The question was so unexpected that Mr. Fenton was not ready with an objection, and Gerard spoke before he could interpose.
"I don't think that I am bound to answer questions as to what may or may not occur in the future."
Mr. Fenton hastily agreed with him, and he was sustained by the judge. But the District Attorney defended his line of inquiry.
"Your Honor, it is important for me to show how far this witness is biassed in favor of the defendant. He has wished to marry her once, it is possible, apparently, that he may be in the same position again. You won't deny," he went on, turning to Gerard, "—that there is such a possibility?"
Gerard hesitated for perhaps a second. Then he looked the lawyer squarely, defiantly in the face. He was very pale, but there was an angry light in his eyes; his voice rang out clearly. "I deny nothing," he said, "except that my feelings toward Miss Van Vorst have influenced the truth of anything I said."
Mr. Fenton again formally entered his objection, and after some wrangling, question and answer were stricken from the record. Still, the jury had heard them and could form their own conclusions. Mr. Fenton was not dissatisfied; there was a romantic element in the situation which must, he thought, appeal irresistibly to the popular imagination. And indeed, as Gerard left the stand, the general sympathy was on his side, even among those who secretly thought that he had stretched a point here and there, on behalf of the woman he loved. It was possible that his evidence was false; but the people who thought thus, if they were men, did not blame him; if they were women, they admired him rather the more.
The eyes of the court-room were fixed upon him as he crossed over to where Elizabeth sat and shook hands with her quietly, as if they had parted yesterday. And then he seated himself near her, in the little circle of her supporters. Eleanor Van Antwerp put out her hand to him, her dark eyes shining through a mist of tears.
"Julian, you don't know how happy I am to have you back."
He shuddered, "Don't speak of it, Eleanor. I can never forgive myself for having gone."
Elizabeth heard the words, but her eyes were resolutely bent on the ground, and she refused to take any of the comfort that his presence might have imparted. It was natural that he should feel remorseful, eager to show to the world as much as possible that he had not forsaken her, that he thoroughly believed in her innocence. But for anything more, such a possibility as the District Attorney had suggested, which he did not deny, could not, of course, very well deny under the circumstances?... Ah, no, there could be no question any more of love between them. Her own pride would not permit it, even if what she called his pity could influence his judgment to that extent. And then, with a start, she remembered that she was still on trial for her life, and that all thoughts of love and marriage were incongruous, almost grotesque. The case for the defense was closed, the District Attorney was to make his final address the next day. The thing would soon be decided, one way or the other.