"If they would only let me have my hands!" he groaned. "To think of
shutting up a great strong fellow like me"--
It was useless to go on. He sat, bitterly forecasting the fortunes of
those two lambs who had strayed so far from the green pastures and still
waters, when he heard Phebe say softly, as if to herself,--
"We are almost there."
Mr. Burke began to fold his newspapers and get his bags in order. His
hands rested upon the implements of his office--he carried them always
in his pockets--while he stood balancing himself in the rocking car, and
the porter dusted his hat and coat.
The train dashed past the first scattered lights of the town.
"Po-catello!" the brakeman roared in a voice of triumph, for they were
"in" at last.
The porter came, and touched Ludovic on the shoulder.
"Gen'leman says he's ready, sir."
He rose and bent over Phebe. If she had been like any other girl he must
have kissed her, but he dared not. He had prayed for a sign, and he had
won it--that look of dumb and lasting anguish in her childlike eyes.
Yet, strange passion of the man's nature, he was not sorry for what he
had done.
Mr. Burke took his arm in silence, and steered him out of the car; both
doors were guarded, for he had feared there might be trouble. He was
surprised at Ludovic's behavior.
"What's the matter with him?" the car-conductor asked, looking after the
pair as they walked up the platform together. "Is he sick?"
"Mashed," said the porter, gloomily; for Ludovic had forgotten the
parting fee. "Regular girl mash, the worst I ever saw."
"He's late about it, if he expects to have any fun," said the conductor;
and he began to dance, with his hands in his great-coat pockets, for the
night air was raw. He was at the end of his run, and was going home to
his own girl, whom he had married the week before.
* * * * *
Friends and family influence mustered strong for Ludovic at the trial
six weeks later. His lawyer's speech was the finest effort, it was said,
ever listened to by an Idaho jury. The ladies went to hear it, and to
look at the handsome prisoner, who seemed to grow visibly old as the
days of the trial went by.
But those who are acquainted with the average Western jury need not be
told that it was not influence that did it, nor the lawyer's eloquence,
nor the court's fine-spun legal definitions, nor even the women's tears.
They looked at the boy, and thought of their own boys, or they looked
inside, and thought of themselves; and they concluded that society might
take its chances with that young man at large. They stayed out an hour,
out of respect to their oath, and then brought in a verdict of "Not
guilty;" and the audience had to be suppressed.
But after the jury's verdict there is society, and all the tongues that
will talk, long after the tears are dry. And then comes God in the
silence--and Phebe.
* * * * *
The men all say she is too good for him, whose name has been in
everybody's mouth. They say it, even though they do not know the cruel
way in which he won her love. But the women say that Phebe, though
undeniably a saint (and "the sweetest thing that ever lived"), is yet a
woman, incapable of inflicting judgment upon the man she loves.
The case is in her hands now. She may punish, she may avenge, if she
will; for Ludovic is the slave of his own remorseless conquest. But
Phebe has never discovered that she was wronged. There is something in
faith, after all; and there is a good deal in blood, Friend Underhill
thinks. "Doubtless the grandson of Martin Ludovic must have had great
provocation."