The Sentence.
John Smith--for the prisoner was known by no other name--lay in prison
until the time for his trial. He had not long to wait, but he made no
complaint. He seemed perfectly at his ease--much more so than was Mr.
Kent. In vain the good magistrate said to himself that it was no
business of his; that he had nothing whatever to do with the case, he
had simply performed his duty--done what was required of him. Yet he
could not feel satisfied; he was sure there was a mystery, and he longed
to fathom it.
He resolved to go and see the young man, and ask him more questions, to
try to ascertain who he really was. He went to his cell and the prisoner
looked at him in utter surprise.
"I have come purposely," said Mr. Kent, "to see if I cannot induce you
to tell the truth over this affair. I will call you John Smith, if you
like, yet I am sure you are a gentleman; you will not deny that?"
"I neither admit nor deny anything," was the smiling reply; "I have made
up my mind that there will be a certain punishment, and I shall go
through it like a brave man."
"Have you well considered what degradation that punishment will bring
upon you as long as you live?"
His face flushed hotly.
"Since you ask me," he answered, "I tell you frankly, no; I had not
thought of that part of the business at all--it never even occurred to
me; my thoughts were all otherwise engrossed."
"You should take it into consideration," said the magistrate. "I know
nothing of what your position in society may be, but remember, you
voluntarily cut yourself off from all association with even respectable
people; a man who has been in prison cannot expect the countenance or
fellowship of his fellow-men."
"I suppose you are right," replied the young man; "although, believe me,
never a thought of this occurred to me."
"Now, would it not be better to tell the truth? Have you done it for a
wager? is it the trick of a foolish young man? or were you really
tempted to steal the watch?"
Something like a smile curved his handsome lips.
"I cannot tell you," he replied. "I am deeply grateful for your kind
interest--indeed, I shall never forget it; but I cannot, in return, tell
you one word."
"Then I can do nothing to help you?"
"No," he answered slowly; "you could not help sending me for trial. Will
you tell me what the probable result will be, supposing, as a matter of
course, that I am found guilty?"
"Most probably, six months imprisonment, without hard labor, if it be a
first offence."
"It is the first of its kind," was the smiling reply.
"You will not let me help you, then, in any way?" said Mr. Kent.
"There is nothing you can do for me," said the young man, gratefully.
"If you take my advice," continued the magistrate, "you will send for
some clever lawyer; tell him the truth, whatever it may be, and while
preserving your incognito, he may be able to do something for you. I
should certainly do so in your place."
"I think not," he replied; "the less stir made about it the better.
Surely in the crowd of a criminal court and in the prison dress, I shall
escape recognition?"
"An admission," thought the magistrate, "that he has concealed his
identity."
"I cannot tell; I think it doubtful."
"Well, whatever comes, I shall always he grateful to you, Mr. Kent, for
your interest in me."
"I am sorry you will not trust me," said the magistrate, rising to leave
the cell.
"I am still more sorry that I cannot," was the reply, and then the
prisoner was left alone.
He did not look much like a thief; there was a light on his face such as
one sees in the pictures of the martyrs, a clear fire in the gray eyes.
"My ancestors have smiled with their heads on a block," he said.
"Surely, with such a motive, I may bear six months of prison."
The day of his trial came. The report of it in the papers read as
follows:
"John Smith, aged twenty, occupation unknown, was charged by Count Jules
St. Croix with stealing from his room an ivory casket, containing a
watch and an antique ring of great value. The prisoner, who refused to
give any account of himself, pleaded guilty; he made no defence, and had
retained no counsel. The judge made a few remarks to the effect that it
was very hard to see a young man, evidently possessed of some education
and refinement, in such a position, then sentenced him to six months'
imprisonment without hard labor. Prisoner made no remark, and was then
removed."
The papers did not tell of a little incident that occurred, simply
because the reporters did not know it. During the hearing of the case,
which did not last long, one of the leading barristers, Mr. Macfarlane,
sat with his eyes riveted on the prisoner's face, his own growing very
pale and anxious; then he wrote a little note, which he dispatched by a
messenger, who soon returned, accompanied by Mr. Forster, one of the
most celebrated lawyers in Lincoln's Inn.
He spoke a few words to Mr. Macfarlane.
"Nonsense!" he said; "the idea is incredible, impossible, even. What can
have made you think of such a thing?"
"Stand here in my place; you cannot see over all those heads. Now look
well at him. Am I right or wrong?"
A strange gray look came over Mr. Forster's face.
"I--I believe you are right," he said. "My God! what can this mean?"
"Look now! his face is turned this way! Look!" cried Mr. Macfarlane,
eagerly.
"It is he!" cried the lawyer, and he stood like one turned to stone,
then recovering himself, he said quickly:
"Why is he here? What is he charged with?"
Mr. Macfarlane whispered into the lawyer's ear:
"With stealing a watch and ring from the room of Count Jules St. Croix."
"Absurd!" was the reply, in accents of the deepest contempt; "what
idiotic nonsense! He steal a watch! I could believe myself mad or
dreaming."
"Then," said Mr. Macfarlane. "he has pleaded guilty; he has made no
defence, engaged no counsel."
"The boy is mad! completely mad!" cried the lawyer.
"Hush!" said the barrister; "the judge is speaking."
Mr. Forster stood in a most impatient mood, while the grave, clear voice
of the judge sentenced the prisoner. Then he turned to the barrister
abruptly.
"I tell you," he cried, "the boy is mad! Steal a watch! Why, he could
buy one-half the watches in London if he liked. I must see him. Come
this way."
"No," said Mr. Macfarlane, "he evidently does not wish to be known. I
shall not go near him."
"If he got into trouble, why in the world did he not send for me or for
some one else?" said the lawyer to himself. "It must be a young man's
frolic, a wager, a bet. He has spirit enough for anything. He never
could have been such a mad fool as to wreck his life for a paltry
watch."
Mr. Forster went to the room, where with other prisoners, John Smith
stood, awaiting his removal in the prison van. He went up to him and
touched him on the shoulder.
"Is it really you?" he cried, and the luminous gray eyes smiled into
his.
"Ah! Forster, I am sorry to see you. What has brought you here?"
"It is you," said the lawyer. "I was in hopes that my senses deceived
me."
"I hope you will keep the fact of having seen me here a profound
secret."
"But in the name of heaven, what does it mean?" cried Mr. Forster. "You
know you have not attempted to steal a watch. Pardon me, but how dare
you plead guilty? You will cover yourself with disgrace and infamy. You
will break your mother's heart. You will be utterly ruined for life."
"My dear Forster, no one knows of my being here, and no one need know
except yourself."
"You are mistaken; you have been recognized. I was sent for to identify
you."
Then the proud face did grow pale, but the proud light did not die out
of the gray eyes.
"I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. I must 'dree my weird.'"
Mr. Forster stood looking at him like one stupefied.
"If the sun had fallen from the heavens," he said, "it would not have
surprised me more. Surely, surely you are going to trust me and tell me
what this means?"
"I cannot. Go on with everything just the same. Tell my mother I have
gone abroad for six months, and if you value my name, keep my secret
from spreading, if you can."
And then a rough voice called John Smith to the prison van.