THE TRIAL—THE LIE—"AS GUILTY AS HELL!"

"N OT guilty, your honor!"

The court room was silent for a time before any one stirred. It had been apparent that the decision would be so; because there were several reasons why the jury was constrained to render such a verdict.

Among the reasons, chiefly, was the fact that the plaintiff had failed to produce sufficient evidence to justify a verdict in his favor. His grandmother, his corroborating witness, had answered her last call just before she was to start for Chicago to give hers, the most incriminating testimony. The doctor who had attended his wife during her confinement was indisposed, and was represented only by an affidavit. But what had gone harder than anything against the plaintiff was his wife's testimony. Under the most severe examination, and cross examinations, she had stood on her statements. She had never loved her husband, and had not been, therefore, actuated by her father's influence into leaving him. She had instructed her father in all he had done, and that he was in no wise guilty as accused.

No jury could have rendered a verdict to the contrary under such circumstances, and no one—not even the plaintiff, had expected or even hoped that they would.

But in the minds of every man and woman in the crowded court room, N.J. McCarthy stood a guilty man. Not even the faintest semblance of doubt as to this lingered in their minds. It was merely a case of insufficient evidence to convict. And while the people filed out into the air at the conclusion, every one had a vision of that arch hypocrite in his evil perpetuation. In their ears would always ring the story Jean Baptiste had told. Told without a tremor, he had recited the evils from the day he had married her up until the day she had sold her birthright for a mess of pottage. So vivid did he make it all that the court was held in a thraldom. For an hour and a half he detailed the evil of his enemy, his sinister purpose and action, his lordly deceit, and his artful cunningness, and brought women to tears by the sorrow in his face, his apparent grief and external mortification.

Never had the black population of the city listened to or witnessed a more eloquent appeal. But justice had been unable to interfere. The trial was over, and Newton Justine McCarthy left the court room a free man, with head held high, and walking with sure step.

Jean Baptiste left it calmly in company with his lawyers. They had anticipated losing the case before going into court, for it had been apparent to them that the outcome rested entirely with Baptiste's wife. If they failed to shake her testimony; that she had never loved him, then they knew it was hopeless. It had all depended on her—and she had stood by her father.

"Well, I'm satisfied," said Baptiste as they went through the street.

"I suppose so, in a way."

"I wanted vindication. I wanted the people to know the truth."

"And they know it now. He goes free, but the people know he is a guilty man, and that your wife lied to save him."

"Yes," said Baptiste a little wearily.

Somehow he felt relieved. It seemed that a great burden had been lifted from his mind, and he closed his eyes as if shutting out the past now forever. He was free. Never would the instance that had brought turmoil and strife into his life trouble him again. Always before there had seemed to be a peculiar bond between him and the woman he had taken as wife. Always he seemed to have a claim upon her in spite of all and she upon him. But, by the decision of the court, all this had been swept away, and he sighed as if in peace.

They found their way to the "L" station that was nearest, and there took a train for the south side. At Thirty-first Street Baptiste left his lawyer and slowly betook himself toward the familiar scenes on State Street.

While he lost himself in the traffic of State Street, the Reverend, in company with Glavis, Ethel, and Orlean, boarded an Indiana Avenue surface car. The Reverend was cheery for a great fear had passed. A coward by nature, he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown before the trial, thinking of what might happen. But now that was over. He was free. That meant everything. The fact that he was guilty in the minds of everybody who heard the trial, did not worry him now. He was free and could claim by the verdict that he was vindicated in the action he had taken. That was the great question. Always before he had been sensitive of the fingers of accusation that were upon him, and the worry had greatly impaired his usual appearance.

And while he was relieved, Glavis, sitting proudly by him, was also. He talked cheerfully of the trial, of the decision, and of the future that was before them. He smiled at all times, and the Reverend's large face was also lighted up with a peculiar delight. But there was another who, in spite of the fact that the testimony from her lips had saved the day for the Reverend, was not happy, not cheerful, not in a mood to discuss the case.

This one was Orlean. Few knew—in fact maybe only one other, and that was her husband—or appreciated how much that false testimony had cost her. She had lied; lied freely; lied stoutly; lied at every point of the case—and this for the man who had brought her to it. And now when it was over she felt not at ease. While Jean Baptiste was conscious that a burden had been lifted from his mind, and Glavis and her father chatted freely, she sat silently by without even a clear thought. She was only conscious that she had lied, that after a life of weakness, a life that had made no one happy or cheerful or gay, she had for the first time in her life, deliberately lied. And as she became more conscious of what had passed, she felt a burden upon her. Never since the day she had abused her husband; never since the suffering her actions had brought him; never since as a climax to all this, when he lay upon the floor and she had kicked him viciously in the face, had she experienced a happy or a cheerful day.

But today—after that terrible ordeal, she felt as if life held little for her, that she was now unfit to perform any womanly duty. She found no consolation in the fact that she had been encouraged to do as she had done by those who claimed to love her. That seemed to annoy her if anything. She could now, for the first time in her life, realize clearly what duty meant. Duty could not be side-tracked, regardless of what might have passed. Her husband had been good to her. He had given her the love that was his. Never had he abused her in any way, never had he used a cross word in her presence. But she had done everything to him. And as a climax to it all, she had lied.

Oh, that lie would haunt her forever!

They arrived at the street where they must leave the car for home. She arose along with the rest. When they stood upon the walkway and had started toward home, her father paused.

"By the way, children," he said cheerfully. "I think I should call at the lawyer's office and thank him." He turned his eyes to Glavis, his worthy counsellor at all times, and read agreement in his face before the other opened his lips to give sanction.

"I think that you should, too, father," he said, whereupon he turned to accompany him.

"Well, I'll drop by his office. You may go on home with the girls, Glavis," he said. So saying he turned toward the attorney's office to settle his account and talk over the case.

As he walked along his way, he became reflective. He allowed his mind to wander back into the past—back many years to the time when he had gone into the country to take a meal. He recalled that day at the dinner table where he had sat near a certain school teacher. She had been an attractive teacher, a rare woman in those days. And he admired her. It was a privilege to sit so close to her at the table, to wait on her, and be the recipient of her charming smiles. He saw himself now more clearly in retrospection. He saw a little boy standing hungrily at a distance. He saw again now, that same small boy approach the teacher; saw the teacher's motherly face and her arms reached out and caught that youth and then smother his face with kisses. He felt again the anger that little boy's action had aroused in him. He heard again the cries from the summer kitchen as the mother administered punishment for the same. He recalled briefly the years that followed. He recounted the testimony at the trial. For many, many months he had endeavored to make Baptiste suffer, and this day he had succeeded. But still he was not satisfied. The joy that had come of being freed of the accusation after his unhappy and nervous state of fear, had shut all else out of his mind for a time. After all freedom is so much. But was freedom all? He could not account for the feeling that was suddenly come over him. He recalled then again the severe chastisement he had caused Jean Baptiste to receive when he was a mere child. He recalled also how he had been instrumental in separating him from his daughter. He recalled now the lies, oh, the lies she had resorted to that had kept him out of jail, the tears he had shed from self pity, while Baptiste stood stoically by.

And thinking thusly, he reached his destination.

He found the attorney alone, busy over some papers. He approached him courteously, bowed, and thrusting his hand in his pocket, said:

"Yes, sir. I thought I would drop in and pay you the balance of the fee that is now due, and thank you for your services." He smiled pleasantly as he spoke, and never appeared more impressive. The other regarded him a moment, held out his hand, accepted his fee, and said:

"Well, it's over, and you are free."

"Yes," said the Elder, but now found it rather hard to smile. "I am glad it is over for it was a very awkward affair, I must confess." He paused then, perforce. The lawyer was regarding him, and the Elder wondered at his expression. He had never seen that look in his face before. What did it mean? He was not kept long in suspense, for soon the other spoke.

"Yes, you are free and fortunate."

"Fortunate," the Reverend repeated, thoughtfully, and looking up found the lawyer's eyes upon him. They were looking straight into his with the same expression of a moment before.

"Yes," said the lawyer then coldly, "you are free and fortunate, because you were as guilty as hell!"