As for Elizabeth, she had little hope; but neither had she, except at times, any great fear. The worst had been that first day, and now she was used to being stared at; used even to the thought that she was being tried for her life. The scene and its accessories—the listening, eager crowd behind her, the judge before her with his impassive face, in which she thought she could perceive, now and again—or did her hopes deceive her?—a gleam of sympathy; the jury weary but resigned, the reporters taking notes, scanning her with eyes that noted every detail of her manner and bearing, placed upon them Heaven knows what construction! Bobby Van Antwerp moving restlessly about, holding long conferences with the lawyers; her counsel and the District Attorney wrangling, glaring at each other over the heads of unfortunate witnesses—the whole thing lost its terrors, grew to be an accepted part of her life's routine.
The evidence at first was technical. There was much she did not understand—she wondered if the jury did. There were the doctors, showing with many long words and tedious explanations, with what sort of poison the murder had been committed; and then there were the handwriting experts, with still longer words and more tedious explanations. Now—what was it that they had brought out? Those unfortunate letters which she remembered so well having written, in great haste and anxiety. The experts were pointing out numerous points of resemblance between them and another piece of paper, which she had never seen before. And now it was the secret marriage they were proving—though what was the use of that, when no one denied it? The question of motive was absolutely clear; the District Attorney had expatiated upon it at great length in his opening speech.
All this Elizabeth grasped more or less distinctly. She realized that the evidence was strong against her. But she could not, weak and dazed as she was, keep her mind on it. The voice of the witnesses would grow indistinct, a mist would pass over the anxious faces around her, a lull would come in the nervous tension of the atmosphere; the blue sky, which she saw from the window, would seem very near, and she would float off into phases of oblivion, from which she would be roused, perhaps, by a touch on her arm, or a voice in her ear. "Listen, darling, that was a point in your favor," her aunts or Eleanor Van Antwerp would say.
These points were few and far between. But there was one which Elizabeth understood—she hoped that the jury did.
Mr. Fenton was examining one of the medical experts for the prosecution, a man who had had large experience in poisoning cases. The counsel for the defence was putting him through series of questions, the drift of which was not altogether plain. What sort of a crime did he consider poisoning? An atrocious one, was it not?—generally committed by hardened criminals? Had the witness ever been in contact with a case of poisoning where the whole scheme had been concocted and carried out by a girl of twenty, far removed by education, friends and antecedents from any connection with crime? No, the witness could not, in his own experience, recall any such case, but he had no doubt that it had been known, though he agreed in response to Mr. Fenton's next question, that it would be slightly abnormal. And here the District Attorney interposed with one of those objections which each lawyer seemed to make mechanically, whenever a question proved inconvenient to his side; but the Judge decided in favor of Mr. Fenton, and he went on imperturbably, shifting his ground a little.
"Poisoning is a crime—don't you think so?—that calls for a great deal of thought and calculation?"
"Yes," the witness thought it would undoubtedly.
"The person who planned it would have plenty of time to consider the consequences?"
The witness responded: "I should think so."
"He or she—whoever it was that planned it—would be probably of a cold-blooded and calculating disposition?"