THE TRIAL.
From the time that Charlton began to pettifog with his conscience, he
began to lose peace of mind. His self-respect was impaired, and he became
impatient, and chafed under his restraint. As the trial drew on, he was
more than ever filled with questionings in regard to the course he should
pursue. For conscience is like a pertinacious attorney. When a false
decision is rendered, he is forever badgering the court with a bill of
exceptions, with proposals to set aside, with motions for new trials,
with applications for writs of appeal, with threats of a Higher Court,
and even with contemptuous mutterings about impeachment. If Isa had not
written to him, Albert might have regained his moral _aplomb_ in some
other way than he did--he might not. For human sympathy is Christ's own
means of regenerating the earth. If you can not counsel, if you can not
preach, if you can not get your timid lips to speak one word that will
rebuke a man's sin, you can at least show the fellowship of your heart
with his. There is a great moral tonic in human brotherhood. Worried,
desperate, feeling forsaken of God and man, it is not strange that
Charlton should shut his teeth together and defy his scruples. He would
use any key he could to get out into the sunlight again. He quoted all
those old, half-true, half-false adages about the lawlessness of
necessity and so on. Then, weary of fencing with himself, he wished for
strength to stand at peace again, as when he turned his back on the
temptations of his rescuers in Metropolisville. But he had grown weak and
nervous from confinement--prisons do not strengthen the moral power--and
he had moreover given way to dreaming about liberty until he was like a
homesick child, who aggravates his impatience by dwelling much on the
delightfulness of the meeting with old friends, and by counting the
slow-moving days that intervene.
But there came, just the day before the trial, a letter with the
post-mark "Metropolisville" on it. That post-mark always excited a
curious feeling in him. He remembered with what boyish pride he had taken
possession of his office, and how he delighted to stamp the post-mark on
the letters. The address of this letter was not in his mother's undecided
penmanship--it was Isa Marlay's straightforward and yet graceful
writing, and the very sight of it gave him comfort. The letter was simply
a news letter, a vicarious letter from Isabel because Mrs. Plausaby did
not feel well enough to write; this is what Isa said it was, and what she
believed it to be, but Charlton knew that Isa's own friendly heart had
planned it. And though it ran on about this and that unimportant matter
of village intelligence, yet were its commonplace sentences about
commonplace affairs like a fountain in the desert to the thirsty soul of
the prisoner. I have read with fascination in an absurdly curious book
that people of a very sensitive fiber can take a letter, the contents and
writer of which are unknown, and by pressing it for a time against the
forehead can see the writer and his surroundings. It took no spirit of
divination in Charlton's case. The trim and graceful figure of Isa
Marlay, in perfectly fitting calico frock, with her whole dress in that
harmonious relation of parts for which she was so remarkable, came before
him. He knew that by this time she must have some dried grasses in the
vases, and some well-preserved autumn leaves around the picture-frames.
The letter said nothing about his trial, but its tone gave him assurance
of friendly sympathy, and of a faith in him that could not be shaken.
Somehow, by some recalling of old associations, and by some subtle
influence of human sympathy, it swept the fogs away from the soul of
Charlton, and he began to see his duty and to feel an inspiration toward
the right. I said that the letter did not mention the trial, but it did.
For when Charlton had read it twice, he happened to turn it over, and
found a postscript on the fourth page of the sheet. I wonder if the habit
which most women have of reserving their very best for the postscript
comes from the housekeeper's desire to have a good dessert. Here on the
back Charlton read:
"P.8.--Mr. Gray, your Hoosier friend, called on me yesterday, and sent
his regards. He told me how you refused to escape. I know you well enough
to feel sure that you would not do anything mean or unmanly. I pray that
God will sustain you on your trial, and make your innocence appear. I am
sure you are innocent, though I can not understand it. Providence will
overrule it all for good, I believe."
Something in the simple-hearted faith of Isabel did him a world of good.
He was in the open hall of the jail when he read it, and he walked about
the prison, feeling strong enough now to cope with temptation. That very
morning he had received a New Testament from a colporteur, and now, out
of regard to Isa Marlay's faith, maybe--out of some deeper feeling,
possibly--he read the story of the trial and condemnation of Jesus. In
his combative days he had read it for the sake of noting the
disagreements between the Evangelists in some of the details. But now he
was in no mood for small criticism. Which is the shallower, indeed, the
criticism that harps on disagreements in such narratives, or the
pettifogging that strives to reconcile them, one can hardly tell. In
Charlton's mood, in any deeply earnest mood, one sees the smallness of
all disputes about sixth and ninth hours. Albert saw the profound
essential unity of the narratives, he felt the stirring of the deep
sublimity of the story, he felt the inspiration of the sublimest
character in human history. Did he believe? Not in any orthodox sense.
But do you think that the influence of the Christ is limited to them who
hold right opinions about Him? If a man's heart be simple, he can not see
Jesus in any light without getting good from Him. Charlton, unbeliever
that he was, wet the pages with tears, tears of sympathy with the high
self-sacrifice of Jesus, and tears of penitence for his own moral
weakness, which stood rebuked before the Great Example.
And then came the devil, in the person of Mr. Conger. His face was full
of hopefulness as he sat down in Charlton's cell and smote his fat white
hand upon his knee and said "Now!" and looked expectantly at his client.
He waited a moment in hope of rousing Charlton's curiosity.
"We've got them!" he said presently. "I told you we should pull through.
Leave the whole matter to me."
"I am willing to leave anything to you but my conscience," said Albert.
"The devil take your conscience, Mr. Charlton. If you are guilty, and so
awfully conscientious, plead guilty at once. If you propose to cheat the
government out of some years of penal servitude, why, well and good. But
you must have a devilish queer conscience, to be sure. If you talk in
that way, I shall enter a plea of insanity and get you off whether you
will or not. But you might at least hear me through before you talk about
conscience. Perhaps even _your_ conscience would not take offense at my
plan, unless you consider yourself foreordained to go to penitentiary."
"Let's hear your plan, Mr. Conger," said Charlton, hoping there might be
some way found by which he could escape.
Mr. Conger became bland again, resumed his cheerful and hopeful look,
brought down his fat white hand upon his knee, looked up over his
client's head, while he let his countenance blossom with the promise of
his coming communication. He then proceeded to say with a cheerful
chuckle that there was a flaw in the form of the indictment--the grand
jury had blundered. He had told Charlton that something would certainly
happen. And it had. Then Mr. Conger smote his knee again, and said
"Now!" once more, and proceeded to say that his plan was to get the
trial set late in the term, so that the grand jury should finish their
work and be discharged before the case came on. Then he would have the
indictment quashed.
He said this with so innocent and plausible a face that at first it did
not seem very objectionable to Charlton.
"What would we gain by quashing the indictment, Mr. Conger?"
"Well, if the indictment were quashed on the ground of a defect in its
substance, then the case falls. But this is only defective in form.
Another grand jury can indict you again. Now if the District Attorney
should be a little easy--and I think that, considering your age, and my
influence with him, he would be--a new commitment might not issue perhaps
before you could get out of reach of it. If you were committed again,
then we gain time. Time is everything in a bad case. You could not be
tried until the next term. When the next term comes, we could then see
what could be done. Meantime you could get bail."
If Charlton had not been entirely clear-headed, or entirely in a mood
to deal honestly with himself, he would have been persuaded to take
this course.
"Let me ask you a question, Mr. Conger. If the case were delayed, and I
still had nothing to present against the strong circumstantial evidence
of the prosecution--if, in other words, delay should still leave us in
our present position--would there be any chance for me to escape by a
fair, stand-up trial?"
"Well, you see, Mr. Charlton, this is precisely a case in which we will
not accept a pitched battle, if we can help it. After a while, when the
prosecuting parties feel less bitter toward you, we might get some of the
evidence mislaid, out of the way, or get some friend on the jury,
or--well, we might manage somehow to dodge trial on the case as it
stands. Experience is worth a great deal in these things."
"There are, then, two possibilities for me," said Charlton very quietly.
"I can run away, or we may juggle the evidence or the jury. Am I right?"
"Or, we can go to prison?" said Conger, smiling.
"I will take the latter alternative," said Charlton.
"Then you owe it to me to plead guilty, and relieve me from
responsibility. If you plead guilty, we can get a recommendation of mercy
from the court."
"I owe it to myself not to plead guilty," said Charlton, speaking still
gently, for his old imperious and self-confident manner had left him.
"Very well," said Mr. Conger, rising, "if you take your fate into your
own hands in that way, I owe it to _myself_ to withdraw from the case."
"Very well, Mr. Conger."
"Good-morning, Mr. Charlton!"
"Good-morning, Mr. Conger."
And with Mr. Conger's disappearance went Albert's last hope of escape.
The battle had been fought, and lost--or won, as you look at it. Let us
say won, for no man's case is desperate till he parts with manliness.
Charlton had the good fortune to secure a young lawyer of little
experience but of much principle, who was utterly bewildered by the
mystery of the case, and the apparently paradoxical scruples of his
client, but who worked diligently and hopelessly for him. He saw the flaw
in the indictment and pointed it out to Charlton, but told him that as it
was merely a technical point he would gain nothing but time. Charlton
preferred that there should be no delay, except what was necessary to
give his counsel time to understand the case. In truth, there was little
enough to understand. The defense had nothing left to do.
When Albert came into court he was pale from his confinement. He
looked eagerly round the crowded room to see if he could find the
support of friendly faces. There were just two. The Hoosier Poet sat
on one of the benches, and by him sat Isa Marlay. True, Mr. Plausaby
sat next to Miss Marlay, but Albert did not account him anything in
his inventory of friends.
Isabel wondered how he would plead. She hoped that he did not mean to
plead guilty, but the withdrawal of Conger from the case filled her with
fear, and she had been informed by Mr. Plausaby that he could refuse to
plead altogether, and it would be considered a plea of not guilty. She
believed him innocent, but she had not had one word of assurance to that
effect from him, and even her faith had been shaken a little by the
innuendoes and suspicions of Mr. Plausaby.
Everybody looked at the prisoner. Presently the District Attorney moved
that Albert Charlton be arraigned.
The Court instructed the clerk, who said, "Albert Charlton, come
forward."
Albert here rose to his feet, and raised his right hand in token of
his identity.
The District Attorney said, "This prisoner I have indicted by the
grand jury."
"Shall we waive the reading of the indictment?" asked Charlton's counsel.
"No," said Albert, "let it be read," and he listened intently while the
clerk read it.
"Albert Charlton, you have heard the charge. What say you: Guilty, or,
Not guilty?" Even the rattling and unmeaning voice in which the clerk was
accustomed to go through with his perfunctory performances took on some
solemnity.
There was dead silence for a moment. Isa Marlay's heart stopped beating,
and the Poet from Posey County opened his mouth with eager anxiety.
When Charlton spoke, it was in a full, solemn voice, with deliberation
and emphasis.
"NOT GUILTY!"
"Thank God!" whispered Isa.
The Poet shut his mouth and heaved a sigh of relief.
The counsel for the defense was electrified. Up to that moment he had
believed that his client was guilty. But there was so much of solemn
truthfulness in the voice that he could not resist its influence.
As for the trial itself, which came off two days later, that was a dull
enough affair. It was easy to prove that Albert had expressed all sorts
of bitter feelings toward Mr. Westcott; that he was anxious to leave;
that he had every motive for wishing to pre-empt before Westcott did;
that the land-warrant numbered so-and-so--it is of no use being accurate
here, they were accurate enough in court--had been posted in Red Owl on a
certain day; that a gentleman who rode with the driver saw him receive
the mail at Red Owl, and saw it delivered at Metropolisville; that
Charlton pre-empted his claim--the S.E. qr. of the N.E. qr., and the N.
1/2 of the S.E. qr. of Section 32, T. so-and-so, R. such-and-such--with
this identical land-warrant, as the records of the land-office showed
beyond a doubt.
Against all this counsel for defense had nothing whatever to offer.
Nothing but evidence of previous good character, nothing but to urge that
there still remained perhaps the shadow of a doubt. No testimony to show
from whom Charlton had received the warrant, not the first particle of
rebutting evidence. The District Attorney only made a little perfunctory
speech on the evils brought upon business by theft in the post-office.
The exertions of Charlton's counsel amounted to nothing; the jury found
him guilty without deliberation.
The judge sentenced him with much solemn admonition. It was a grievous
thing for one so young to commit such a crime. He warned Albert that he
must not regard any consideration as a justification for such an offense.
He had betrayed his trust and been guilty of theft. The judge expressed
his regret that the sentence was so severe. It was a sad thing to send a
young man of education and refinement to be the companion of criminals
for so many years. But the law recognized the difference between a theft
by a sworn and trusted officer and an ordinary larceny. He hoped that
Albert would profit by this terrible experience, and that he would so
improve the time of his confinement with meditation, that what would
remain to him of life when he should come out of the walls of his prison
might be spent as an honorable and law-abiding citizen. He sentenced him
to serve the shortest term permitted by the statute, namely, ten years.
The first deep snow of the winter was falling outside the court-house,
and as Charlton stood in the prisoners' box, he could hear the jingling
of sleigh-bells, the sounds that usher in the happy social life of winter
in these northern latitudes. He heard the judge, and he listened to the
sleigh-bells as a man who dreams--the world was so far off from him
now--ten weary years, and the load of a great disgrace measured the gulf
fixed between him and all human joy and sympathy. And when, a few minutes
afterward, the jail-lock clicked behind him, it seemed to have shut out
life. For burial alive is no fable. Many a man has heard the closing of
the vault as Albert Charlton did.