Originally published: 1880
Genres: Fiction, Religion
Goodreads link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53308667
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70862
Chapters: 48
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
SENTENCE OF THE COURT
“Guilty!”
The deep, sonorous voice of the foreman of the jury sounded out upon the solemn stillness of the crowded courtroom like the knell of doom.
And doom it was, and to one who never consciously committed a mean act in all his life.
The effect that that one word produced was marked.
There was a rustle of excitement and disapproval among the crowd, while deep-drawn sighs and expressions of sorrow showed that sympathy was strong for the prisoner at the bar, who for the last hour, while the jury was absent to decide upon the verdict, had sat with bent head and listless attitude as if wearied out with the bitter trial to which he had been subjected.
Now, however, as he had been commanded “to look upon the jury,” his head was proudly lifted, revealing an exceedingly intelligent and handsome face, and a pair of fine dark eyes met those of the foreman unflinchingly while the least smile of scorn and bitterness disturbed the firm, strong mouth, showing that he had believed he had not much to hope for from him.
As the word was spoken that sealed his fate, a gray pallor settled over his face, and he dropped into his former attitude; otherwise, he betrayed no sign of emotion.
Then something occurred that very seldom occurs in a crowded courtroom.
A low cry of pain not far from the prisoner made every eye turn that way and made him shiver with a sudden chill.
A tender, sorrowful gleam crept into his dark eyes, the proud lips unbent and trembled slightly, and a heavy sigh heaved his broad chest.
The next moment a slender, girlish form started up from her seat, and a fair, flushed face was turned with eloquent pleading toward the grave judge, sitting like a statue in his chair of state, while an earnest, quivering voice rang out:
“Oh, sir, he is not guilty—I know that Earle Wayne never was guilty of such a deed.”
A touching picture, and very sweet and attractive withal, Editha Dalton made, standing there so unconscious of herself, or that she was guilty of any breach of decorum; her fair hair floating like gleams of sunlight upon her graceful shoulders, her sweet face flushed and full of pain, her deep blue eyes filled with tears and raised beseechingly to the judge, her delicate hands clasped imploringly and half-outstretched toward him, as if seeking for mercy in the sentence he was about to pronounce.
The old man’s face lost its habitual sternness for a moment, and his own eyes softened almost to tenderness, as he caught the sweet tones, and turned to look upon her, so beautiful in her appealing attitude.
It was not often that a culprit found one so earnest and beautiful to plead his cause. The able lawyer who had had charge of the case for the young man, with all his eloquence, had not moved him as did this fair maiden, with her flushed, pained face, her pleading eyes, her outstretched hands.
A murmur of sympathy sounded again throughout the room, and a wave of regret swept over the judge’s heart as he turned from the girl to the prisoner, feeling himself more than half convinced of the truth of her words, as he marked again the noble face and the honest expression of the clear, unflinching eyes.
But someone pulled Editha Dalton hastily back into the chair from which she had arisen, and a stern voice uttered in her ear:
“Edie! Edie! sit down, child! What are you thinking of, when your own evidence did more toward convicting him than that of anyone else?”
“Oh! I know it! I know it! but he is not guilty all the same. It is only the cruel force of circumstances that makes him appear so!” she sobbed, wildly, burying her face, with a gesture of despair, in her handkerchief.
The judge’s keen ears caught the words, and his sharp eyes wandered again from her to the prisoner, a shade of uneasiness in their glance. He marked the pallor that had overspread his face, making him almost ghastly; the yearning, troubled look in the eyes now fixed so sadly upon the weeping girl; the firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, which told of a mighty effort at self-control and something whispered within him that the jury was at fault—that the evidence, though so clear and conclusive, was at fault and, since there could be no reprieve, to make the sentence as light as possible.
“Prisoner at the bar, stand up,” he said, and Earle Wayne instant arose.
Tall, manly, and with conscious dignity, he confronted the judge to receive his sentence, his eye never faltering, his face calm and proud, though still exceedingly pale.
“You have heard the verdict of the jury—have you anything to say?”
“Nothing, save what I have already said, your honor. I am not guilty of the crime with which I am charged, and if I live I will yet prove it!”
That was all; but the firm, unfaltering words seemed to carry conviction with them, and even the jury began to look grave and troubled, as if they, too, feared they had convicted an innocent man.
But the fiat had gone forth, and the judge, anxious to have the uncomfortable matter disposed of, pronounced the lightest sentence possible—“three years’ hard labor in the State prison at —.”
A mighty sigh burst from the multitude as if it had come from a single breast, as he ceased, and then a hush like death pervaded the room. It was the best the judge could do, and the very least they could expect; but it was sad to see a promising young man of twenty condemned to penal servitude for a term of years, be it ever so few.
The prisoner received it with the same calmness that had characterized him throughout the trial, only a slight quivering of the eyelids showing that he had heeded the words at all.
A moment of utter silence pervaded the room after the sentence was pronounced, the court was dismissed, and then the curious but sympathetic rabble went its way.
But, with winged feet, a slight form darted forward from the crowd, and, almost before he was aware of her presence, Editha Dalton was beside the prisoner, her pained, quivering face upraised to his.
She seized his hand in both of hers, laid her hot, flushed cheek upon it, and sobbed:
“Oh, Earle, forgive me! forgive me! but I had to tell the truth, and it has ruined you.”
“Hush, Edie—Miss Dalton. You have done perfectly right, and I have nothing to forgive.”
The young man spoke kindly, soothingly, but a sudden flush mounted to his brow, and the hot cheek against his hand thrilled him with bitter pain.
“But it was my evidence that told most against you. I tried not to tell it all; but, oh! they made me, with their cruel questions. If I had not had to say that I saw you and that the bracelet was mine, perhaps, oh! perhaps that dreadful jury would not have said you were—”
She stopped suddenly and shuddered, sobbing bitterly.
She could not speak the obnoxious word.
“Their saying that I am guilty does not make me so, even though I must pay the penalty as if I were. But I have the consciousness within that I am innocent of the crime, and I shall live to prove it yet to you, Editha, and to all the world,” he answered, in clear, confident tones, with a proud uplifting of his head.
“You do not need to prove it to me, Earle; I know it already. I would take your word in the face of the whole world and a thousand juries,” Editha asserted, with unshaken confidence.
A glad light leaped into the young man’s eyes, and illuminated his whole face for the moment, at these words.
“Thank you,” he replied, in low, thrilling tones, and bending toward her: “It will be very pleasant to remember what you have said while I am—”
He stopped short—he could not finish the miserable sentence.
His sudden pause reminded the young girl anew of what was to come.
“Earle! Earle!” she cried, passionately, her face growing white and agonized, “I cannot have it so! Three years! three long, long, wretched years! Oh, if I could only do something! If I could only find those wretches who did the deed for which you must suffer; if—oh, it is too, too cruel!”
“Hush, my little friend!” he said, bending nearer and speaking with deep tenderness; “your sympathy is very sweet and comforting to me, but it will unman me if I see you suffer so on my account.”
“Then I will be calm. I am thoughtless to wound you when you have so much to bear already,” she interrupted, choking back the sobs that heaved her breast, and making an effort to be calm.
His lip trembled slightly as her blue eyes met his, so full of sympathy and sorrow.
“God knows that this is a fearful trial to me,” he went on, drawing a deep breath, to free himself of the choking sensation in his throat; but, trying to speak more hopefully: “I am young, and three years will soon pass. I shall spend them to some purpose, too; and, Editha, with the knowledge of your trust and faith in me, I shall be able to bear them patiently, and I shall come forth from the strange discipline better prepared, I have no doubt, to battle with life than I am at this moment. Every hour that is my own I shall spend in study; and, if you will continue to have faith in me, I promise you shall never have cause to blush to own me as a friend in the future.”
“Earle,” Editha replied, quietly, yet earnestly, now entirely self-possessed, “you are just as brave and noble as you can be, and I am proud of you as my friend today—now—this moment! I shall think of you every day; I shall pray for you every day; and, if they will let me, I will come once in a while to see you.”
“No, no; please do not, Edie. I could not bear that you should see me there,” he cried, sharply, his face almost convulsed with pain at the thought.
“Ah, no—I did not think, but you would not like it, but I want to do something to comfort you and let you know that I do not forget you,” she said, sadly, a troubled look on her fair face. “Will they let me send you things?” she asked, after thinking a moment.
“Yes, that is allowed, I believe.”
“Then I shall send you something as often as I can, and you will be comforted a little, will you not, Earle, if you know you are remembered?” she asked, anxiously.
“Indeed I shall,” he said, deeply touched. “If I receive a flower, a book, a paper, even, I shall be greatly cheered.”
“You shall have them. Every week I will send you something, and you will know that there is one true friend who has faith in you,” she said, eagerly.
“God bless you, Miss Dalton. You are a little comforter, and my heart is lighter already. I have another friend—your uncle; he has been very kind, and has fought hard for me.”
“Dear Uncle Richard! I believe he is one of the best men that ever lived,” Editha said, as her eyes sought a noble-looking man who was talking in an earnest and somewhat excited manner to a group gathered about him, and who had been Earle’s lawyer.
“I shall ever have cause to remember him gratefully. He did not give me much encouragement regarding the issue of the case—the evidence was so strong against me—and as we could get no clue to the real culprit, he feared the worst. But he promised to help me in my studies, should the case go against me, so that I may be ready for the bar when the term expires. So you see that things are not quite so dark as they might be,” Earle said, trying to speak hopefully.
Editha sighed.
The future looked dark enough at the best, she thought.
“If we could but have had more time—if you might only have another trial. Could you not have appealed, Earle?” she asked.
He shook his head sadly.
“It could have done no good. The really guilty ones have covered their tracks, and hidden their booty so effectually, that we could get no clue. But do not grieve for me, my little friend. Other innocent men have suffered for the guilty, and it can be no harder for me than it was for them. And,” lowering his voice, and speaking reverently, “I do not forget that there was once a Man who suffered for the sins of a whole world. For thirty-four years He meekly bore His cross, praying at the end that His enemies might be forgiven; and since He sees fit to send this one upon me, I must not murmur, though I own ’tis hard.”
Editha was weeping quietly now. The tears would come in spite of her, though she marveled at his words.
“Come, Editha, I have an engagement at four, and it lacks only fifteen minutes of that hour now.”
The words were spoken in cold, measured tones at her side.
The fair girl started, flushed, and glanced around at the speaker in surprise, as if unaccustomed to being addressed in that manner.
“Yes, Papa, I will come; but I wanted to say goodbye to Earle.”
“Ah, yes—ahem! I’m truly sorry for poor Earle,” Mr. Dalton said, addressing him with a good deal of coldness and a very poor show of sympathy, while he glanced impatiently at his daughter. “Very unfortunate complication of circumstances,” he went on, his gold repeater in his hand, and his eyes watching attentively the minute hand as it crept toward the hour of his engagement. “The evidence was strangely conclusive, and I wish for your sake it could have been refuted; but really, Editha, we must not delay longer.”
Earle Wayne bowed coldly to the would-be comforter and stepped back as if to end the interview.
He knew Mr. Dalton was no friend to him, and his words, which contained no sincerity, were intolerable to him.
“Goodbye, Miss Dalton,” he said, holding out his hand to Editha, which she had dropped upon hearing Mr. Dalton’s stern tones.
That gentleman frowned darkly at the act.
What right had a criminal to offer his hand to his daughter?
“Good-bye, Earle,” she answered, clasping it warmly, while a big tear trickled down her cheek and dropped hot and burning upon it.
Then she turned quickly away, and drew her veil over her tear-stained face, while Mr. Dalton led her from the room, himself bestowing only an indifferent nod upon the offending culprit.
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