Before she was well out of the door, a lady-like young woman in black
was on the stand, testifying against a prisoner, who did not confront
her from the other end of the long table, but stood where he seemed
to have been seated on the top of those stairs I have imagined behind
the railing. He looked twenty one or two years of age, and he had
not at all a bad face, but rather refined; he was well dressed, and
was gentleman-like in the same degree that she was lady-like. From
her testimony it appeared to me that his offense was one that might
fitly be condoned, and in my ignorance I was surprised to find that
it was taken seriously by the court. She had seen him, from the top
of some steps in the shop where she was employed, open a drawer
in the book-keeper’s desk, and take out of it a revolver and some
postage-stamps; but on his discovering her he had instantly replaced
them and tried to make his escape. She gave her evidence in a low
voice, and, as I thought, reluctantly; and one could very well imagine
that she might have regretted causing his arrest; but it was to be
considered that her own reputation was probably at stake, and if his
theft had succeeded she might have been accused of it. When she stood
aside, the judge turned to the defendant, who had kept quite still,
nervously twisting something between his fingers, and questioned him.
He did not attempt to deny the facts; he admitted them, but urged that
he had immediately put the stamps and pistol back into the drawer,
from which, indeed, he had hardly lifted them. The judge heard him
patiently, and the young man went on, with something of encouragement,
to explain that he only meant to take the things to spite the owner of
the shop, on account of some grudge between them, and that he had not
realized that it was stealing. He besought the judge, in terms that
were moving, but not abject, to deal mercifully with him; and he stood
twisting that invisible something between his fingers, and keeping his
eyes fixed on those of the magistrate with a miserable smile, while he
promised that he would not offend again.
The judge passed his hand to and fro over his chin, and now dropped
his eyes, and now glanced at the culprit, who seemed scarcely more
unhappy.
“Haven’t I seen you here before?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” I could hardly hear the prisoner assent.
“How often?”
“Twice.”
“What for?”
“Theft,” gasped the wretched creature.
The judge moved in his chair with a discomfort that he had not shown
throughout the morning’s business. “If this were the first time, or the
second, I should have been glad to let you off with a slight fine. But
I can’t do that now. I must send you to the House of Correction.” He
nodded to the clerk: “Two months.”
The prisoner remained, with that nervous twisting of his fingers, eying
the judge with his vague smile, as if he could not realize what had
befallen. He did not sit down till the next culprit rose and stood near
him. Then a sort of fatal change passed over his face. It looked like
despair. I confess that I had not much heart for his successor. I was
sick, thinking how, so far as this world was concerned, this wretch
had been sent to hell; for the House of Correction is not a purgatory
even, out of which one can hopefully undertake to pray periculant
spirits. To be sure, the police court is not a cure of souls; and
doubtless his doom was as light as the law allowed. But I could have
wished that the judge had distrusted his memory, or taken on his
conscience the merciful sin of ignoring it. He seemed very patient,
and I do not question but he acted according to light and knowledge.
This may have been a hopeless thief. But it was nevertheless a terrible
fate. The chances were a thousand against one that he should hereafter
be anything but a thief, if he were not worse. After all, when one
thinks of what the consequences of justice are, one doubts if there
is any justice in it. Perhaps the thing we call mercy is the divine
conception of justice.