JUDGE HOLLIS, standing before the witness-stand, looked at Diana with
fatherly eyes; his manner lost its brusqueness and became that of the
old-fashioned gentleman of gallantry. Diana herself looked across the
court-room with a composure and dignity of pose that became her. Every
eye was riveted upon her. For days the papers had reeked with the
story of Jean Bartlett and her child, yet here--on the stand for the
prisoner--was one of the first young ladies in the State.
Judge Hollis had been taking notes, and he closed his notebook on his
finger and took off his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Where were you on the afternoon of Tuesday, August eighteenth, about
one o’clock, Miss Diana?”
Diana answered at once, and in a clear low voice. “In this building,
Judge, in a small room on the lower floor.”
“A small room on the lower floor? Let us see, Miss Diana,”--the judge
tapped his book with his spectacles,--“the room to the right, was it,
at the end of the west corridor?”
Diana explained the position of the room and the vicinity of the
staircase.
“Ah,” said the old lawyer, with the air of having made a discovery,
“to be sure; it’s the room we call ‘the cage’--on the basement floor.
Rather a dreary place to wait, Miss Diana: how long were you there?”
“I am not sure,” she replied, coloring suddenly, “but certainly an
hour. It was a little after twelve when we reached the building, and I
heard the clock strike one just before the shots were fired.”
“Ah! You heard the shots?”
“I did.”
“How many did you hear, Miss Diana?” the judge asked in his easiest,
most conversational tone.
“Two, Judge, two reports in quick succession.”
“And you heard only two?” his tone was sharp, incisive; it cut like a
knife.
Diana threw him a startled glance, but she was still composed, though
the breathless silence in the room was deeply affecting.
“I heard but two,” she said firmly.
“How soon after one o’clock?” he demanded, his bony forefinger
following her testimony, as it seemed, across the cover of the book he
held.
“The clock in the hall had just struck.” Diana was holding every
instinct, every thought, in hand. Her eyes never left his rugged face,
yet, all the while, she was conscious of the court-room, growing dim
in the early twilight, of the rows of upturned eager faces, but more
conscious still of the pale face of Caleb Trench.
Judge Hollis made some notes, then he looked up suddenly. “Miss
Royall,” he said formally, “do you know the prisoner at the bar?”
Diana drew a deep breath; she was aware of a hundred pairs of curious
eyes. The awful silence of the room seemed to leap upon her and bear
her down. She turned her head with an effort and met Caleb’s eyes. For
a single second they looked at each other, with the shock of mutual
feeling, then she answered, and her low voice reached the farthest
corner of the crowded room.
“I do.”
Judge Hollis waited an instant; he let every word she said have its
full effect and weight. “Did you see him upon the morning of the
assassination?”
“I did.”
“In the basement of the court-house?”
“In the room which you call the cage, Judge Hollis,” she replied
quietly, though she colored again; “I saw him there twice.”
“At what time?” the old man’s harsh voice rang, like the blow of a
sledge-hammer.
“He was with me in that room when the clock struck one, and we both
heard the shots fired.” Diana spoke gently, but her voice thrilled; she
knew that, in the face of the scurrilous attacks upon Caleb Trench, her
position was at once courageous and perilous.
“He was in the room in the basement with you then, when Yarnall was
shot,” said Judge Hollis, his eyes kindling with triumph.
“He was.”
She had scarcely uttered the words, and Caleb Trench’s white face had
flushed deeply, when some one cheered. In an instant there was a wave
of applause. It swept through the room, it reached the corridors and
descended the stairs; the sentries heard it in the quadrangle. Men
stood up on the rear benches and shouted. Then Judge Ladd enforced
silence; he even threatened to clear the court by force and lock the
doors, and like a wave of the sea, the wild enthusiasm receded, only to
gain force and roll back at the first opportunity.
Meanwhile Colonel Royall sat behind the witness-stand, leaning on his
cane, his head bowed and his fine aristocratic face as bloodless as a
piece of paper. There were many who pointed at him and whispered, and
the whisper traveled. “Was he thinking of his girl’s mother?” That foul
hag, the world, has a heart that treasures scandal, and the lips of
malice!
The court-room seethed with excitement, but silence reigned again;
the lights were flaring now on the judge’s desk and on the reporters’
table; the busy scratch of the stenographers’ pens was audible. Diana
was still on the stand, and she explained how Caleb Trench left her to
ascertain the results of the shots, and how he returned and got her
father and herself into their carriage. Her testimony was simple and
direct, and, though she was briefly cross-examined by Colonel Coad, the
prosecuting attorney, she sustained her position and suffered nothing
at the hands of that pompous but courteous gentleman.
When Diana rose from the witness-stand and walked back to her seat
between her father and Miss Sarah Hollis, there was another ripple of
the wave of applause, but it was quickly suppressed. She leaned back
in her chair and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, struggling
with herself, for she was conscious of a new tumult of feeling that
submerged even thought itself; and it seemed to her that her heart
beat, not only in her bosom, but in every quivering limb. Was it
possible, she asked herself, that the tumult in the court-room had
frightened her? Or the fact that on her word alone hung a man’s life?
No, no, not altogether; in that moment, when their eyes met, she had
seen again the lonely trail and heard the dull passion in the man’s
voice when he told her that he loved her; and suddenly, in one of those
supreme moments of self-revelation, she knew that nothing mattered to
her, neither his humble struggle, his poverty, the accusation against
him, not even Jean Bartlett’s story, nothing--nothing counted but that
one primitive, undeniable fact of his love for her. Before it she felt
suddenly defenseless, yet another self was awakening to vigilance in
her heart and summoning her back to the battle of resistance. She had
testified for him, and every face in the court-room turned toward her,
strained to watch her, told her how great had been the weight of her
testimony. She had deceived herself with the thought that only her
duty brought her, her honor, her determination that justice should be
done. Yet she knew now that it was not that, but something mightier,
deeper, more unconquerable,--something that, to her shame, refused even
to consider the charges against him, and, instead, drew her to him
with a force so irresistible that she trembled. She fought it back and
struggled, resisted and tried to fix her attention on the proceedings
of the court. But what was there in the man? What power that had won
its way even with men and made him in so short a time a leader, and
now--was it casting its spell over her?
Then she heard her father testifying briefly to the time that he left
her, to his own visit to Judge Ladd’s room, the announcement of the
shooting, and his return to Diana. It was in the order of sustaining
her testimony, but it was unnecessary, for she had already established
an _alibi_ for Trench.
Then followed a tilt between counsel on the admission of testimony
from Dr. Cheyney as to the character of the defendant. Colonel Coad
resisted, fighting point by point. Judge Hollis was determined and
vindictive; he even lost his temper and quarreled with the Commonwealth
attorney, and would, doubtless, have become profane if the court
had not intervened and sustained him. In that moment the old lawyer
triumphed openly, his eyes flashing, his face nearly purple with
excitement. But the tilt was not over when the doctor was put on the
stand. It became evident, in a moment, that Judge Hollis was bent
on the story of Jean Bartlett, and Colonel Coad got to his feet and
objected. Again silence reigned in the court-room, and they heard the
tree of heaven creak under its weight of human fruit. Inch by inch
Colonel Coad fought and Judge Hollis won. Testimony had been admitted
to damage the character of the prisoner; he was offering this in
sur-rebuttal. It was half-past six when Colonel Coad gave up and the
old judge put on his spectacles and stared into the spectacled eyes of
the old doctor. The two eager, lined old faces were as wonderful in
their shrewd watchfulness as two faces from the brush of Rembrandt.
The dingy, green-shaded lights flickered on them, and the suppressed
excitement of the room thrilled about them, until the very atmosphere
seemed charged.
“You have heard the prisoner charged with the ruin of Jean Bartlett,
Dr. Cheyney?” asked the judge.
“I have, sir.”
“You knew Jean Bartlett before and after the birth of her child; what
was her mental condition at those times?”
“Before the birth of her child she was sane; afterwards she was ill a
long time and never fully recovered from the fever and delirium.”
“Did she make any statement to you before the birth of the child?”
Colonel Coad objected; Judge Hollis said that he intended to show that
the prisoner was not the father of the child. Objection not sustained.
The judge looked sideways at Colonel Coad and coughed; the colonel sat
down. The judge repeated his question.
“She did,” said Dr. Cheyney slowly, leaning a little forward and
looking intently at the old lawyer. A breathless pause ensued.
“Please state to the court the condition and nature of that statement.”
Judge Hollis’ tone was dry, rasping, unemotional.
Dr. Cheyney took off his spectacles, wiped them and put them in his
pocket. “She was of sound mind and she stated her case to me, and I
made her repeat it and write it down, because”--the old doctor’s face
twisted a little into a whimsical grimace,--“I thought likely the child
might be handed around considerable.”
A titter ran through the room. Judge Ladd rapped for order. Dr. Cheyney
unfolded a slip of paper and smoothed it out.
“If it please the court,” he said quietly, “I have been very reluctant
to produce this evidence.”
Colonel Coad rose. “Does it incriminate any person, or persons, not on
trial before this court?” he asked.
“It does.”
“Then, your Honor, I object!” shouted the indignant Coad.
Judge Hollis turned to speak.
“The objection is sustained,” said the court.
The old lawyer for the defense turned purple again, and flashed a
furious glance at Dr. Cheyney. The doctor smiled, his face puckering.
The tense excitement and curiosity in the room found utterance in a
sigh of disappointment. Judge Hollis slammed his papers on his desk and
turned the witness over to the prosecution. Colonel Coad did not press
the examination, and the old doctor went calmly back to his seat with
his secret untold.
Hollis turned to the court. “Your Honor, I waive the right to sum up,
and rest the case for the defense.”
An hour later Colonel Coad had closed for the prosecution and Judge
Ladd charged the jury.
There had been no recess, and the crowded room was packed to
suffocation. Everywhere were faces, white, haggard, intent with
excitement, and the labored breathing of men who hung upon a word. A
thunderstorm was coming on, and now and then a vivid flash flooded the
room with light. At half-past eight Judge Ladd gave the case to the
jury. The foreman rose and stated that the jury had reached a verdict
without leaving the box.
There was an intense moment, and then Judge Ladd spoke slowly.
“Have you agreed upon a verdict?”
“We have, your Honor.”
“Is the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty, as charged in the
indictment?”
“Not guilty.”
The wave of passion and excitement broke, the court-room rose as one
man; the shout was heard ten squares away, and the echo reached the
farthest corner of the city. The bailiffs fought and struggled to keep
order, for men would have carried the prisoner on their shoulders. He
was the only one unmoved. He stood like a rock amid the surging crowd,
and it seemed to Diana that he towered, with a certain simplicity
and strength that made him seem at once apart from other men and
above them. In her heart she wondered at her own temerity, when she
had treated him with discourtesy. Here was a primitive man, and the
primitive strength, the righteous force in him, held other men, as that
strange gift of magnetism that wields and binds and moves millions till
they seem but one.
She turned away, holding tightly to her father’s arm, eager to escape,
and begrudging the slow and tortuous passage to the door. Behind her
and before her, on every hand, from lip to lip, ran the prisoner’s name.
The colonel almost lifted Diana from the crowd into the carriage. Then
he took his seat beside her and closed the door; slowly the horses made
their way through the throng in the quadrangle. It was raining hard,
and the wind blew the moisture across their heated faces.
“By gum!” said Colonel Royall, “they’ll make him governor! But Jacob
Eaton--Jacob Eaton!”
The old man was bewildered; he passed his hand over his face. Diana
said nothing; the night blurred itself into the rain.