University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE TRIAL.

I ROM the time that Charlton began to pettifog
with his conscience, he began to lose peace of mind.
His self-respect was impaired, and he became
impatient, and chafed under his restraint. As the
trial drew on, he was more than ever filled with
questionings in regard to the course he should pursue. For
conscience is like a pertinacious attorney. When a false decision
is rendered, he is forever badgering the court with a
bill of exceptions, with proposals to set aside, with motions for
new trials, with applications for writs of appeal, with threats
of a Higher Court, and even with contemptuous mutterings
about impeachment. If Isa had not written to him, Albert
might have regained his moral aplomb in some other way
than he did—he might not. For human sympathy is Christ's
own means of regenerating the earth. If you can not counsel,
if you can not preach, if you can not get your timid lips to
speak one word that will rebuke a man's sin, you can at least
show the fellowship of your heart with his. There is a great
moral tonic in human brotherhood. Worried, desperate, feeling
forsaken of God and man, it is not strange that Charlton
should shut his teeth together and defy his scruples. He

would use any key he could to get out into the sunlight
again. He quoted all those old, half-true, half-false adages
about the lawlessness of necessity and so on. Then, weary
of fencing with himself, he wished for strength to stand at
peace again, as when he turned his back on the temptations
of his rescuers in Metropolisville. But he had grown weak
and nervous from confinement—prisons do not strengthen the
moral power—and he had moreover given way to dreaming
about liberty until he was like a homesick child, who aggravates
his impatience by dwelling much on the delightfulness
of the meeting with old friends, and by counting the slow-moving
days that intervene.

But there came, just the day before the trial, a letter with
the post-mark “Metropolisville” on it. That post-mark always
excited a curious feeling in him. He remembered with what
boyish pride he had taken possession of his office, and how he
delighted to stamp the post-mark on the letters. The address
of this letter was not in his mother's undecided penmanship
—it was Isa Marlay's straightforward and yet graceful writing,
and the very sight of it gave him comfort. The letter
was simply a news letter, a vicarious letter from Isabel because
Mrs. Plausaby did not feel well enough to write; this is
what Isa said it was, and what she believed it to be, but
Charlton knew that Isa's own friendly heart had planned it.
And though it ran on about this and that unimportant matter
of village intelligence, yet were its commonplace sentences
about commonplace affairs like a fountain in the desert to the
thirsty soul of the prisoner. I have read with fascination in
an absurdly curious book that people of a very sensitive fiber
can take a letter, the contents and writer of which are unknown,

and by pressing it for a time against the forehead
can see the writer and his surroundings. It took no spirit of
divination in Charlton's case. The trim and graceful figure of
Isa Marlay, in perfectly fitting calico frock, with her whole
dress in that harmonious relation of parts for which she was
so remarkable, came before him. He knew that by this time
she must have some dried grasses in the vases, and some well-preserved
autumn leaves around the picture-frames. The letter
said nothing about his trial, but its tone gave him assurance
of friendly sympathy, and of a faith in him that could not
be shaken. Somehow, by some recalling of old associations,
and by some subtle influence of human sympathy, it swept
the fogs away from the soul of Charlton, and he began to
see his duty and to feel an inspiration toward the right. I
said that the letter did not mention the trial, but it did. For
when Charlton had read it twice, he happened to turn it
over, and found a postscript on the fourth page of the sheet.
I wonder if the habit which most women have of reserving
their very best for the postscript comes from the housekeeper's
desire to have a good dessert. Here on the back Charlton
read:

“P. S.—Mr. Gray, your Hoosier friend, called on me yesterday,
and sent his regards. He told me how you refused to escape.
I know you well enough to feel sure that you would not
do anything mean or unmanly. I pray that God will sustain
you on your trial, and make your innocence appear. I am
sure you are innocent, though I can not understand it.
Providence will overrule it all for good, I believe.”

Something in the simple-hearted faith of Isabel did him a
world of good. He was in the open hall of the jail when he

read it, and he walked about the prison, feeling strong enough
now to cope with temptation. That very morning he had received
a New Testament from a colporteur, and now, out of
regard to Isa Marlay's faith, maybe—out of some deeper feeling,
possibly—he read the story of the trial and condemnation
of Jesus. In his combative days he had read it for the sake
of noting the disagreements between the Evangelists in some
of the details. But now he was in no mood for small criticism.
Which is the shallower, indeed, the criticism that harps
on disagreements in such narratives, or the pettifogging that
strives to reconcile them, one can hardly tell. In Charlton's
mood, in any deeply earnest mood, one sees the smallness of
all disputes about sixth and ninth hours. Albert saw the profound
essential unity of the narratives, he felt the stirring of
the deep sublimity of the story, he felt the inspiration of the
sublimest character in human history. Did he believe? Not
in any orthodox sense. But do you think that the influence
of the Christ is limited to them who hold right opinions about
Him? If a man's heart be simple, he can not see Jesus in any
light without getting good from Him. Charlton, unbeliever
that he was, wet the pages with tears, tears of sympathy with
the high self-sacrifice of Jesus, and tears of penitence for his own
moral weakness, which stood rebuked before the Great Example.

And then came the devil, in the person of Mr. Conger.
His face was full of hopefulness as he sat down in Charlton's
cell and smote his fat white hand upon his knee and said
“Now!” and looked expectantly at his client. He waited a
moment in hope of rousing Charlton's curiosity.

“We've got them!” he said presently. “I told you we
should pull through. Leave the whole matter to me.”

“I am willing to leave anything to you but my conscience,”
said Albert.

“The devil take your conscience, Mr. Charlton. If you are
guilty, and so awfully conscientious, plead guilty at once. If
you propose to cheat the government out of some years of penal
servitude, why, well and good. But you must have a devilish
queer conscience, to be sure. If you talk in that way, I shall
enter a plea of insanity and get you off whether you will or
not. But you might at least hear me through before you talk
about conscience. Perhaps even your conscience would not
take offense at my plan, unless you consider yourself foreordained
to go to penitentiary.”

“Let's hear your plan, Mr. Conger,” said Charlton, hoping.
there might be some way found by which he could escape.

Mr. Conger became bland again, resumed his cheerful and
hopeful look, brought down his fat white hand upon his knee,
looked up over his client's head, while he let his countenance
blossom with the promise of his coming communication. He
then proceeded to say with a cheerful chuckle that there was
a flaw in the form of the indictment—the grand jury had
blundered. He had told Charlton that something would certainly
happen. And it had. Then Mr. Conger smote his knee
again, and said “Now!” once more, and proceeded to say that
his plan was to get the trial set late in the term, so that the
grand jury should finish their work and be discharged before
the case came on. Then he would have the indictment quashed.

He said this with so innocent and plausible a face that at
first it did not seem very objectionable to Charlton.

“What would we gain by quashing the indictment, Mr.
Conger?”

“Well, if the indictment were quashed on the ground of a
defect in its substance, then the case falls. But this is only
defective in form. Another grand jury can indict you again.
Now if the District Attorney should be a little easy—and I
think that, considering your age, and my influence with him,
he would be—a new commitment might not issue perhaps
before you could get out of reach of it. If you were committed
again, then we gain time. Time is everything in a bad
case. You could not be tried until the next term. When the
next term comes, we could them see what could be done.
Meantime you could get bail.”

If Charlton had not been entirely clear-headed, or entirely
in a mood to deal honestly with himself, he would have been
persuaded to take this course.

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Conger. If the case were
delayed, and I still had nothing to present against the strong
circumstantial evidence of the prosecution—if, in other words,
delay should still leave us in our present position—would there
be any chance for me to escape by a fair, stand-up trial?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Charlton, this is precisely a case in
which we will not accept a pitched battle, if we can help it.
After a while, when the prosecuting parties feel less bitter
toward you, we might get some of the evidence mislaid, out of
the way, or get some friend on the jury, or—well, we might
manage somehow to dodge trial on the case as it stands.
Experience is worth a great deal in these things.”

“There are, then, two possibilities for me,” said Charlton
very quietly. “I can run away, or we may juggle the evidence
or the jury. Am I right?”

“Or, we can go to prison?” said Conger, smiling.

“I will take the latter alternative,” said Charlton.

“Then you owe it to me to plead guilty, and relieve me
from responsibility. If you plead guilty, we can get a recommendation
of mercy from the court.”

“I owe it to myself not to plead guilty,” said Charlton,
speaking still gently, for his old imperious and self-confident
manner had left him.

“Very well,” said Mr. Conger, rising, “if you take your
fate into your own hands in that way, I owe it to myself to
withdraw from the case.”

“Very well, Mr. Conger.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Charlton!”

“Good-morning, Mr. Conger.”

And with Mr. Conger's disappearance went Albert's last
hope of escape. The battle had been fought, and lost—or
won, as you look at it. Let us say won, for no man's case
is desperate till he parts with manliness.

Charlton had the good fortune to secure a young lawyer
of little experience but of much principle, who was utterly
bewildered by the mystery of the case, and the apparently
paradoxical scruples of his client, but who worked diligently
and hopelessly for him. He saw the flaw in the indictment
and pointed it out to Charlton, but told him that as it was
merely a technical point he would gain nothing but time.
Charlton preferred that there should be no delay, except what
was necessary to give his counsel time to understand the case.
In truth, there was little enough to understand. The defense
had nothing left to do.

When Albert came into court he was pale from his confinement.
He looked eagerly round the crowded room to see if he

could find the support of friendly faces. There were just two.
The Hoosier Poet sat on one of the benches, and by him sat Isa
Marlay, True, Mr. Plausaby sat next to Miss Marlay, but Albert
did not account him anything in his inventory of friends.

Isabel wondered how he would plead. She hoped that he
did not mean to plead guilty, but the withdrawal of Conger
from the case filled her with fear, and she had been informed
by Mr. Plausaby that he could refuse to plead altogether,
and it would be considered a plea of not guilty. She believed
him innocent, but she had not had one word of assurance to
that effect from him, and even her faith had been shaken a
little by the innuendoes and suspicions of Mr. Plausaby.

Everybody looked at the prisoner. Presently the District
Attorney moved that Albert Charlton be arraigned.

The Court instructed the clerk, who said, “Albert Charlton,
come forward.”

Albert here rose to his feet, and raised his right hand in
token of his identity.

The District Attorney said, “This prisoner I have indicted
by the grand jury.”

“Shall we waive the reading of the indictment?” asked
Charlton's counsel.

“No,” said Albert, “let it be read,” and he listened intently
while the clerk read it.

“Albert Charlton, you have heard the charge. What say
you: Guilty, or, Not guilty?” Even the rattling and unmeaning
voice in which the clerk was accustomed to go through
with his perfunctory performances took on some solemnity.

There was dead silence for a moment. Isa Marlay's heart
stopped beating, and the Poet from Posey County opened his

mouth with eager anxiety. When Charlton spoke, it was in a
full, solemn voice, with deliberation and emphasis.

“Not guilty!”

“Thank God!” whispered Isa.

The Poet shut his mouth and heaved a sigh of relief.

The counsel for the defense was electrified. Up to that
moment he had believed that his client was guilty. But there
was so much of solemn truthfulness in the voice that he
could not resist its influence.

As for the trial itself, which came off two days later, that
was a dull enough affair. It was easy to prove that Albert
had expressed all sorts of bitter feelings toward Mr. Westcott;
that he was anxious to leave; that he had every motive for
wishing to pre-empt before Westcott did; that the land-warrant
numbered so-and-so—it is of no use being accurate here,
they were accurate enough in court—had been posted in Red
Owl on a certain day; that a gentleman who rode with the
driver saw him receive the mail at Red Owl, and saw it delivered
at Metropolisville; that Charlton pre-empted his claim
—the S. E. qr. of the N. E. qr., and the N. ½ of the S. E.
qr. of Section 32, T. so-and-so, R. such-and-such—with this
identical land-warrant, as the records of the land-office showed
beyond a doubt.

Against all this counsel for defense had nothing whatever
to offer. Nothing but evidence of previous good character,
nothing but to urge that there still remained perhaps the
shadow of a doubt. No testimony to show from whom Charlton
had received the warrant, not the first particle of rebutting
evidence. The District Attorney only made a little perfunctory
speech on the evils brought upon business by theft in

the post-office. The exertions of Charlton's counsel amounted
to nothing; the jury found him guilty without deliberation.

The judge sentenced him with much solemn admonition. It
was a grievous thing for one so young to commit such a crime.
He warned Albert that he must not regard any consideration
as a justification for such an offense. He had betrayed his
trust and been guilty of theft. The judge expressed his regret
that the sentence was so severe. It was a sad thing to send
a young man of education and refinement to be the companion
of criminals for so many years. But the law recognized the
difference between a theft by a sworn and trusted officer and
an ordinary larceny. He hoped that Albert would profit by
this terrible experience, and that he would so improve the time
of his confinement with meditation, that what would remain
to him of life when he should come out of the walls of his
prison might be spent as an honorable and law-abiding citizen.
He sentenced him to serve the shortest term permitted by the
statute, namely, ten years.

The first deep snow of the winter was falling outside the
court-house, and as Charlton stood in the prisoners' box, he
could hear the jingling of sleigh-bells, the sounds that usher
in the happy social life of winter in these northern latitudes.
He heard the judge, and he listened to the sleigh-bells as a
man who dreams—the world was so far off from him now—
ten weary years, and the load of a great disgrace measured the
gulf fixed between him and all human joy and sympathy.
And when, a few minutes afterward, the jail-lock clicked behind
him, it seemed to have shut out life. For burial alive is
no fable. Many a man has heard the closing of the vault as
Albert Charlton did.