THE VERDICT.
During the first few weeks of his imprisonment, the murderer of old man Colton had maintained a lightsome air, but as the time for his trial drew near he appeared to lose the command of that self-hypnotism which had seemed to extract gayety from wretchedness. To one who has been condemned to death there comes a resignation that is deeper than a philosophy. Despair has killed the nerve that fear exposed, and nothing is left for terror to feed on. But Brooks had not this deadened resignation, for he had a hope that he might escape the gallows, and so long as there is a hope there is an anxiety. He had refused to see his wife, for he felt that in her heart she had condemned him and executed the sentence; but he was anxious to see Witherspoon. He thought that with the aid of that logic which trade teaches and which in its directness comes near being an intellectual grace, he could explain himself to the merchant and thereby whiten his crime, and he sent for him; but the messenger returned with a note that bore words which Brooks had often heard Witherspoon speak and which he himself so often had repeated: "Explain to the law."
The trial came. In the expectancy with which Chicago looks for a new sensation, Brooks had been almost forgotten by the public. His confession had robbed his trial of that uncertainty which means excitement, and there now remained but a formal ceremony, the appointment of his time to die. The newspapers no longer paid especial attention to him, and such neglect depresses a murderer, for notoriety is his last intoxicant. It seemed that an unwarranted length of time was taken up in the selection of a jury, a deliberation that usually exposes justice to many dangers; and after this the trial proceeded. The deposition of Mrs. Colton was introduced. It was a brief statement, and after leading up to the vital point, thus concluded: "I must have been asleep some time, when my husband awoke me. He said that he thought he heard a noise in the vault-room. I listened for a few moments and replied that I didn't think it was anything. But he got up and took his pistol from under the pillow and went into the vault-room. A moment later I was convinced that I heard something, and I got up, and just as I got near the door the light blazed up and at the same moment there was a loud report as of a pistol; and then I saw my husband fall—saw Mr. Brooks wheel about and run out of the room. This is all I remember until I found myself lying on the bed, unable to move or speak."
Brooks set up a plea for mercy, and his lawyers were strong in the urging of it, but when the judge delivered his charge it was clear that the plea was not entertained by the court. The jury retired, and now the courtroom was thronged. To idle men there is a fascination in the expected verdict, even though it may not admit of the quality of speculation. The jurymen could not be out long—their duty was well defined; but an hour passed, and the crowd began gradually to melt away. Two hours—and word came that the jury could not agree. It was now dark, and the court was adjourned to meet in evening session. But midnight struck, and still there was no verdict. What could be the cause of this indecision? It was a mystery outside, but within the room it was plain. One man had hung the jury. In his community he was so well known as a sectarian that he was called a hypocrite. He was not thought to be strong except in the grasp he held upon bigotry, but he succeeded in either convincing or browbeating eleven men into an agreement not to hang Brooks, but to send him to the penitentiary for life; and this verdict was rendered when the court reassembled at morning.
Witherspoon was sitting in his office at the Colossus when Henry entered. Papers were piled upon the merchant's desk, but he regarded them not. A boy stood near as if waiting for orders, but Witherspoon took no heed of him. He sat in a reverie, and as Henry entered he started as if rudely aroused from sleep.
"Have you heard the verdict?" Henry asked.
"By telephone," Witherspoon answered. "Sit down."
"No, I must get over to the office. What do you think of the verdict?"
"If the law's satisfied I am," Witherspoon answered. "But you wanted him hanged, didn't you?" he added.
"No, but I wanted him punished. The truth is, I hated the fellow almost from the first."
Witherspoon turned to the boy and asked: "What do you want? Oh, did I ring for you? Well, you may go." And then he spoke to Henry: "You hated him."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he is a villain."
"But if you hated him from the first, you hated him before you found out that he was a villain; and that was snap judgment. I try a man before I condemn him."
"And I let a man condemn himself, and some men do this the minute I see them."
"But a quick judgment is nearly always wrong."
"Yes, and yet it's better than a slow judgment that allows itself to be imposed upon."
"Sometimes," Witherspoon agreed; and after a short silence he added: "I was just thinking of how that fellow imposed on me, but I can't quite get at the cause of my worry over him, and I don't understand why I should have been afraid that he could ruin me. I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the exact truth without fear of giving offense: Have you ever thought that at times my mind was unbalanced? Have you?"
"You haven't been well, and a sick man's mind is never sound, you know."
"That's all true enough; but do I remind you very much of your uncle Andrew?"
"Yes, when you worry."
"I thought so. I've got to stop worrying; and I believe that we have more control over ourselves than we exercise. Come back at noon and we'll go out together."
"I'll be here," Henry replied.
Just before he reached the office Henry met John Richmond, and together they stepped into a cigar-store.
"I've been over to your office," said Richmond. "I have important business with you."
"All right, John. Business with you is a pleasure."
"I think this will be. This is the last day of September, and relying on my recollection, I know that black bass are about ready to begin their fall campaign. So I thought we'd better get on a train early to-morrow morning and go out into Lake County. Now don't say you are too busy, for I'm running away from a stack of work as high as my head."
"I'll go."
"Good. We'll have a glorious day in the woods. We'll forget Brother Brooks and the fanatic who saved his life; we'll float on the lake; well pick up nuts; we'll listen to the controversy of the blue jays, and the flicker, flicker of the yellowhammers; we'll study Mr. Woodpecker, whose judgment tells him to go south, but who is held back by the promising sunshine. The train leaves at eight. I'll be on hand, and don't you fail."
"I won't. I'm only too anxious to get out of town."
Shortly after Henry arrived at the office Miss Drury came into his room. "Your sister was here just now," she said.
"Was she?"
"Yes, she came to wait for the verdict."
"That reminds me. I intended to telephone, but forgot it."
"She said she knew you wouldn't think of it."
"Did you quarrel?" Henry asked.
"Did we quarrel? Well, now, I like that question. No, we didn't quarrel. I got along with her quite as well as I do with her brother. She said that she had often wondered who got up my department, but that no one had ever told her."
"She may have wondered, but she never asked. So, you see, I intend to rid myself of blame even at the expense of my sister."
"Oh, I suppose she said it merely to put me in good humor with myself."
"But wouldn't it have been more in harmony with a woman's character if she'd given you a sly cut, a tiny stab, to put you in ill humor with the world?"
"I hope you don't mean that, Mr. Witherspoon."
"Why? Would it make you think less of women?"
"What egotism! No, less of you."
"Oh, if that's the case I'll withdraw it—will say that I didn't mean it."
"That's so kind of you that I'm almost glad you said it."
She went back to her work, but a few moments later she returned, and now she appeared to be embarrassed. "You must pardon me," she said.
"Pardon you? What for?"
"For speaking so rudely just now. You constantly make me forget that I am working for you."
"That's a high compliment. But I didn't notice that you spoke rudely."
"Yes, I said 'what egotism,' and I'm sorry."
"You must not be sorry, for if you meant what you said, I deserved it."
"Oh, then you really did mean what you said about women."
Henry laughed. "Miss Drury, don't worry over anything I say; and remember that I'm pleased whenever you forget that you are working for me. You didn't know that I was instrumental in the arrest of Brooks, did you?"
"Why, no, I never thought of such a thing."
"You must keep it to yourself, but I was, and why? I hated him. Once he suggested to me that he would like to have you take lunch with him. I told him that you didn't go out with any one, and with coldbloodedness he replied, 'Ah, she hasn't been here long.' I hated him from that moment. Don't you see what a narrow-minded fellow I am?"
"Narrow-minded!"
"Yes, to move the law against a man merely because he had spoken lightly of—of my friend."
She was leaning against the door-case and was looking down. She dropped a paper. Henry glanced at the window, which he called his loop-hole of freedom, for through it no Colossus could be seen. He turned slowly and looked toward the door. The girl was gone.