FANCHON was very ill that night. Her stormy nature had plunged into an
eclipse, and she lay white and shivering, staring at the ceiling, her
half-packed trunks around her. She would not let even Emily come near
her--only Miranda and the doctor, whom Daniel had summoned hastily. She
had not tasted food since Leigh’s shot, and she was worn out.
Dr. Barbour, prescribing food and quiet, made some gruff remarks to Mr.
Carter.
“No use killing her,” he said dryly. “Might as well keep her alive, as
long as Corwin’s dead.”
William did not come home at all, but spent the night in his office.
Daniel went down there on his way to court in the morning. The
elevator-boy, a young mulatto, showed the whites of his eyes as he took
him up.
“He ain’t been down fo’ noffin’ to eat,” he remarked. “Sen’ me fo’
bottle of whisky, but ain’t eat noffin’.”
Daniel frowned. He had had his suspicions of the whisky before, though
his father had never told him of his own surmises. He limped quickly
over to William’s door, found it unlocked, and walked in.
The shades were still drawn and the electric lights switched on.
William lay stretched on an old couch in the corner, his arms under
his head. At first Daniel thought he was drunk, but as their eyes met
he saw that William was terribly sober. He had a look in his eyes that
gave his brother a shock. It was the look of a man who coveted death.
The couch was one of those high-backed affairs with a low arm at each
end. Daniel sat down on the arm at William’s feet.
“Fanchon’s ill,” he said quietly. “You’d better go home and see her,
William.”
William looked at him intently for a moment, then spoke in a voice so
changed that it was startling.
“I don’t want to see her,” he said coolly. “I don’t care if I never see
her again.”
“She’s your wife, all the same,” Daniel remarked dryly, “and she’s
going to help me save Leigh.”
“I’m done with her,” William retorted.
“You can’t say that--you won’t say it--if she sacrifices herself for
us,” returned Daniel, watching him.
“I’m done with her,” William repeated, and closed his eyes, evidently
considering that he had closed the subject.
Daniel observed him a moment in silence. He was perfectly aware that
argument was useless, and he was not altogether prepared to argue for
Fanchon. His brother--who looked ill and wretched--was apparently
falling asleep, so Daniel went to the table, confiscated a half-empty
bottle of whisky, and switched off the lights. He drew up the shades
and opened all the windows, and the dead atmosphere of the room was
revivified with sunshine and air.
Daniel looked at William again, but there was no movement or sound
from him, so the lame brother left the room, closing the door softly
behind him. He had a strange feeling as if he had closed it upon a
corpse, as if the brother he had known had passed away, and into this
shell that was left behind some other spirit had entered. The thought
reminded Daniel of the seven devils of the Bible. Certainly the change
in William was for the worse.
But he had no time to think of William. His business took him to Judge
Jessup’s office, and from there to the court-house, where a panel of
the grand jury had been summoned. As he made his way toward Jessup’s
office he encountered a crowd on the main street, and saw a hearse
proceeding toward the station, carrying a plain pinewood box. The
inquest being over, Corwin’s body was to be shipped to New York.
Daniel had to wait for the hearse to pass, aware of the curious glances
that came his way. A picture rose before his mind of a little girl
of fifteen being married to a coarse brute more than twice her age,
who wanted her to earn his living for him. If he could only get that
picture clean-cut before a jury!
Daniel had that delicate keenness of perception that makes great
orators feel their audiences. He knew intuitively the thing that
touched the heart, he had latent in him a gift for playing on the
feelings of the masses, as some musicians have in them a singular power
to draw more music from the chords of their instruments than other men.
He had perceived it, too, in Fanchon, if he could only mold her to her
rôle. He was trying to marshal his thoughts, to see a way to bring
Fanchon before the jury without losing the effect of her evidence, when
he reached Jessup’s office.
The judge, who was waiting to go before the grand jury, was sitting in
his swivel chair in his shirt-sleeves, with his hat on. He scarcely
glanced up when Daniel entered, for he was listening to a visitor.
Samuel Bernstein sat in the prisoner’s dock--as Daniel called the
stiff chair by the window where the judge seated his doubtful clients
and penalized them with a savage, unwavering observation. He was
observing Bernstein now over the tops of his glasses, exactly as he
would have observed a gipsy-moth. To his mind, Bernstein had been
nearly as disastrous.
The motion-picture producer seemed to be suffering extremely from the
heat. He had his hat off, and was mopping beads of perspiration from
his forehead.
“Say, judge, I never thought about a kid like that usin’
shootin’-irons,” he said mournfully. “But I told him the truth--every
bit of it! I’ll go on the stand an’ swear to it. You see, it was this
way--I couldn’t get the thing to ’em, an’ I thought they oughter know.”
The judge glared at him in silence, then swung his swivel chair around
a little and looked over the papers on his desk.
“Meddling, Mr. Bernstein; nothing at all but meddling in other people’s
business,” he retorted shortly. “If I had my way there’d be a new law
in this State. I’d send nosey people to the work-house, sir. I’d give
’em something to do. Here’s your deposition. Read it over. You’ll be
called again, some time this afternoon.”
“Now, looka here, judge, I ain’t a meddler,” objected Bernstein
plaintively. “That man Corwin was blackmailin’ the lady and I wanted
to stop him. I’m conferring a favor now, sir, goin’ on the stand.
Anybody who knows Sam Bernstein knows he ain’t goin’ to lie. I’ve got
a reputation. This trial, sir, with me on the stand----” He paused
regretfully. “Say, it would make just about three thousand feet of
great stuff--and they won’t let me bring in my camera-men!”
“Confound your camera-men!” said the judge, and rose, slamming down
the top of his desk. “Dan, you here? We’ve got to go over to the
court-house now. You come over in half an hour, Bernstein. I reckon it
isn’t more than one thousand feet of film to the square,” he added with
a sudden, irresistible twinkle.
Even Bernstein laughed.
The judge, linking his arm in Daniel’s, kept pace with the younger man
as they walked up the main street toward the old court-house. It was a
little past ten o’clock now, and the street was full. Daniel noticed
that the tide was flowing toward the court-house. His cheeks reddened
angrily under the curious glances of men and women in the crowds.
There had been a strong element of sympathy for Corwin. He had been
freehanded, and had made himself at home in local sporting circles.
Daniel, with his fine perception of the trend of human feeling, knew
that the sympathy was not all on their side. Fanchon’s famous dance at
the church musicale, and her frequent appearances with the man himself,
had all worked against her. It did not seem quite fair to lay all the
blame on Corwin.
If William had shot him, the thing would have been understood. Leigh’s
act was subject to terrible misinterpretations. It seemed as if the
Carter family had employed a boy to do the shooting in the hope of
getting off scot-free. To half the men on the street it looked like a
case of sheer cowardice on the husband’s part, and Daniel knew it. He
had that kind of sensitiveness--wrought up by much solitary suffering
and introspective thought--that made this consciousness of the possible
charge of cowardice against them all a kind of torture. He was very
white, and his eyes sparkled dangerously.
“He looks as if he might kill a man, lame as he is,” one of the
bystanders whispered, and Daniel heard it.
“I don’t know that we can get an indictment for manslaughter, Dan,”
said the judge, in his ear. “Seems to me it’ll be murder, but there’s
no telling with that jury.”
Daniel, thinking of Leigh’s boyish face and girlish eyes, set his
teeth very hard. At that moment he had no feeling of pity for Fanchon.
“When a man gets married the way William did,” remarked the judge,
“it’s mighty like putting your hand into a grab-bag at a church fair.
You’re not going to get anything useful out of it.”
Daniel said nothing.
They crossed the square and ascended the court-house steps half an hour
before the time set for the grand jury.
Meanwhile, Mr. Carter came down to Judge Jessup’s office and collapsed
there. He had intended to go on to the court-house, but he could not.
He sat down limply in the judge’s chair with one hand on the telephone,
waiting to be called.
He had passed a terrible night. Mrs. Carter had indulged in the only
fit of hysterics she had ever had in her life, and her husband had
thought, at first, that it was apoplexy. He had summoned Dr. Barbour,
rousing the good man from his bed, and had caught a lecture for it.
“Never seen a woman in hysterics before?” the doctor asked fiercely.
“Put her feet in hot mustard water. I reckon that when you see a real
fit you’ll turn in the fire-alarm!”
But he was unable to eradicate Mr. Carter’s first impressions. Thinking
it over now, he shook his head.
“Never saw her like that in her life before,” he reflected. “Had seven
children and lost three--and never threw a fit before! If Leigh----”
He stopped at that; he couldn’t go any further. He rose and pulled off
his coat and unbuttoned his collar. He felt that the heat--it was only
an ordinary summer day--was intolerably oppressive. Then he took down
the telephone receiver absently, and had to assure central that he
didn’t want anything.
“Knocked it off by accident,” he explained mendaciously.
But the incident embarrassed him, and he collapsed into the chair again
and fanned himself with his hat. Then the telephone-bell rang sharply
in his ear, and he seized the receiver. A tremulous young voice called:
“Is Judge Jessup there?”
“No, the judge has gone over to the court-house. This is Mr.
Carter--Johnson Carter.”
“Oh, papa!” It was Emily, and he could almost feel her tears through
the instrument. “Mama thought you might be at the judge’s office. Got
any news about Leigh?”
“Not yet!” Mr. Carter was hoarse, but he cleared his throat. “How’s
mama?”
“She’s all right; she’s just taken peppermint tea. Papa, I’ve got
something to tell you.”
Her voice seemed to die away, but he heard her blowing her nose.
“What is it, Emmy?”
“F-Fanchon’s going--she’s got the expressman here for her trunks.”
“Glad of it!” said Mr. Carter dryly. “If she wants a taxi, I’ll send
it.”
“Oh, papa!”
“Yes?”
“Mama says she’ll die if she doesn’t know about Leigh soon!”
“I can’t help it, I--say, I see the judge and Dan coming--I’ll call you
up again in a minute!”
He hung up the receiver and rushed to the door. Judge Jessup and his
son came in soberly. The judge threw his hat down on the table and said
nothing.
“Indicted for murder--second degree, father,” said Daniel, averting his
eyes.
Mr. Carter tottered to a chair and covered his face with his hands. In
the silence of the little office they heard the first shrill cry of a
newsboy.
“Extry! Extry! Leigh Carter indicted for murder! Extry!”
Mr. Carter groaned aloud. Then he remembered.
“Dan, Emmy ’phoned me a few minutes ago. That--that woman’s leaving the
house--bag and baggage. If you want to ask her anything----”
Judge Jessup interrupted with a roar.
“Get a taxi, Dan! Catch her, don’t let her go! I’ll subpœna her, if
necessary. Stop her!”
Daniel, who had turned a startled face on his father, nodded at the
judge.
“’Phone mother, father,” he said quietly. “It isn’t fair to keep her
waiting even ten minutes. I’ll go out there at once.”
As he spoke, he whistled for a passing taxi. He heard his father’s
shaking voice at the phone as he went out.
The cab went off at top speed, and Daniel sank back in the corner,
resting his head against the stiff old cushion. He felt a great
weariness, a sensation of defeat and despair. He had fought hard for
an indictment for manslaughter, but had succeeded in getting a second
degree of murder only by the most strenuous effort and the appeal of
Leigh’s obvious youth. Daniel knew that they had a hard fight before
them, and he doubted the boy’s nerve. The whole thing was hideous to
him.
He looked out with dull eyes, aware of the swift passing of the street
corners. The taxi swung into the church lane with a shriek of its
warning horn, and Daniel looked around at the church door, thinking of
Virginia.
The next moment he saw her. The old wagonette and the two fat horses
appeared, progressing slowly toward town. Colonel Denbigh and his
granddaughter were sitting in the vehicle, facing each other on the two
long seats.
Virginia saw Daniel and waved to him. He knew that they had the news,
for the colonel was reading an extra, and Virginia’s face was full
of it. She seemed to fling him a message of sympathy and courage and
faith. Daniel felt it. It roused him. He felt suddenly the impulse of
the fighter, and he shut his teeth on it. He must win, he would win!
He was still feeling it when the taxi stopped abruptly at the Carter
gate and the chauffeur got down to collect his fare. Daniel paid it
absently, aware that the man was staring at the figure that he saw on
the piazza.
In the midst of a pile of luggage stood Fanchon. She was dressed for
the street, and wore a hat and a fashionable veil that made a singular
figure on the side of her pale cheek, like the tail of a black dragon.
She was leaning against a trunk that stood on end, her dark eyes fixed
gloomily on her approaching brother-in-law.
“What’s this, Fanchon?” he asked quickly. “You’re not going to fail me?”
She shook her head.
“I couldn’t stay here! You can tell William that he can come home. I’m
going over to a boarding house on the turnpike. I found it once----”
She blushed suddenly and pitifully, and Daniel knew she referred to her
ride. He drew a breath of relief.
“I’m sorry,” he began, half ashamed that she felt driven from the
house, and painfully remembering William.
She caught his sleeve, her hand shaking.
“Daniel, tell me--the indictment?”
“Murder in the second degree.”
She reeled back, clutching at the trunk, her face deathly and her
fawn-like eyes fixed on his.
“What--what’s the penalty?”
“In this State, imprisonment--five to eighteen years.”
“Five to eighteen years--in prison--for--for Leigh!” she repeated
slowly, gasping.
She sank down, leaning on the trunk, and trembling, her eyes still
fixed on Daniel’s white, set, unpitying face.
“_Mon Dieu!_” she cried at last, and burst into passionate tears.