THE TRIAL
CHAPTER VII
The Trial
I shall not try to tell you of Rita's suffering. She wept till she could weep no more, and the nightmare of suspense settled on her heart in the form of dry-eyed suffering. She could not, even for a moment, free her mind from the fact that Dic was in jail and that his life was in peril on account of her act. Billy went every day to encourage her and to keep her silent by telling her that Dic would be cleared. Mrs. Bays prohibited her from visiting the jail; but, despite Rita's fear of her mother, the girl would have gone had not Dic emphatically forbidden.
Doug recovered, and, court being then in session, Dic's trial for assault and battery, with intent to commit murder, came up at once. I shall not take you through the tedious details of the trial, but will hasten over such portions as closely touch the fate of our friends.
Upon the morning of Dic's arraignment he was brought into court and the jury was empanelled. Rita had begged piteously to go to the trial, but for many reasons that privilege was denied. The bar was filled with lawyers, and the courtroom was crowded with spectators. Mr. Switzer defended Dic, who sat near him on the right hand of the judge, the State's attorney, with Doug Hill and Patsy Clark, the prosecuting witnesses, sitting opposite on the judge's left. The jury sat opposite the judge, and between the State's attorney and Mr. Switzer and the judge and the jury was an open space fifteen feet square. On a raised platform in this vacant space was the witness chair, facing the jury.
Doug Hill and Patsy Clark were the only witnesses for the State. The defendant had summoned no witnesses, and Dic's fate rested in the hands of his enemy and his enemy's henchman.
Patsy and Doug had each done a great deal of talking, and time and again had asserted that Dic had deliberately shot Doug Hill after the fight was over. Mr. Switzer's only hope seemed to be to clear Dic on cross-examination of Doug and Patsy.
"Not one lie in a hundred can survive a hot cross-examination," he said. "If a woman is testifying for the man she loves, or for her child, she will carry the lie through to the end without faltering. Every instinct of her nature comes to her help; but a man sooner or later bungles a lie if you make him angry and keep at him."
Doug was the first witness called. He testified that after the fight was over Dic snatched up the gun and said, "I'm going to kill you;" that he then fired the shot, and that afterward Doug remembered nothing. The story, being simple, was easily maintained, and Mr. Switzer's cross-examination failed to weaken the evidence. Should Patsy Clark cling to the same story as successfully, the future looked dark for Dic.
When Doug left the stand at noon recess, Billy rode up to see Rita, and in the course of their conversation the girl discovered his fears. Billy's dark forebodings did not affect her as he supposed they would. He had expected tears and grief, but instead he found a strange, unconcerned calmness that surprised and puzzled him. Soon after Billy's departure Rita saddled her horse and rode after him. Mrs. Bays forbade her going, but for the first time in her life the girl sullenly refused to answer her mother, and rode away in dire rebellion.
Court convened at one o'clock, and Patsy Clark was called to the stand. The State's attorney began his examination-in-chief:—
Question.—"State your name."
Answer by Patsy.—"Sh-shucks, ye know my name."
"State your name," ordered the Court.
Answer.—"Pa-Pa-Patsy C-Clark."
Question by State's Attorney.—"Where do you live?"
Answer.—"North of t-t-town, with D-Doug Hill's father."
Question.—"Where were you, Mr. Clark, on fifth day of last month at or near the hour of three o'clock P.M.?"
Answer.—"Don't know the day, b-but if you mean the d-day Doug and D-Dic had their fight, I-I was up on B-Blue about halfway b-between Dic Bright's house and T-Tom Bays', at the step-off."
Question.—"What, if anything, occurred at that time and place?"
Answer.—"A f-fight—damned bad one."
Question.—"Who fought?"
Answer.—"D-Doug Hill and D-Dic Bright."
Question.—"Now, Mr. Clark, tell the jury all you heard and saw take place, in the presence of the defendant Dic Bright, during that fight."
The solemnity of the Court had made a deep impression on Patsy, and he trembled while he spoke. He was angry because the State's attorney, as he supposed, had pretended not to know his name, whereas that self-same State's attorney had been familiar with him prior to the election.
"We'll get the truth out of this fellow on cross-examination," whispered Mr. Switzer to his client.
"Be careful not to get too much truth out of him," returned Dic.
"Well, me and D-Doug was a-g-a-goin' up the west b-bank of B-Blue when we seed—"
State's Attorney.—"Never mind what you saw at that time. Answer my question. I asked you to tell all you saw and heard during the fight."
Answer.—"I-I w-will if you'll l-let me. J-jest you keep still a minute and l-l-let me t-talk. I-I c-can't t-t-talk very well anyway. C-can't talk near as well as you. B-but I can say a he-heap more. Whe-whe-when you talk so much, ye-ye-you g-get me to st-st-st-stuttering. S-see? Now listen to that."
State's Attorney.—"Well, go on."
Answer.—"Well, we seed Dic and Rita Bays, p-prettiest girl in the h-h-whole world, on the op-opposite side of the river, and he wa-wa-was a-kissin' her."
State's Attorney.—"Never mind that, but go ahead. Tell it your own way."
"I object," interposed Mr. Switzer. "The witness must confine himself to the State's question."
"Confine your answer to the question, Mr. Clark," commanded the Court. Patsy was growing angry, confused, and frightened.
State's Attorney.—"Go on. Tell your story, can't you?"
Answer.—"Well, Doug, he hollered across the river and said he-he wa-wa-wanted one hisself and would g-g-go over after it."
State's Attorney.—"Did you not understand my question? What did you see and hear? What occurred during the fight?"
Answer.—"Well, g-good L-L-Lord! a-ain't I tryin' to t-tell ye? When we crossed the river and g-got to the step-off, Rita and D-Dic had went away and D-Doug and me st-started after 'em down the path toward B-Bays's. When we g-got up t-to 'em D-Doug he says, says 'ee, 'I-I've come for my k-kiss,' says 'ee, jes' that-a-way. 'Ye wo-won't get none,' says Rita, says she, jes' that-a-way, and D-Dic he p-puts in and says, says 'ee, 'I-I g-guess not,' says 'ee, jes' that-a-way. Then Doug he-he puts his gun agin' a gum tree and g-grabs Rita about the wa-waist, hugging her up to him ti-tight-like. Then he-he push her head back-like, so's 'ee c-could get at her mouth, and then Dic he-he ups and knocks him d-down. Then D-Doug he-he gets up quick-like and they clinches and falls, and D-Doug on top. Then Doug he-he says, says 'ee to me, 'G-Give me your n-knife, Patsy,' jes' that-a-way, and I ups and gives him my knife, but he d-drops it and some way D-Dic he throws Doug o-off and gets up, and Doug he picks up the knife and st-starts for Dic, lookin' wilder 'en hell. Jes' then Rita she ups with D-Doug's gun and shoots him right through. He-he trembled-like for a minute and his knees shuk and he shivered all over and turned white about the mouth like he was awful sick, and then he d-dropped on his face, shot through and through."
The confusion in the courtroom had been growing since the beginning of Patsy's story, and by the time he had finished it broke into an uproar. The judge called "Order," and the sheriff rose to quiet the audience.
State's Attorney.—"Do you mean to say, Mr. Clark, that Rita Bays fired the shot that wounded Douglas Hill?"
Douglas, you remember, had just sworn that Dic fired the shot.
Answer.—"Yes, sir, you betch yur life that's jes' the way w-w-what I mean to say."
State's Attorney.—"Now, Mr. Clark, I'll ask you if you did not tell me and many other citizens of this community that the defendant, Dic Bright, fired the shot?"
"I object," cried Mr. Switzer. "The gentleman cannot impeach his own witness."
"You are right, Mr. Switzer," answered the Court, "unless on the ground of surprise; but I overrule your objection. Proceed, Mr. State's Attorney."
"Answer my question," said that official to Patsy.
Answer.—"Yes, sir, I-I d-did tell you, and lots of other folks, too, that D-Dic shot Doug Hill."
Question.—"Then, sir, how do you reconcile those statements with the one you have just made?"
Answer.—"Don't try to re-re-re-reconcile 'em. Can't. I-I wa-wa-was talkin' then. I'm sw-sw-swearin' now."
Dic sprang to his feet, exclaiming:—
"If the Court please, I wish to enter a plea of guilty to the charge against me."
"Your plea will not be accepted," answered the Court. "I am beginning to see the cause for the defendant's peculiar behavior in this case. Mr. Sheriff, please subpœna Miss Rita Bays."
Dic broke down, and buried his face in his folded arms on the table.
The sheriff started to fetch Rita, but met her near the courthouse and returned with her to the courtroom. She was directed to take the witness stand, which she did as calmly as if she were taking a seat at her father's dinner table; and her story, told in soft, clear tones, confirmed Patsy in all essential details.
Mr. Switzer objected to the questions put to her by the Court on the ground that she could not be compelled to give evidence that would incriminate herself. The judge admitted the validity of Mr. Switzer's objection; but after a moment spent in private consultation with the State's attorney, he said:—
"The State and the Court pledge themselves that no prosecution will be instituted against Miss Bays in case her answers disclose the fact that she shot Doug Hill."
After Rita had told her story the judge said: "Miss Bays, you did right. You are a strong, noble girl, and the man who gets you for a wife will be blessed of God."
Rita blushed and looked toward Dic, as if to say, "You hear what the judge says?" But Dic had heard, and thought the judge wise and excellent to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled among men.
The judge then instructed the jury to return a verdict of not guilty, and within five minutes Dic was a free and happy man. Billy Little did not seem to be happy; for he, beyond a doubt, was crying, though he said he had a bad cold and that colds always made his eyes water. He started to sing Maxwelton's braes in open court, but remembered himself in time, and sang mentally.
Mrs. Bays had followed Rita; and when the girl and Dic emerged from the courthouse door, the high court of the Chief Justice seized its daughter and whisked her off without so much as giving her an opportunity to say a word of farewell. Rita looked back to Dic, but she was in the hands of the high court, which was a tribunal differing widely from the nisi prius organization she had just left, and by no means to be trifled with.
Dic stopped for dinner at the inn with Billy Little, and told him that Mrs. Bays refused her consent.
"Did you expect anything else?" asked Billy.
"Yes, I did," answered Dic.
"Even Rita will be valued more highly if you encounter difficulties in getting her," replied his friend.
"I certainly value her highly enough as it is," said Dic, "and Mrs. Bays's opposition surprises me a little. I know quite as well as she—better, perhaps—that I am not worthy of Rita. No man is. But I am not lazy. I would be willing to die working for her. I am not very good; neither am I very bad. She will make me good, and I don't see that any one else around here has anything better to offer her. The truth is, Rita deserves a rich man from the city, who can give her a fine house, servants, and carriages. It is a shame, Billy Little, to hide such beauty as Rita's under a log-cabin's roof in the woods."
"I quite agree with you," was Billy's unexpected reply. "But I don't see any chance for her catching that sort of a man unless her father goes in business with Fisher at Indianapolis. Even there the field is not broad. She might, if she lived at Indianapolis, meet a stranger from Cincinnati, St. Louis, or the East, and might marry the house, carriages, and servants. I understand Bays—perhaps I should say Mrs. Bays—contemplates making the move, and probably you had better withdraw your claim and give the girl a chance."
Dic looked doubtingly at his little friend and said, "I think I shall not withdraw."
"I have not been expecting you would," answered Billy. "But what are you going to do about the Chief Justice?"
"I don't know. What would you do?"
Billy Little paused before answering. "If you knew what mistakes I have made in such matters, you would not ask advice of me."
Dic waited, hoping that Billy would amplify upon the subject of his mistakes, but he waited in vain. "Nevertheless," he said, "I want your advice."
"I have none to give," responded Billy, "unless it is to suggest in a general way that in dealing with women boldness has always been considered the proper article. Humility is sweet in a beautiful woman, but it makes a man appear sheepish. The first step toward success with all classes of persons is to gain their respect. Humility in a man won't gain the respect of a hound pup. Face the world bravely. Egad! St. George's little affair with the fiery dragon grows pale when one thinks of the icy dragoness of duty and justice you must overthrow before you can rescue Rita. But go at the old woman as if you had fought dragons all your life. Tell her bluntly that you want Rita; that you must and will have her, and that it is not in the power of duty and justice to keep her from you. Be bold, and you will probably get the girl, together with her admiration and gratitude. I guess there is no doubt they like it—boldness. But Lord bless your soul, Dic, I don't know what they like. I think the best thing you can do is to go to New York with Sampson, the horse-dealer. He sails out of here in a few days, and if you will go with him he will pay you five hundred dollars and will allow you to take a few horses on your own account. You will double your money if you take good horses."
"Do you really think he would pay me five hundred dollars?" asked Dic.
"Yes, I believe he will. I'll see him about it."
"I believe I'll go," said Dic. "That is, I'll go if—"
"If Rita will let you, I suppose you are going to say," remarked Billy. "We'll name the new firm of horse-buyers Sampson and Sampson; for if you are not mindful this gentle young Delilah will shear you."
"I promised her I would not go. I cannot break my word. If she will release me, I will go, and will thank you with all my heart. Billy Little, you have done so much for me that I must—I must—"
"There you go. 'Deed if I don't leave you if you keep it up. You have four or five good horses, and I'll loan you five hundred dollars with which you may buy a dozen or fifteen more. You may take twenty head of horses on your own account, and should make by the trip fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars, including your wages. Why, Dic, you will be rich. Unless I am mistaken, wealth is greater even than boldness with icy dragonesses."
"Not with Rita."
"You don't need help of any sort with her," said Billy. "Poor girl, she is winged for all time. You may be bold or humble, rich or poor; it will be all one to her. But you want to get her without a fight. You don't know what a fight with a woman like the Chief Justice means. Carnage and destruction to beat Napoleon. I believe if you had two thousand dollars in gold, there would be no fight. Good sinews of war are great peace-makers."
"I know Rita will release me if I insist," said Dic.
"I'm sure she will," responded his friend.
"I will go," cried Dic, heroically determined to break the tender shackles of Rita's welding.
"Now you are a man again," said Billy. "You may cause her to cry a bit, but she'll like you none the less for that. If tears caused women to hate men, there would be a sudden stoppage in population." Billy sat contemplative for a moment with his finger tips together. "Men are brutes"—another pause—"but they salt the earth while women sweeten it. Personally, I would rather sweeten the earth than salt it; but a sweet man is like a pokeberry—sugarish, nauseating and unhealthful. My love for sweetness has made me a failure."
"You are not a failure, Billy Little. You are certainly of the salt of the earth," insisted Dic.
"A man fails when he does not utilize his capabilities to their limit," said Billy, philosophically. "He is a success when he accomplishes all he can. The measure of the individual is the measure of what should constitute his success. His capabilities may be small or great; if he but use them all, he is a success. A fishing worm may be a great success as a fishing worm, but a total failure as a mule. Bless me, what a sermon I have preached about nothing. I fear I am growing garrulous," and Billy looked into the fire and hummed Maxwelton's braes.
That evening Dic went to call on Rita and made no pretence of wishing to see Tom. That worthy young man had served his purpose, and could never again be a factor in Dic's life or courtship. Mrs. Bays received Dic coldly; but Mr. Bays, in a half-timid manner, was very cordial. Dic paid no heed to the coldness, and, after talking on the porch with the family for a few minutes, boldly asked Rita to walk across the yard to the log by the river. Rita gave her mother a frightened glance and hurried away with Dic before Justice could assert itself, and the happy pair sought the beloved sycamore divan by the river bank.
"In the midst of all my happiness," began Rita, "I'm very unhappy because I, in place of Patsy Clark, did not liberate you. I always intended to tell the truth. You must have known that I would."
"I never even hoped that you would not. I knew that when the time should come you would not obey me," returned Dic.
"In all else, Dic, in all else." There was the sweet, all-conquering humility of which Billy had spoken.
"In all else, Rita? Do you mean what you say?"
"Yes."
"I will put you to the test at once. For your sake and my own I should go with Sampson to New York, and I want you to release me from my promise. I would not ask you did I not feel that it is an opportunity such as I may never have again. It is now July; I shall be back by the middle of November, and then, Rita, you will go home with me, won't you?" For answer the girl gently put her hand in his. "And you will release me from my promise?"
She nodded her head, and after a short silence added: "I fear I have no will of my own. I borrow all from you. I cannot say 'no' when you wish 'yes'; I cannot say 'yes' when you wish 'no.' I fear you will despise me, I am so cheap; but I am as I am, and it is your fault that I have so many faults. You have made me what I am. Will it not be wonderful, Dic, if I, who clung to your finger in my babyhood, should be led by your hand from my cradle to—to my grave? I have never in all my life, Dic, known any real help but yours—and some from Billy Little. So you see my dependence upon you is excusable, and you cannot think less of me because I am so weak." She looked up to him with a tearful smile in which the past and the future contributed each its touch of sadness.
"Rita, come to the house this instant!" called Mrs. Bays (to Dic her voice sounded like a broken string in Billy Little's piano).
Dic and Rita went to the house, and Mrs. Bays, pointing majestically to a chair, said to her daughter:—
"Now, you sit there, and if you move, off to bed you go." The threat was all-sufficient.
Dic sat upon the edge of the porch thinking of St. George and the dragon, and tried to work his courage up to the point of attack. He talked ramblingly for a while to Mr. Bays; then, believing his courage in proper form, he turned to that gentleman's better nine-tenths and boldly began:—
"I want Rita, Mrs. Bays. I know I am not worthy of her" (here the girl under discussion flashed a luminous glance of flat contradiction at the speaker), "and I know I am asking a great deal, but—but—" But the boldness had evaporated along with the remainder of what he had to say, for with Dic's first words Justice dropped her knitting to her lap, took off her glasses, and gazed at the unfortunate malefactor with an injured, fixed, and icy stare. Dic retired in disorder; but he soon rallied his forces and again took up the battle.
"I'm going to New York in a few days," he said. "I will not be home till November. I have Rita's promise. I can, if I must, be satisfied with that; but I should like your consent before I go." Brave words, those, to the dragoness of Justice. But she did not even look at the presumptuous St. George. She was, as Justice should be, blind. Likewise she appeared to be deaf.
"May I have your consent, Mr. Bays?" asked Dic, after a long pause, turning to Rita's father.
"Yes," he replied, "yes, Dic, I will be glad—" Justice at the moment recovered sight and hearing, and gazed stonily at its mate. The mate, after a brief pause, continued in a different tone:—
"That is, I don't care. You and mother fix it between you. I don't know anything about such matters." Mr. Bays leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and examined his feet as if he had just discovered them. After a close scrutiny he continued:—
"Rita's the best girl that ever lived. I don't care where you look, there's not another like her in all the world. She has never caused me a moment of pain—" Rita moved her chair to her father's side and took his hand—"she has brought me nothing but happiness, and I would—" He ceased speaking, and no one has ever known what Mr. Bays "would," for at that interesting point in his remarks his worthy spouse interrupted him—
"Nothing brings you pain. You shirk it and throw it all on me. Lord knows the girl has brought trouble enough to me. I have toiled and worked and suffered for her. I bear the burdens of this house, and if my daughter is better than other girls,—I don't say she is, and I don't say she isn't,—but if she is better than other girls, I say it is because I have done my duty by her."
Truth compels me to admit that she had done her duty toward the girl with a strenuous sincerity that often amounted to cruelty, but in the main she had done her best for Rita.
Dic had unintentionally turned the tide of battle on Mr. Bays, and that worthy sufferer, long used to the anguish of defeat, and dead to the shame of cowardice, rose from his chair and beat a hasty retreat to his old-time sanctuary, the barn. Dic did not retreat; single-handed and alone, he took lance in hand and renewed the attack with adroit thrusts of flattery and coaxing. After many bouts a compromise was reached and an armistice declared between the belligerent powers until Dic should return from New York. This armistice was virtually a surrender of the Bays forces, so that evening when Dic started home Rita accompanied him to the gate beneath the dark shadow of a drooping elm, and the gate's the place for "a' that and a' that."
Next morning bright and early Dic went to town to see Sampson, the horse-dealer. He found him sitting on the inn porch.
"Well, you're going to take the horses for me, after all?" asked that worthy descendant of one of the tribes.
"Billy Little said you would give me five hundred dollars. That is a very large sum. You first offered me only one hundred."
"Yes," returned Sampson; "I had a talk with Little. Horses are in great demand in New York, and I want an intelligent man who can hurry the drove through to Harrisburg, where I'll meet them. If we get them to New York in advance of the other dealers, we should make a profit of one hundred dollars a head on every good horse. You will have two other men with you, but I will put you in charge. Don't speak of the five hundred dollars you're to have; the others are to receive only fifty dollars each."
The truth is, Billy had contributed four hundred dollars of the sum Dic was to receive, and four hundred dollars was one-tenth of all Billy's worldly goods.
Dic completed his arrangements with Sampson, which included the privilege of taking twenty horses on his own account, and then, as usual, went to see Billy Little.
"Well, Billy Little," said Dic, joyfully, "I'm going. I've closed with Sampson. He gives me five hundred dollars, and allows me to take twenty horses of my own. I ought to get fine young horses at twenty-five dollars a head."
"Sure," answered Billy, "that would amount to—how many have you of your own?"
"Four," answered Dic.
"Then you'll want to buy sixteen—four hundred dollars. Here is the money," and he handed him a canvas shot-bag containing the gold.
"Now, Billy Little," said Dic, "I want to give you my note for this money, bearing the highest rate of interest."
"All right," responded our backwoods usurer, "I'll charge you twelve per cent. I do love a good interest. There is no Antonio about me. I'll lend no money gratis and bring down the rate of usance. Not I."
The note signed, Dic looked upon himself as an important factor in the commercial world, and felt his obligation less because of the high rate of interest he was paying.
The young man at once began looking for horses, and within three days had purchased sixteen "beauties," as Billy Little called them, which, with his own, made up the number he was to take. His adventurous New York trip raised him greatly in the estimation of Mrs. Bays. It brought her to realize that he was a man, and it won, in a degree, her reluctant respect. The ride over the mountains through rain and mud and countless dangers was an adventure worthy to inspire respect. The return would be easier than the eastward journey. Dic would return from New York to Pittsburg by canal boat and stage. From Pittsburg, if the river should be open, he would go to Madison by the Ohio boats. From Madison he would come north to Columbus on the mail stage, and at Columbus he would be within twenty-five miles of home.
As I have told you, Mrs. Bays grew to respect Dic; and being willing to surrender, save for the shame of defeat, she honestly kept the terms of her armistice. Thus Rita and Dic enjoyed the sycamore divan by the river's edge without interference.
On the night before his departure he gave Rita the ring, saying, "This time it is for keeps."
"I hope so," returned the girl, with a touch of doubt in her hesitating words.
He spoke buoyantly of his trip and of the great things that were sure to come out of it, and again Rita softly hoped so; but intimated in a gentle, complaining tone of voice that something told her trouble would come from the expedition. She felt that she was being treated badly, though, being such a weak, selfish, unworthy person,—so she had been taught by her mother to believe,—she deserved nothing better. Dic laughed at her fears, and told her she was the one altogether perfect human being. Although by insistence he brought her to admit that he was right in both propositions, he failed to convince her in either, and she spoke little, save in eloquent sighs, during the remainder of the evening.
After the eventful night of Scott's social, Rita's surrender of self had grown in its sweetness hour by hour; and although Dic's love had also deepened, as his confidence grew apace he assumed an air of patronage toward the girl which she noticed, but which she considered quite the proper thing in all respects.
There was no abatement of his affection this last evening together, but she was sorry to see him so joyful at leaving her. Their situation was simply a repetition of the world-wide condition: the man with many motives and ambitions, the woman with one—love.
After Dic had, for the twentieth time, said he must be going, the girl whispered:—
"I fear you will carry away with you the memory of a dull evening, but I could not talk, I could not. Oh, Dic—" Thereupon she began to weep, and Dic, though pained, found a certain selfish joy in comforting her, compared to which the conversation of Madame de Staël herself would have been poor and commonplace. Then came the gate, a sweet face wet with tears, and good-by and good-by and good-by.
Dic went home joyful. Rita went to her room weeping. It pained him to leave her, but it grieved her far more deeply, and she began then to pay the penalty of her great crime in being a woman.
Do not from the foregoing remark conclude that Dic was selfish in his lack of pain at parting from Rita. He also lacked her fears. Did the fear exist in her and not in him because her love was greater or because she was more timid? Had her abject surrender made him over-confident? When a woman gives as Rita did she should know her man, else she is in danger. If he happens to be a great, noble soul, she makes her heaven and his then and there. If he is a selfish brute, she will find another place of which we all stand in wholesome dread.