MR. COWDRICK’S RETURN.--MR. WEEMS TAKES A NEW VIEW OF HIS
POSITION.--JUSTICE.
Mr. Cowdrick again sat in his easy-chair, in his library, before the
sham fire, and with him sat his wife and daughter. They were talking of
the trial of Mr. Cowdrick, which was to begin on the morrow.
“It is very disagreeable, of course,” said Mr. Cowdrick; “but in this
life we have to take the bitter with the sweet.”
“But, oh, papa,” said Leonie, “how dreadful it will be if the verdict
goes against you. Do you think they would actually send a man of your
position to a horrid prison?”
“Leonie!” exclaimed Mrs. Cowdrick, “I am surprised at your speaking of
such things. Pray don’t do it again. My nerves will not stand it.”
“You need not be alarmed, my dear child,” said Mr. Cowdrick, smiling.
“My friends have arranged things comfortably for me with the
prosecuting attorney, and the other authorities. I had an offer made
to me to have the jury packed in my interest, but I was assured that it
was unnecessary, and, besides, I felt that it would perhaps be wrong
for me to descend to corruption.”
“It is a terrible experience at the best,” said Mrs. Cowdrick; “but
there is some satisfaction in the reflection that we are not reduced to
absolute poverty.”
“That is my greatest consolation,” rejoined Mr. Cowdrick. “Pinyard
tells me that I may count on saving at least two hundred and fifty
thousand dollars from the wreck; invested in good securities, too.”
“Then we can go to a watering-place, next summer, as usual?” asked
Leonie.
“Yes, dear.”
“And can we keep our carriage and our servants, and everything, just as
before?”
“Certainly; there will be no difference.”
Leonie reflected for a moment, and then sighed heavily.
“And I think very likely,” said Mr. Cowdrick, “that my poor little girl
can have her lover back again, if she wants him, too.”
“Papa, what do you mean?” asked Leonie.
“Why, I commissioned a man named Gunn, in whom I have some confidence,
to visit Weems, and to sound him, to ascertain how he felt with regard
to the result of your suit.”
“Well?”
“Gunn reports to me that Weems feels repentant; says he always loved
you, and would give anything to have the past recalled.”
Here Mr. Cowdrick, having constructed a sturdy falsehood, winked at his
wife; and Leonie said:
“Well, papa, I don’t know whether I am quite willing to forgive him,
but I confess that I care more for Julius than for any other person.”
“We shall see what can be done,” remarked Mr. Cowdrick. “And now you
must excuse me. I have to go to meet my counsel to prepare for the
trial;” and Mr. Cowdrick withdrew.
The interview between Mr. Weems and Mr. Benjamin P. Gunn, to which Mr.
Cowdrick alluded, was conducted upon a rather different basis from that
indicated by the banker in his conversation with Leonie.
Mr. Gunn, upon his entrance to the studio of the artist, began by
expressing his regret at the issue of the breach of promise suit.
“Yes, confound it,” said Mr. Weems; “it is hard, isn’t it? To think
that that old faded flower of a girl should be smart enough to get the
better of me in such a manner!”
“The damages are heavy too,” said Gunn, thoughtfully; “and I understand
that she is firmly resolved to compel you to pay the money.”
“That is the worst of it! The mortification was bad enough; but five
thousand dollars to pay on top of that! Why, it’s simply awful.”
“The amount would cover the price of a good many pictures, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes; and just now the market is so overloaded with old masters, that
they hardly fetch the value of the canvas they are painted on. A
house-painter makes more money than an artist.”
“It must be a desire for revenge that induces the lady to be so eager
for the money. She is not poor.”
“I guess she is. Old Cowdrick will have to give up everything, I
suppose.”
Mr. Gunn smiled, and looked wise. Then he said, Mr. Weems, I’ll let you
into a secret if you will keep it to yourself.”
“I will, certainly.”
“Well, sir, I know,--I don’t merely think,--I _know_ that Cowdrick is
going to come out of this thing with at least a quarter of a million.
He’ll be just as comfortable as ever.”
“That is nearly incredible.”
“It is the truth, at any rate; and I can prove it.”
“But how about his crimes? He is tolerably certain to go to prison.”
“What, Cowdrick? Cowdrick go to prison? Not a bit of it! He is
too respectable. That has all been fixed in advance, unless I am
misinformed.”
Mr. Weems reflected in silence for a few moments. Then Mr. Gunn, rising
to go, said,--
“It is none of my business, sir, of course; I only came in to give
you the facts because I felt friendly to you. But if I had my choice
between paying five thousand dollars and compromising with the
plaintiff, I know very well what I would do, particularly if the
plaintiff would rather have the man than the money. Good morning, Mr.
Weems;” and Mr. Gunn withdrew.
“A quarter of a million!” said Mr. Weems to himself, as he sat alone,
meditating upon the situation. “What a fool I was. I might have known
that old Cowdrick would take care of himself and soon get upon his
legs again. I believe that man Gunn was sent here to feel the way for
a reconciliation, and I have half a notion to attempt one. I’ll make a
movement toward it, anyhow. I’ll write a letter to Cowdrick, and if he
gets out of the clutches of the law I will send it to him, and see if
we can’t make up the quarrel.”
Then Mr. Weems went to his desk and penned the following epistle:--
“HENRY P. COWDRICK, Esq.
“DEAR SIR,--I write to you with much diffidence and with deep
apprehension as to the result, concerning a matter in which my
happiness is seriously involved. I need not rehearse the facts
concerning my unfortunate differences with Leonie; but I wish to
say that I shall never cease to regret that a mere lovers’ quarrel,
which should have been forgotten and forgiven a moment afterwards,
should have caused, under the influence of senseless anger, a
breach which, I fear, is now irreparable. For my part, reflection
upon my conduct in the business makes me utterly miserable, for I
cannot hide from myself, and I will not attempt to hide from you,
that my affection for your daughter has lost none of its intensity
because of the occurrences of which I have spoken. I love her now
as fondly as I ever loved her; and though it should be ordained by
fate that we shall never meet again, I shall cherish her image in
my heart until my dying day, and I shall never cease to breathe
earnest petitions for her happiness.
“Believe me,
Yours very truly,
“JULIUS WEEMS.”
“That,” said Mr. Weems, “ought to bring him to terms, if he really
means business.”
Then Mr. Weems folded the letter, directed it, and slipped it into his
pocket to await the result of Mr. Cowdrick’s trial.
It would be injudicious to linger over the details of Mr. Cowdrick’s
trial, lest we should have a surfeit of legal proceedings. Both the
prosecution and the defence were conducted with vigor and ability,
and the jury, after remaining out for a very little while, found Mr.
Cowdrick guilty of sundry crimes and misdemeanors of a particularly
infamous character.
When the verdict had been presented, a singularly affecting scene
ensued.
Amid a silence that was painful in its intensity, the prosecuting
attorney, hardly able to control his emotion, rose to move that
sentence be passed upon the prisoner at the bar. In doing so, he took
occasion to remark that the prosecution had no desire to crush to the
earth the unfortunate gentleman whom it had been compelled, in the
performance of a most unpleasant duty, to arraign before the tribunal
of justice. The lesson that men must not betray their trusts, and
recklessly misuse the property of others, had been plainly taught by
the conviction. That was the leading purpose of the prosecution; it
was ample fulfilment of the demands of the law and of society, and it
supplied to other men, especially to the young, a sufficiently solemn
warning against indulgence in extravagance and in unwise speculation.
It would be harsh--perhaps even cruel--in this instance to inflict
a severe penalty, not alone because of the high social standing of
the prisoner at the bar, but because it was clear enough that he did
not take the money of others solely for his own benefit, but for the
advancement of enterprises in which others were interested--enterprises
which seemed to him likely to promote the industrial activity of the
country, and to add largely to the wealth of the nation. With these
remarks, he submitted the whole matter to the discretion of the Court,
earnestly hoping that his Honor would find it possible to give to the
prisoner an opportunity to retrieve the past by his future good conduct.
As the prosecuting attorney sat down, the court-room was bathed in
tears.
Then the leading counsel for Mr. Cowdrick arose. It was a moment or
two before his feelings would permit him to command his utterance; and
when, at last, he was able with a broken voice to speak, he said that
he could not find language of sufficient warmth in which to express
his sense of the justice, the human kindness, the frank generosity
of the prosecuting attorney. These qualities, as here exhibited, did
credit to his head and heart, and entitled him to the commendation of
the wise and the good. The learned counsel should never for a moment
believe his client to be guilty of that of which he seemed to have
been found technically guilty, and he could add little to the fitting
and eloquent words that had just been spoken. It had been written,
“Vengeance is Mine,” and it was not for an earthly tribunal to seek to
inflict vengeance. His client’s errors, if errors they really were,
were of the head, not of the heart; and he was sure that the Court
would never undertake to humiliate this excellent and worthy man, who,
during a long career, had been an honored citizen of the community, by
even approaching a sentence which might make him look like a felon. “I
need hardly say to your Honor,” continued the learned counsel, “that
to impose the extreme penalty provided in this case would not only
close the doors of the prison upon this estimable citizen, but would
bring desolation to a happy home, would break the hearts of those
who are dear to him, and would achieve no good purpose that has not
already been attained.” Trusting in the clemency of the Court, the
learned counsel sat down, while the court-room echoed the sobs of the
spectators.
The judge, wiping his eyes, and trying hard not to give way to his
feelings, said,--
“Mr. Cowdrick will please rise. As you are aware, Mr. Cowdrick, I
have but a single duty to perform. I must impose the sentence as
it is provided by the law. I remember your social position, and
your former conduct as a worthy member of society, and I have fully
estimated the importance of the suggestion that your offences were
perpetrated largely for the benefit of others. It gives me, therefore,
great pleasure to find in the statute a limitation which enables me
to inflict a penalty less severe than, otherwise, I should have been
compelled to inflict. I impose upon you a fine of five hundred dollars,
as provided in the statute, you to stand committed until the fine is
paid.”
As the judge pronounced the sentence, a great cheer went up. Mr.
Cowdrick’s counsel paid the fine at once, and Mr. Cowdrick, after
shaking hands with the lawyers and receiving the apology of the
prosecuting attorney for pushing him so hard, took his hat and walked
out of the court-room a free and happy man.
Then a new jury was called to try a book-keeper, who, because his
salary was insufficient for the support of his family, had stolen three
hundred dollars from his employer.
The prosecuting attorney was unable to perceive anything of a pathetic
nature in the case, and when the jury promptly brought in a verdict of
guilty, the judge, with a perfectly dry eye, sentenced the prisoner to
incarceration at hard labor for ten years.
Although the Goddess of Justice is blindfolded, she has sometimes a
very discriminating sense of the relative importance of sinners who
come to her for judgment.