THE TRIAL--THE LIE--"AS GUILTY AS HELL!"
"_Not guilty, your honor!_"
The court room was silent for a time before any one stirred. It had been
apparent that the decision would be so; because there were several
reasons why the jury was constrained to render such a verdict.
Among the reasons, chiefly, was the fact that the plaintiff had failed
to produce sufficient evidence to justify a verdict in his favor. His
grandmother, his corroborating witness, had answered her last call just
before she was to start for Chicago to give hers, the most incriminating
testimony. The doctor who had attended his wife during her confinement
was indisposed, and was represented only by an affidavit. But what had
gone harder than anything against the plaintiff was his wife's
testimony. Under the most severe examination, and cross examinations,
she had stood on her statements. She had never loved her husband, and
had not been, therefore, actuated by her father's influence into leaving
him. She had instructed her father in all he had done, and that he was
in no wise guilty as accused.
No jury could have rendered a verdict to the contrary under such
circumstances, and no one--not even the plaintiff, had expected or even
hoped that they would.
But in the minds of every man and woman in the crowded court room, N.J.
McCarthy stood a guilty man. Not even the faintest semblance of doubt as
to this lingered in their minds. It was merely a case of insufficient
evidence to convict. And while the people filed out into the air at the
conclusion, every one had a vision of that arch hypocrite in his evil
perpetuation. In their ears would always ring the story Jean Baptiste
had told. Told without a tremor, he had recited the evils from the day
he had married her up until the day she had sold her birthright for a
mess of pottage. So vivid did he make it all that the court was held in
a thraldom. For an hour and a half he detailed the evil of his enemy,
his sinister purpose and action, his lordly deceit, and his artful
cunningness, and brought women to tears by the sorrow in his face, his
apparent grief and external mortification.
Never had the black population of the city listened to or witnessed a
more eloquent appeal. But justice had been unable to interfere. The
trial was over, and Newton Justine McCarthy left the court room a free
man, with head held high, and walking with sure step.
Jean Baptiste left it calmly in company with his lawyers. They had
anticipated losing the case before going into court, for it had been
apparent to them that the outcome rested entirely with Baptiste's wife.
If they failed to shake her testimony; that she had never loved him,
then they knew it was hopeless. It had all depended on her--_and she had
stood by her father_.
"Well, I'm satisfied," said Baptiste as they went through the street.
"I suppose so, in a way."
"I wanted vindication. I wanted the people to know the truth."
"And they know it now. He goes free, but the people know he is a guilty
man, and that your wife _lied_ to save him."
"Yes," said Baptiste a little wearily.
Somehow he felt relieved. It seemed that a great burden had been lifted
from his mind, and he closed his eyes as if shutting out the past now
forever. He was free. Never would the instance that had brought turmoil
and strife into his life trouble him again. Always before there had
seemed to be a peculiar bond between him and the woman he had taken as
wife. Always he seemed to have a claim upon her in spite of all and she
upon him. But, by the decision of the court, all this had been swept
away, and he sighed as if in peace.
They found their way to the "L" station that was nearest, and there took
a train for the south side. At Thirty-first Street Baptiste left his
lawyer and slowly betook himself toward the familiar scenes on State
Street.
While he lost himself in the traffic of State Street, the Reverend, in
company with Glavis, Ethel, and Orlean, boarded an Indiana Avenue
surface car. The Reverend was cheery for a great fear had passed. A
coward by nature, he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown before
the trial, thinking of what might happen. But now that was over. He was
free. That meant everything. The fact that he was guilty in the minds of
everybody who heard the trial, did not worry him now. He was free and
could claim by the verdict that he was vindicated in the action he had
taken. That was the great question. Always before he had been sensitive
of the fingers of accusation that were upon him, and the worry had
greatly impaired his usual appearance.
And while he was relieved, Glavis, sitting proudly by him, was also. He
talked cheerfully of the trial, of the decision, and of the future that
was before them. He smiled at all times, and the Reverend's large face
was also lighted up with a peculiar delight. But there was another who,
in spite of the fact that the testimony from her lips had saved the day
for the Reverend, was not happy, not cheerful, not in a mood to discuss
the case.
This one was Orlean. Few knew--in fact maybe only one other, and that
was her husband--or appreciated how much that false testimony had cost
her. She had lied; lied freely; lied stoutly; lied at every point of the
case--_and this for the man who had brought her to it_. And _now_ when
it was over she felt not at ease. While Jean Baptiste was conscious that
a burden had been lifted from his mind, and Glavis and her father
chatted freely, she sat silently by without even a clear thought. She
was only conscious that she had lied, that after a life of weakness, a
life that had made no one happy or cheerful or gay, she had for the
first time in her life, deliberately lied. And as she became more
conscious of what had passed, she felt a burden upon her. Never since
the day she had abused her husband; never since the suffering her
actions had brought him; never since as a climax to all this, when he
lay upon the floor and she had kicked him viciously in the face, had she
experienced a happy or a cheerful day.
But today--after that terrible ordeal, she felt as if life held little
for her, that she was now unfit to perform any womanly duty. She found
no consolation in the fact that she had been encouraged to do as she had
done by those who claimed to love her. That seemed to annoy her if
anything. She could now, for the first time in her life, realize clearly
what duty meant. Duty could not be side-tracked, regardless of what
might have passed. Her husband had been good to her. He had given her
the love that was his. Never had he abused her in any way, never had he
used a cross word in her presence. But she had done everything to him.
And as a climax to it all, she had _lied_.
Oh, that lie would haunt her forever!
They arrived at the street where they must leave the car for home. She
arose along with the rest. When they stood upon the walkway and had
started toward home, her father paused.
"By the way, children," he said cheerfully. "I think I should call at
the lawyer's office and thank him." He turned his eyes to Glavis, his
worthy counsellor at all times, and read agreement in his face before
the other opened his lips to give sanction.
"I think that you should, too, father," he said, whereupon he turned to
accompany him.
"Well, I'll drop by his office. You may go on home with the girls,
Glavis," he said. So saying he turned toward the attorney's office to
settle his account and talk over the case.
As he walked along his way, he became reflective. He allowed his mind to
wander back into the past--back many years to the time when he had gone
into the country to take a meal. He recalled that day at the dinner
table where he had sat near a certain school teacher. She had been an
attractive teacher, a rare woman in those days. And he admired her. It
was a privilege to sit so close to her at the table, to wait on her, and
be the recipient of her charming smiles. He saw himself now more clearly
in retrospection. He saw a little boy standing hungrily at a distance.
He saw again now, that same small boy approach the teacher; saw the
teacher's motherly face and her arms reached out and caught that youth
and then smother his face with kisses. He felt again the anger that
little boy's action had aroused in him. He heard again the cries from
the summer kitchen as the mother administered punishment for the same.
He recalled briefly the years that followed. He recounted the testimony
at the trial. For many, many months he had endeavored to make Baptiste
suffer, and this day he had succeeded. But still he was not satisfied.
The joy that had come of being freed of the accusation after his unhappy
and nervous state of fear, had shut all else out of his mind for a time.
After all freedom is so much. But was freedom all? He could not account
for the feeling that was suddenly come over him. He recalled then again
the severe chastisement he had caused Jean Baptiste to receive when he
was a mere child. He recalled also how he had been instrumental in
separating him from his daughter. He recalled now the lies, oh, the lies
she had resorted to that had kept him out of jail, the tears he had shed
from self pity, while Baptiste stood stoically by.
And thinking thusly, he reached his destination.
He found the attorney alone, busy over some papers. He approached him
courteously, bowed, and thrusting his hand in his pocket, said:
"Yes, sir. I thought I would drop in and pay you the balance of the fee
that is now due, and thank you for your services." He smiled pleasantly
as he spoke, and never appeared more impressive. The other regarded him
a moment, held out his hand, accepted his fee, and said:
"Well, it's over, and you are free."
"Yes," said the Elder, but now found it rather hard to smile. "I am glad
it is over for it was a very awkward affair, I must confess." He paused
then, perforce. The lawyer was regarding him, and the Elder wondered at
his expression. He had never seen that look in his face before. What did
it mean? He was not kept long in suspense, for soon the other spoke.
"Yes, you are free and fortunate."
"Fortunate," the Reverend repeated, thoughtfully, and looking up found
the lawyer's eyes upon him. They were looking straight into his with the
same expression of a moment before.
"Yes," said the lawyer then coldly, "you are _free_ and _fortunate_,
because _you were as guilty as hell_!"