Chapter XXXV
It was the first day of Elizabeth's trial. She could hardly realize that it had come—this event which they had anticipated so long, the thought of which had lately crowded out every other. There was nothing alarming about the present proceedings—the appearance of one jury-man after another, generally followed in each case by a peremptory challenge. One was objected to because he was thought to have formed a favorable opinion, another an unfavorable one, and still another because he was apparently incapable of forming any opinion at all. If she had not been on trial for her life, she might have thought it dull.
Her gaze wandered to that wide court-room window opposite, from which she could see an expanse of roofs, flag-staffs and chimneys, full of charm and excitement after the unbroken outline of blank walls, which for many months had bounded her view. Then, forgetting herself, she glanced about the room, quickly turned and shrank back, while the color rushed into her white face. There were some women whom she knew, thickly veiled, in the crowd behind her—women who were against her. Those who were her friends had the consideration to stay away. And there were others whom she did not know, who crowded as close to the bar as they could, eying her with eager curiosity, making remarks about her in a stage whisper. As the heroine of this sensational case, she was a disappointment both in dress and appearance.
"Well, her hair waves prettily"—the words came distinctly to Elizabeth's ears in a lull in the proceeding—"but that's about all. I don't see why she was ever called a beauty, do you?"
"Why, no, indeed. Her features aren't regular—not a bit. And isn't she thin and white!"
"Hush!" a kindlier voice broke in, suppressing the others. "It's no wonder, poor thing. Most people would lose their looks, if they'd been through what she has."
A pang shot through Elizabeth none the less distinct because the reason was, in view of what was going on, so trifling and absurd. She had dressed herself that morning with unusual care, resolved to present as far as possible an undisturbed front to the world; and she had not realized that the plain black gown, and the unrelieved sombreness of the black hat, which would once have thrown into more dazzling relief her fresh young beauty, now emphasized with startling plainness the change in her appearance. For a moment, the fact forced itself upon her and hurt even then. When a woman has always been regarded as a beauty, it is hard to become accustomed to a different point of view. After all, what difference did it make? She had not realized the effect which her looks were supposed to produce on the jury.
For a while the prospect of any jury at all seemed dubious. The hours passed, the day came to an end, and there were exactly two men in the box. It was not till the end of the third day that the number was complete—twelve most unhappy men, whose faces Eleanor Van Antwerp scanned eagerly. Some, she decided, were kind; others—too logical; all of them were more or less intelligent. There were one or two, she thought, to whom the pathos of Elizabeth's pale and faded looks might appeal with an eloquence that fresh coloring and rounded curves would have lacked entirely. Upon these men she based her hopes.
And so the trial, once fairly started, dragged on its weary length. Mrs. Bobby spent her days there, sitting beside Elizabeth; her whole life, just then, seemed bounded by the court-house walls. She had no interest in anything outside. And Elizabeth's aunts, too, came every day. It was pathetic to see these timid, elderly women, plunged for the first time in their sheltered lives into this fierce glare of publicity, under which they bore up unflinchingly, in the effort to show to all the world their firm faith in their niece's ultimate acquittal.