supper to Emily. She had a prejudice against wild
young men.
"Oh, Rosalie has enough for two," answered Emily, who was standing
before the mirror putting her hat on for a visit to Walter Riley.
The first sight that met her eye when she reached the sidewalk was a
squad of salvation army soldiers, with Serena Lamb at their head,
parading through the street, chanting their invitation to sinners.
Serena held her tambourine high in air and her shrill voice dominated
the chorus like that of a precentor in the kirk. But the exercise seemed
to lack its usual spirit this evening. Was it because nobody took any
particular notice of the group? Curiosity about them was wearying itself
threadbare, and even the toddling urchins no longer gathered at the
drumbeat as they used to. Emily had often admired the devotion of these
sisters, but, looking at this unnoticed and discouraged band, she
wondered if the antagonism of the multitude were not in truth the very
sustenance of their zeal. Might not all their heroic energy exhaust
itself, like the nerve of a boxer, compelled to waste his blows in the
air, if the atmosphere of opposition should change to one of apathy?