Boyd Westover must be called to the bar to receive the sentence of the
court. The Commonwealth's Attorney made the necessary motion in a voice
that could hardly be heard because of his lack of control over his
organs of speech. The Judge tried hard to deliver the little address he
had carefully prepared as a means of suggesting what he could not
say--that in spite of everything he could not personally regard Boyd
Westover as a man actually guilty of crime. His voice behaved so badly
that after a futile attempt he gave up the effort to say anything,
except the formal words that condemned the prisoner to serve a term at
hard labor in the State prison.
The term fixed by the sentence was the shortest that the law allowed,
but what comfort was there in that to a sensitive man like Boyd
Westover, to whom disgrace for half a minute meant the same thing as
disgrace for all time? It is doubtful that he even grasped the meaning
of the words used in limiting the sentence to the briefest time allowed.
As there were papers to be made out and signed, Jack Towns and his
client sat for a brief while waiting. Presently there was a little
commotion in the outer corridor and a moment later a bailiff hurriedly
entered and made his way to the Commonwealth's Attorney, to whom he
whispered excitedly. That officer asked a brief question or two under
his breath. Then he turned to the court and said, while all listened
with the greatest interest:
"If your honor please, something has happened--something out of the
ordinary, something important, something which if I am correctly
informed vitally concerns business now before the court. I ask to be
excused for a few minutes in order that I may learn the facts and
report them to the court."
With that, receiving a nod of approval from the Judge, he withdrew.
When he had gone the Judge said:
"We may as well save what we can of the time of waiting. Mr. Clerk, if
you have the papers ready in the Westover case I'll sign them."
They were passed to him and, after he had signed them, handed over to
the sheriff, thus completing that matter at once.
A moment later, the Commonwealth's Attorney returned, pale to the lips,
trembling like one in an ague fit, and with the muscles about his mouth
twitching in a way that was positively painful to all who looked at him.
In a voice that was hard, metallic, and obviously controlled only by a
supreme effort of the will, he addressed the court.
"There has been a terrible mistake made," he said with none of the
formalities of speech usual in addressing a tribunal,--"a disastrous,
cruel, irreparable mistake, for my share in which I hide my head in
shame as I ask God and man to pardon me. In convicting and sentencing
Boyd Westover, we have convicted and sentenced an innocent man. The
real culprit is now in a jury room adjoining this apartment. He has
been caught in a repetition of the act for which Boyd Westover has been
convicted and sentenced. He has confessed that he was the offender on
the former occasion, and the committing magistrate before whom he was
brought this morning has brought him hither to repeat his confession
and to let your honor look upon him. It is the most phenomenal case of
mistaken identity I ever knew or heard of. Even fiction, with its
limitless license of invention, offers no parallel that I ever heard
of. The resemblance between this man and Boyd Westover is so perfect,
so startling in its completeness that I could never have believed it
upon any testimony other than that of my own eyes. I ask permission to
bring the prisoner into court."
By this time the court room was packed with all sorts and conditions of
men, for the news of what had happened during the night before had
spread like wildfire over the city.
A minute later the prisoner, who gave his name as "Dolly Andrews," but
admitted that "Dolly" was short for Adolphus, was brought to the bar.
At the Commonwealth's Attorney's request, Boyd Westover moved forward
and stood by his side.
The two men were precisely alike in size, form and feature, but
strangely unlike in expression. As Jack Towns put the matter: "Boyd
Westover, being a gentleman, looks into your eyes when he speaks to you
or you to him; the other fellow looks anywhere but at you. In the one
face there is intelligence,--in the other a low cunning; in the one an
alert outlook, in the other a look of morbid introspection. Still the
two men are absolutely alike in all physical respects--more alike than
I supposed that even twins could be. I could myself easily mistake one
for the other, and I don't wonder that a lot of excited school girls,
routed out of bed in the middle of the night and with only bedroom
candles to see by, made the terrible mistake they did."
The problem now was what to do. Fortunately the committing magistrate
was a man of wise discretion. He presented himself in court and said to
the Judge:
"I have not yet committed this man, though he was caught in the act and
has made full confession, both as to his present offence and as to the
former crime, of which another has been mistakenly convicted. I have
thought it better to bring him before your honor and ask you to sit as
committing magistrate in the case, in order that you may yourself hear
his confession. It has seemed to me that this course was best in aid of
justice in another case."
After an exchange of dignified compliments, the Judge, sitting as a
committing magistrate, heard the case. During the preceding night there
had been an alarm of "burglars" in Le Voiser's school. As before, the
matron marshalled her charges for retreat, but this time there were two
stalwart men on the premises and awaiting call. Monsieur Le Voiser had
looked out for that, by ordering his furnace man and his steward to
sleep in a room within convenient call, and when the intruder attempted
to escape they were there to seize and hold him by physical force.
They testified to the facts.
Then the culprit repeated the confession he had already made. He seemed
in no way ashamed, and he did not hesitate. He declared that it was he,
and not Boyd Westover, who had invaded the school on the former
occasion, and when asked what his motive was, he disclaimed all
purposes of robbery and sought to justify himself by the solemn
declaration:
"On both occasions I went there under the command of the Supreme Being."
"Just what do you mean by that?" asked the Judge, testily.
"I am divinely commissioned to marry Miss--"
"Stop!" commanded the Judge. "Don't mention the young lady's name. Just
say 'a certain young lady.' We won't have her name dragged into the
case."
"Very well," said the culprit. "It is only that I am acting under a
divine commission and have nothing to conceal. I must marry the young
lady in question. I met her in the street once, and talked to her on
the subject. She mistook me for Boyd Westover, and I thought it best to
use that name in my dealings with her. You see, Judge, when one is
divinely commissioned to achieve a purpose, details make no difference."
"Go on," said the Judge; "omit explanations and arguments, and tell
what happened."
"The young lady rejected my addresses. I was not discouraged by that. I
had been divinely warned to expect it. I wrote her many notes, but she
did not reply to them. Then I saw my duty clearly. I decided to use
gentle force and carry her away with me, leaving the divine influence
to chasten her proud spirit and teach her the duty of loving me. I have
been twice defeated in my endeavors. I shall succeed when the appointed
time is ripe. I must be patient and faithful, that is all."
"After all," whispered Jack Towns to the Commonwealth's Attorney, "that
hysterical girl who said he had come to abduct her was right, except in
her identification of the man."
"Yes, but the exception is one of disastrous consequences. Help me,
Towns, to right this wrong! I'll never do the like again. I'll never
prosecute another case so long as I live. I've already sent in my
resignation from office."
"You're a sublimated idiot," said Jack. "Listen. The Judge is speaking."
"I will commit this man to await the action of the Grand Jury," the
Judge said. "In the meanwhile the Court suggests to the Commonwealth's
Attorney the propriety of asking for a commission in lunacy to inquire
into this man's sanity."
Thus spurred out of the lethargic collapse into which he had fallen,
the official prosecutor made the necessary motion and the court
promptly appointed the commission.
Then Jack Towns arose to ask:
"What is to be done to right the wrong in the case of my client? And
more especially, what is to be done to prevent the aggravation of that
wrong? I call attention to the fact that the papers committing this
obviously innocent man to the penitentiary are already in the hands of
the sheriff, who has no right to exercise discretion in the case. In
the ordinary course of events my client, innocent of offence as he
obviously is, must pass the portals of the prison within the hour. I
ask the court to prevent this crowning wrong in a case in which enough
and too much of wrong has been done already."
The Judge was in full sympathy, but for order's sake he asked if the
Commonwealth's Attorney desired to be heard in opposition to the
request of the counsel.
"Not in opposition," said the official, "but in full and hearty
sympathy. I feel that a great wrong has been done; I feel this so
strongly that I have sent to the proper authority my resignation of the
office I hold, in order that I may never again have part or lot in a
wrong so grievous. I earnestly second the request of the counsel for
the prisoner that everything shall be done which the law permits, to
prevent further wrong and to right the wrong already done."
"Very well," said the Judge. "The sheriff is ordered to return to the
clerk the papers in his possession. The prisoner is paroled in the
custody of his counsel, to await further proceedings. Unfortunately the
court knows of no process of law by which the fact of this innocent
man's conviction and sentence can be undone. It is not within the power
of man to make that not to be which has been. The court cannot undo the
proceedings that have been had in this case. It can only make an
earnest effort to prevent the wrongful results of those proceedings. To
that end I purpose to go in person before the Governor of the State to
ask for the fullest reparation that can be made, namely, a
pardon--pardon for a crime that has not been committed. It seems almost
a mockery, but it is the best that is possible under the law. In order
to give all the emphasis I can to the proceedings, I shall adjourn
court for a time, and ask the Commonwealth's Attorney to accompany me
on this mission of justice. Further than that, I direct him to summon
the members of the jury that convicted Boyd Westover of a crime of
which he is not guilty, to go with us before the Governor and join us
in our request. So far as the securing of a pardon is concerned, no
effort of this kind is necessary; but the court deems it proper in this
case to make this united appeal of judge, jury, and prosecutor by way
of emphasizing our recognition of the injustice done. The court stands
adjourned until four o'clock this afternoon, at which hour Mr. Boyd
Westover"--the Judge no longer spoke of him as "the prisoner"--"will
present himself here and the court will itself deliver to him--as it is
fitting that the court should do in such a case--the papers relieving
him, so far as it is possible now to relieve him, of all the
consequences of a clearly erroneous accusation and conviction."
When the Judge ceased speaking, Boyd Westover made a profound bow to
him, saying simply: "I thank you." Then turning to Towns he said:
"Come, Jack! I'm faint and hungry. Let's go to Tom Griffin's and get
something to eat."
Tom Griffin's was a place well known in the Richmond of that old time.
Tom himself was a negro slave who enjoyed vastly more liberty than any
free man of color ever did in Virginia. Every gentleman in Richmond was
his personal friend; so was every aristocratic planter east of the Blue
Ridge. Any one of them would have drawn his check in payment for Tom's
liberty, if Tom had desired to be free. But Tom Griffin wanted nothing
of the kind. He was happy and he knew when he was well off. If his
freedom had been bought, he must, under the law, have left his native
state, whose people were his friends and whose associations meant to
him all that life could mean.
He knew all there was to know of catering and of cookery. Better still,
as he phrased it, he "instincted just how to make things good to eat."
He had genius, in short, and the fact was recognized and celebrated by
every man in Virginia who had a palate and the price--and who enjoyed
Tom Griffin's favor. For Tom Griffin's place was no ordinary
restaurant. Men of the common herd were not welcomed there. Only those
whom he recognized as his friends--and his friendships were rigidly
restricted to the aristocratic class--were privileged to sit at Tom's
polished old mahogany table, and enjoy sora, or canvas backs or
terrapin in perfection. Only such were served with his glorified chine
and spare-ribs, his roast turkey or his forequarters of spring lamb.
And those who were so privileged could never be persuaded to believe
that anybody else in all the world could even by accident serve any
viand in such perfection as that in which every viand came from Tom
Griffin's expert hands.
Tom probably knew who his master was, but nobody else ever asked. Tom
probably paid his master a liberal compensation for his time; he could
well afford to do so. For Tom Griffin was rich--so rich that many a
young Virginian whose frequent rash expenditures threatened to involve
him in argument with his father, found relief in a loan from Tom
Griffin's hand, concerning which no papers were passed. These loans
were certain to be repaid. They were debts of honor, seeing that as a
suitor Tom Griffin--a negro slave--would have had no standing in court.
Tom Griffin had waiters in adequate force, but he never permitted them
to serve a gentleman without his personal superintendence. If a
gentleman wanted a glass of water during his meal--as even Virginia
gentlemen sometimes did--Tom regarded his waiter as a person competent
to serve it. The waiter could clear away the used crockery, too, and
see to it that lighted wax candles were in place for cigar-lighting
purposes. There were other minor offices that Tom permitted to his
waiters. But when it came to serving a dish, Tom took the function upon
himself.
"You see," he once explained, "the boys is so stupid. If I've laid
myself out to have a dish just right, I ain't a goin' to spile all my
work by lettin' a clumsy nigger slap-bang it on the table, like as if
he was a sellin' fish in the market."
In accordance with his custom, therefore, Tom personally served a
dinner that Boyd Westover had not ordered. There were soft crabs to
begin with. There was a whole fore-quarter of genuine spring lamb for
Boyd to carve at will. There were the earliest peas of the season,
secured by Tom Griffin's "System," which consisted in letting all the
market gardeners know that he paid higher prices than anybody else for
the first and best of every garden's product, and, more important
still, that any gardener failing to give him first choice would be cut
off his list, a proscription too serious to be faced with composure.
There were the first tomatoes of the season, too, and there was
everything else that was possible, including a _meringe a la créme_,
black coffee and cigars at the end.
Boyd Westover had ordered nothing of the sort, but Tom Griffin served
it all quite as if he had done so, and when it came upon the table Tom
busied himself and a corkscrew in opening a dusty, cobwebbed bottle of
antique Madeira, saying as he did so:
"Dis is Ann Maria wine, Mas' Boyd, an' dere ain't much of it left in
Old Virginia, I reckon. Will you 'scuse me ef I say I ain't paid no
attention to your order in gittin' your dinner ready, an' I ain't asked
what sort o' wine you wanted? De explanation is dat Tom Griffin is a
furnishin' this here dinner an' this here Ann Maria Madeira, as his
contribution to de joyful occasion. Gentlemen, I trust your appetites
is good."
With that Tom withdrew too hastily for protest or remonstrance. As he
went he snatched a napkin from a vacant table, with which to dry his
dusky cheeks of the tears that were streaming down them in spite of all
his efforts at self-control.
Tom had learned from his customers to speak fairly correct English, and
his lapse into the negro dialect of his boyhood on this occasion was
the "outward and visible sign of the inward" emotional disturbance that
Boyd Westover's experience had wrought in his all-affectionate soul.
XII
AFTER THE STORM
Hungry as Boyd Westover had declared himself to be, and tempting as was
the dinner that Tom Griffin served, the young man ate with scant
appetite, and when the meal was over his friend was anxiously worried.
"See here, Boyd!" he said. "In view of all the circumstances you ought
to be the jolliest fellow in Richmond to-day. You've borne up
astonishingly during the real stress of this affair. Why should you
flunk now that it's all over and you're a victor?"
"I'm not flunking. I'll never flunk, but stoicism costs," answered
Westover.
"Just how do you mean?"
"I mean that my determination to bear a bold and unflinching front as
it becomes a Westover to do when the penitentiary doors were yawning
for me, with lifelong disgrace as my portion, has taken more out of me
than you can easily believe. To a man raised in our traditions, the
prospect of disgrace and shame is a fearful thing to face. A score of
agonizing deaths by torture would have been to me as nothing in
comparison with what I have suffered in contemplation of this horror. I
have faced the thing as bravely as I could. That much I owed to my
name, my caste, my lineage--call it what you will. But my bank account
of endurance is running low now. My drafts upon it have been heavy
and--well, there have been no deposits to strengthen it."
He was thinking bitterly of Margaret Conway's defection.
"Don't let us talk of that. I'm as nearly on the verge of collapse as a
healthy man can be, that's all."
"But you are vindicated, and when your pardon comes this afternoon--"
"Pardon? Yes. For a crime I did not commit. Think of it, Jack. From
this hour forth I shall be a man accused, convicted and sentenced for a
crime of infamous character, and graciously pardoned for it. It
couldn't be worse--except to my own soul--if I were guilty. The pardon
undoes nothing but the punishment. It doesn't wipe out the stain. It
doesn't--oh, well, you understand. I am free, but my life is ruined. If
I were called as a witness in court, the opposing attorney would be
free to ask me if I had not been convicted of a felony and sentenced,
and I should have to answer yes. Then he could forbid me to explain.
The thing is horrible. The law as it stands is infamously unjust. Why
should I be a pardoned criminal when I have committed no crime? Why
should not the court that convicted me and sentenced me under a mistake
have power to undo the wrong by another trial or procedure of some
kind? Why should I not be acquitted of a false accusation instead of
being 'pardoned' for an offence never committed? No, don't bother to
answer. I know the answer already. Such cases are too rare for the law
to have provided for them, though it is the law's boast that there is
no wrong for which it doesn't provide a remedy. However, let's talk of
something else. I'm going off for rest. I suppose this Rocky Mountain
matter ought to be looked after. Will you go out there as my
representative, under your blanket power of attorney, and do whatever
you think best about it? There seems to be money enough in it to pay
you all you want in the way of fees, according to your representation."
"I'll go, of course. But I wish you would go instead, or go with me. It
would divert your mind, and, believe me, Boyd, you need such diversion
more than anything else. Why can't you go?"
"Because I must rest, and because--well, because of many things. Never
mind. I'm not going and you are. I'm going a fishing. Draw up all the
necessary papers and I'll execute them. Can you get them ready
to-night? I want to go away to-morrow morning and forget."
"Where will you go? To Wanalah?"
"No; except for brief preparations. To the mountains. You know I own
three or four high mountain tops up in the Blue Ridge, with the swales,
called valleys, that lie between. The land is worthless, but the woods
up there are full of game and the brooks alive with trout. My
grandfather bought the vast tract as an indulgence and my father kept
it with a like purpose. There's a shack of some sort up there I
believe. If not, I can build one in a half day, and it will interest me
to chink and daub it."
Jack Towns sat silent for a time. Then he said:
"I heartily disapprove of your plan. It means solitude, and you need
association with men to cure you of morbid and unwholesome feelings."
"But I can associate with men only upon sufferance. You've heard of the
person who said: 'The more I see of men, the better I like dogs.' I'm
not quite of his mind, but anyhow I'm going up into the high mountains
with my dogs, my guns and my fishing tackle. So get all the papers
ready, Jack, and let me get away as soon as possible."
Again, Jack Towns sat silent and troubled. After awhile he said:
"Of course you'll go to my house to-night and be my guest so long as
you remain in Richmond?"
"Thank you, I will if you'll see to it that no visitors get at me. I
want to go to sleep as soon as this thing's over and I'd like to stay
asleep forever."
"You're all wrong, but of course as a guest in my house you'll be
protected from everything that is reasonably or unreasonably
disagreeable to you. But really, Boyd, the people who are sure to call
to-night--"
"Yes, I know. They will call to offer congratulations which are in fact
commiserations and condolences. I don't care to attend my own funeral
in the capacity of chief mourner, just yet. I shouldn't mind the
funeral, with myself for the corpse, but I'm not prepared to play the
part of chief mourner."
"You're morbid, Boyd."
"Perhaps so, but I'm going to become healthy again. Now listen. I'm
going off into the mountains to match my wits with those of the wiliest
trout, the shyest deer, the most experienced wild turkey gobblers, and
now and then perhaps to try conclusions with a sly old bear. By the
time I return to civilization, I'll have decided upon my career. I'm
going to do something--I don't know what. But by that time I'll know."
"Good! That's the way to look at things. After all, the strain your
stoicism has put upon you hasn't robbed you of your robust manhood, and
that is what I feared."
"My dear Jack, I couldn't lose that and go on living. It is only that I
must have a little time in which to pull myself together and see what I
can do. If your mission to the Rocky Mountains proves that those
fellows out there are right, and that a great wealth is ready to my
hand, I may turn philanthropist, or I may enter upon great business
undertakings which by their employment of multitudes of men at good
wages are perhaps the most philanthropic of all endeavors. I don't
know. I can't think till I sleep and rest. At any rate while I am
recovering tone up in the high mountains of the Blue Ridge, you will
find out what monetary tools I have to work with. Theology teaches us
that the primal curse was a condemnation to work. It was the primal
blessing instead. That's an aside. I have good friends up in the
mountains, chief among whom is Judy Peters."
"The Queen of the mountains? I've heard of her. She's an erratic
political factor with whom every candidate must reckon, I'm told."
"She's all that. She controls the mountain vote in her district as
absolutely as the Superintendent of the Penitentiary was to have
controlled me--"
"Now, my dear Boyd, I beg you to put aside that sort of brooding. It's
morbid, it's hurtful to your character, it's--"