Without, the gray January dusk had crept into the cañons of New York
and given the narrow streets, the crenelated buildings, the moving
trucks, the pedestrians a semblance of unreality, as though they were
being seen through a mist raised by some necromancer at the call of a
wretched man. Through the windows of the court-room the Tombs were
still evident, but the building had become unreal. It was like some
ogre's castle in a fairy-tale for children, very terrible, but not
really there.
The judge, the jury, the attendants, all the court had somehow lost
entity as a court. It was no more a court than a house in a play is a
house. It was just a formula embracing a hundred or so human beings.
And one felt also that this was not in New York. There was no
atmosphere of New York. New York might be a cloak and a disguise, but
the minds and personalities of all were on a golden island on shining
seas.
And they didn't see McCarthy in the witness-box, nor Janssen in the
dock, but by the cove where the water was so translucent that one could
see, fathom on fathom deep, the rainbow fish below....
"She gets better day by day, and I 'm so glad I could sing," continued
the officer, speaking more easily as practice came after his seven
years of silence. "She sits on the beach and health comes to her with
the wind, and little by little the flush comes in her cheek, and life
ferments, and her hair that has become dank ripples and flows, as a
still sea stirs up with a breeze. And soon she 's swimming again. But
there 's little of the old Janssen left. All her movements are grave.
At times she sits thinking, and her brow is working with thought. At
other times she smiles. Just a dignified little smile.
"And soon after she gets well, she saves my life a second time.
"This is how it happens. I 'm fishing one day and my line and hook get
caught down in the coral. And I don't want to lose that hook. Hooks
are n't easy to make. So I says: 'I 'll go down after that hook.'
"I shoot in and go swimming down through the water, and I hang on to
the coral with one hand, and unloose the hook with the other. I 'm
about ready to come up when in the water between me and the sun I can
see a shadow like a boat. For a moment I think it's a boat, and come
up with a rush. But half-way up I know it's no boat. And in the warm
water I go cold as ice.
"I 'm more than half-way up, and I have no chance of shouting,
splashing, making a noise, the way you frighten them off. And suddenly
I know the big fellow sees me. I can feel the vibration of his swirl
in the water as he turns off to a point where he can come rushing at me.
"'It's good-by, McCarthy!' I say to myself, and turn to face him. And
then I hear a _plung-h_ into the water the moment he's ready to turn
over and come at me. And Janssen comes shooting down.
"She has a stone or something in her hand drawn back and lets him have
it just on the soft point of the nose, the only place you can hurt
those fellows. One crack! And the big coward turns and slinks off
just like a dog that's been kicked.
"When we get ashore I 'm just as mad as I can be. The idea of her
taking a chance like that!
"'Haven't you got any sense at all?' I bawl her out. 'What do you
mean, taking a chance like that? What do you think a shark is? A
mackerel? Maybe you think he wouldn't touch you? Maybe you think he's
a gentleman? He's not. If brains were money,' I say, 'I don't think
you could buy a subway ticket. Never do that, or anything like that
again. Mind your own business!'
"But she 's crying and laughing together. She walks off, now sobbing,
now laughing. I run after her.
"'Not that from the bottom of my heart I 'm not grateful to you, but
you must never again--'
"But she laughs and she sobs:
"'Go away, McCarthy. Go away. Please go away!'
"All this time I know I 'm very fond of Janssen, and something tells me
Janssen is of me, though God knows why. But we say nothing. At times
it's hard to talk. And I look at her and think. If things were only
different, how I could love that girl! But here she is, a prisoner,
and I 'm her keeper. It's a pity. It's a pity, even, she's changed.
It makes it awful hard for me.
"But I can't keep my eyes off her. She stands on the beach, the wind
rustling her green garment, and rippling her hair. Very beautiful.
And a little butterfly, from God knows where, is fluttering about her.
Now it's in her hair, now about her throat. And curiously it comes to
light on her lips.
"'You look awfully pretty, Janssen,' I say, 'with that butterfly.'
"She smiles at me, kind of queerly.
"'You 're a brave man, McCarthy,' she says, 'the bravest man I ever
knew. You 're strong. You 're tremendous. Yes, you 're brave. But
this little butterfly, that in all its body has n't the strength of one
single hair of your head, whose brief life is but a single day, is
braver than you, McCarthy, braver far than you.'
"'I don't understand you, Janssen.'
"But I understand her all right.
"And the days roll by, roll by, and nothing changes, nothing comes to
us. Once or twice we see sails. Once a full-rigged ship under bare
poles runs before a gale. And once in the distance we see a schooner
heeling to the breeze.
"We are not speaking much to each other. There is a feeling of
strangeness in the air. And at night I 'm worried-like. The trees
rustle. The waves lap. There is great darkness. And for all we are
the only two people in that island, yet I feel at night somehow we are
not alone. Unseen, shadowy people are about us, in the sea, in the
air. Once there were millions on these islands and now there are few.
Once they were a great strong race, and now they are a timid handful.
And I imagine that in the dark of the moon the brown tribes reassemble
and put to sea in their war-canoes, and walk on the beaches that are so
like Paradise.
"And there are great temples on these islands, but their gods are no
more. And may they not too walk in the night-time with terrible,
silent stride?
"The Cross of Christ is between me and all harm. I believe that, and I
know it, and I am not afraid. But I am unquiet, nevertheless.
"And if I am unquiet, what of Janssen, wide-eyed through the night?
"At last one night I take my courage in both hands. Janssen is sitting
in the moonlight by the cove, and for the first time I ever heard her
she is singing a little something. Her voice is somehow like a boy's.
"'Janssen!' I stand and look at her.
"'Yes, McCarthy.' She turns and looks at me.
"'Janssen, when we go back,' I say, 'and when what has to be will be
done, and when all is over, the morning you are free, I 'll be waiting
at the gate for you. I 'll want you to marry me and come to me.'
"'You love me, McCarthy?'
"'Yes,' I said, 'I love you, Janssen.'
"'I love you, too, McCarthy. I suppose you know.'
"All this time she never looks at me, but out on the moonlit cove.
"'But if we never get off this island,' she says after a little while,
'we never get married.'
"'How can we?' I say. 'There is none to marry us.'
"She is speaking slowly, seriously, in the moonlight, and every word
she says has the weight of sincerity.
"'Do you believe, McCarthy, that the church and all the people there
and the organ and the rice make a marriage? Are all these necessary,
McCarthy? Tell me, please.'
"'No.' I think it out. 'The only one necessary is the clergyman.'
"'Because he is the representative of--God?'
"'Yes,' I say in a minute or so, 'because he is there for--God.'
"'And yet God is everywhere? Knows all? Sees everything? Reads the
inside of our hearts as easily as the clergyman reads our faces?'
"'That is what they say, Janssen. That is--what--we believe--'
"There is silence. Then she sinks to her knees in the sand in the
moonlight.
"'Kneel down, McCarthy, and give me your hands.' I kneel and give her
my hands without protest--her voice is so commanding, so sincere. And
there is a strange thing between us now. All the time before if I
touch her I feel strength flowing from me to her, but to-night when I
hold her hands there is an even level.
"'If God wishes to hear us to-night, then we are married.'
"'But,' I say, 'Janssen, how do we know if He hears us, gives His
consent?'
"Her eyes wander over the island, over the sea. She points suddenly to
the lagoon.
"'See, McCarthy. See, under the moon there, that big turtle. He is
uncertain where to go.' I look and I see the little black head like a
dot on the water and the widening ripple as he swims around. 'See the
boatswain bird's rock.' I saw the flat square surface in the cove.
'If he swims to and mounts that rock, then it will be a sign we have
been heard and--He has given His consent.'
"'But he will never come to the rock, dear Janssen,' I say. 'He is
going out with the tide.'
"'McCarthy,' she says a little scornfully, 'you are the good man, the
untarnished one, the one who was brought up to believe, and you do not.
And I, the bad woman, the murderess, the worse than Magdalen because I
never loved until now, I believe. I believe and know.'
"And then her belief came to me and I turned to see the great turtle.
He swam around and around and the moon shot the little ripples in
gleaming silk. And at last I could bear it no longer, and I lowered my
head; but Janssen still watched with her head high. And I could feel
her hands tremble, and then crisp, and then tremble, and suddenly grow
firm and fine and powerful.
"'Look, McCarthy, look!' Her voice rang like a bell. 'He is come
to--he is on the rock.'"
"And I raised my head, too, and I saw the Miracle of the Turtle....
"And so we were married, and dwelt as happy as we could be, until the
brig _Angela Scofield_ put in for water and rescued us, and I brought
Janssen back to the bar of justice, as I was bound under oath to do."
Here McCarthy stopped, and all knew he would say no more. Indeed, it
seemed as if he could physically say no more, for the man seemed
overcome. All the tenseness of him was gone and the prisoner and he
looked at each other in a strange, pathetic, and trusting way, smiling
with dry mouths and wet eyes. All in the court-room felt suddenly
abashed, as a cynic might feel before the eyes of a child.
And suddenly in every one's mind there were translated his simple
words, "And so we were married, and dwelt as happy as we could be,"
into pictures that were not pictures but chords, harmony and
counterpoint, not for the mind's eye but for the heart's feeling.
There they had been by a cove on Paradise Island, loving each other not
joyously but simply and sincerely and with great strength.
They could see them, strong and fine, by the translucent water of the
cove, under the golden sun on the golden sands, in a place as beautiful
as the garden the Lord God planted in Eden. And as over that first
garden, so over this one did a storm brood like an owl.
What terror she must have gone through, with the prison gate
continually before her! What temptations must he have undergone with
his wife by him, and the thought in his head that one day he must bring
her back to stand trial for the killing of a man!
In God's name, what was the use to them of shining seas and golden
sands, trees green as green banners, moons of Paradise and scented
tropic winds, while tragedy was in the air, electric as a storm?
"You can step down, McCarthy," the district attorney said. And turning
to the court he spread out his hands.
"The case of the people rests."
"The case for Anna Janssen rests," countered Howard Donegan.
For a long time there was a pause, that was accentuated into
uncomfortable drama by the ticking of the court clock. It was as
though an angel of silence were passing. The jury looked
uncomfortable. The district attorney bit his nails. The spectators
looked at one another in mental disorientation. It might have been the
first bar of justice with no precedent to follow, no set of rules, so
suddenly had all the machinery stalled. Only Howard Donegan drowsed
an....
The judge was the first to come to himself. He rustled papers. He
rapped for order. He turned to the jury.
"Gentlemen," he began, "the case for the people rests and the counsel
for the prisoner rests his case also. It has now arrived to make a
decision.
"You jurymen have only one duty to perform, and a bounden duty it is.
You have got to decide one fact. Did Anna Janssen kill Alastair de
Vries?
"Were Anna Janssen before you, the lowest of the low, gutter-soiled,
evil, a menace to the community, and did not kill De Vries, then you
would have to bring in a verdict of 'not guilty,' no matter how much
enmity you felt to her. No matter what she is before you now, no
matter what sympathy you feel for her, you must bring in a verdict of
'guilty' if you are certain she killed De Vries.
"Now, gentlemen, there can be no reasonable doubt of this. Even the
prisoner herself admits it. So I must instruct you to bring in a
verdict of guilty."
The jury looked at one another, amazed, a little scared. They turned
to the foreman, a fine, florid personage, with a fan-shaped red beard,
a man who ought to be equal to every occasion, so it seemed. They
turned to him as a sheep turns to a bellwether. He rose to his feet.
"But this woman is changed," he objected. "She is not the same--"
"That is not germane to your offices," the judge answered severely.
"You weigh facts. I weigh justice, Your affair is between Alastair de
Vries and Anna Janssen. De Vries is now in the hands of his God.
Janssen is in mine. Though I am the arbiter of legal form, yet also I
am the personation of Equity. God has judged De Vries; I, with the
voice of God, shall judge Anna Janssen. Consider your verdict."
"If we bring in a verdict of 'not guilty--'" the foreman suggested.
"If you do--" the judge was cold as steel--"you have done an
unpardonable thing. You have betrayed the people of New York, whose
representatives you are. You have brought into disrepute the law of
your city. And women will kill men with the hope of obtaining lax
verdicts. Moreover, on legal grounds, I shall declare this no trial.
And the prisoner will go through the ordeal again."
"Well, if that's the way--" The foreman looked around embarrassedly at
the jury. The jury seemed to put implicit faith in him. "We will not
have to leave the box!"
"Clerk of the Court," called the judge....
"Prisoner, look on the jury. Jury, look on the prisoner. What say ye,
have ye arrived at a verdict?"
"We have."
"What say ye: is the prisoner guilty or not guilty?"
"Well, this woman killed De Vries, but--"
"Guilty or not guilty?" judge demanded.
"Guilty!"
"Prisoner--" the judge turned to Janssen--"you have committed a murder.
You have been adjudged guilty of it by a jury of your peers.
"It is now my duty to sentence you to a punishment not fitting the
crime of murder but fitting such circumstances before and after as come
within the scope of the foresight of Equity. You have taken a life and
your life is hostage to the law.
"It now rests with me to decide what I shall do with this life that is
in my hands and forfeit to the justice of the community; not only what
is the best thing for the community, but what is the best thing for
you. Shall I extinguish it, that it shall be no longer a danger to
living men, a danger to your own immortal soul? Or shall I dispose of
it otherwise, as my inspiration directs?
"Prisoner, I give you back that life, but I sentence you to
imprisonment for its natural term."
There was a moment's pregnant silence in the court. Then a quick
bourdon hum of anger. Suddenly came riot. The prisoner wilted. The
jury stood up in protest. The spectators rose on threatening feet.
The judge raised his hand. He was suddenly clothed in the majesty of
Solomon.
"Prisoner, I have made inquiries and there is owing to your husband his
salary for ten years, which he will collect. He will then take you and
have this marriage made legal. He will then take you from the place
where you now are to the place whence you came, to your island down the
Pacific, and you will live there, happy ever after, is the wish of this
court of justice."
There came suddenly from the throats of all a mighty cheering. For an
instant the attendants sought to keep order, but they soon desisted,
themselves to join the joyous clamor. The sound bellied from the
court-room and into the street. Pedestrians stopped and horses
started. All looked at one another in amazement. Out of the
court-room of tragedy had issued springtime carnival. One expected at
any moment to hear chiming bells.