University of Virginia Library

58. CHAPTER LVIII.

THE court room was packed on the morning on which
the verdict of the jury was expected, as it had been
every day of the trial, and by the same spectators, who had
followed its progress with such intense interest.

There is a delicious moment of excitement which the
frequenter of trials well knows, and which he would not miss
for the world. It is that instant when the foreman of the
jury stands up to give the verdict, and before he has opened
his fateful lips.

The court assembled and waited. It was an obstinate jury.
It even had another question—this intelligent jury—to ask
the judge this morning.

The question was this:—“Were the doctors clear that the
deceased had no disease which might soon have carried him
off, if he had not been shot?” There was evidently one juryman
who didn't want to waste life, and was willing to strike

a general average, as the jury always does in a civil case,
deciding not according to the evidence but reaching the
verdict by some occult mental process.

During the delay the spectators exhibited unexampled
patience, finding amusement and relief in the slightest movements
of the court, the prisoner and the lawyers. Mr. Braham
divided with Laura the attention of the house. Bets
were made by the sheriff's deputies on the verdict, with large
odds in favor of a disagreement.

It was afternoon when it was announced that the jury was
coming in. The reporters took their places and were all
attention; the judge and lawyers were in their seats; the
crowd swayed and pushed in eager expectancy, as the jury
walked in and stood up in silence.

Judge. “Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

Foreman. “We have.”

Judge. “What is it?”

Foreman. “Not Guilty.”

A shout went up from the entire room and a tumult of
cheering which the court in vain attempted to quell. For a
few moments all order was lost. The spectators crowded
within the bar and surrounded Laura who, calmer than anyone
else, was supporting her aged mother, who had almost
fainted from excess of joy.

And now occurred one of those beautiful incidents which no
fiction-writer would dare to imagine, a scene of touching
pathos, creditable to our fallen humanity. In the eyes of the
women of the audience Mr. Braham was the hero of the
occasion; he had saved the life of the prisoner; and besides he
was such a handsome man. The women could not restrain
their long pent-up emotions. They threw themselves upon
Mr. Braham in a transport of gratitude; they kissed him
again and again, the young as well as the advanced in years,
the married as well as the ardent single women; they improved
the opportunity with a touching self-sacrifice; in the words
of a newspaper of the day they “lavished him with kisses.”

It was something sweet to do; and it would be sweet for a
woman to remember in after years, that she had kissed
Braham! Mr. Braham himself received these fond assaults
with the gallantry of his nation, enduring the ugly, and
heartily paying back beauty in its own coin.

This beautiful scene is still known in New York as “the
kissing of Braham.”

When the tumult of congratulation had a little spent itself,
and order was restored, Judge O'Shaunnessy said that it now
became his duty to provide for the proper custody and
treatment of the acquitted. The verdict of the jury having
left no doubt that the woman was of an unsound mind, with a
kind of insanity dangerous to the safety of the community,
she could not be permitted to go at large. “In accordance
with the directions of the law in such cases,” said the Judge,
“and in obedience to the dictates of a wise humanity, I hereby
commit Laura Hawkins to the care of the Superintendent of
the State Hospital for Insane Criminals, to be held in
confinement until the State Commissioners on Insanity shall
order her discharge. Mr. Sheriff, you will attend at once to
the execution of this decree.”

Laura was overwhelmed and terror-stricken. She had
expected to walk forth in freedom in a few moments. The
revulsion was terrible. Her mother appeared like one shaken
with an ague fit. Laura insane! And about to be locked up
with madmen! She had never contemplated this. Mr.
Braham said he should move at once for a writ of habeas
corpus.

But the judge could not do less than his duty, the law must
have its way. As in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and not
fully comprehending it, Mrs. Hawkins saw Laura led away by
the officer.

With little space for thought she was rapidly driven to the
railway station, and conveyed to the Hospital for Lunatic-Criminals.
It was only when she was within this vast and
grim abode of madness that she realized the horror of her situation.
It was only when she was received by the kind physician
and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless
incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not
insane; it was only when she passed through the ward to
which she was consigned and saw the horrible creatures, the
victims of a double calamity, whose dreadful faces she was
hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the small, bare
room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook
her. She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone—
she had been searched by the matron—and tried to think.
But her brain was in a whirl. She recalled Braham's speech,
she recalled the testimony regarding her lunacy. She wondered
if she were not mad; she felt that she soon should be
among these loathsome creatures. Better almost to have
died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement.

—We beg the reader's pardon. This is not history, which
has just been written. It is really what would have occurred
if this were a novel. If this were a work of fiction, we should
not dare to dispose of Laura otherwise. True art and any
attention to dramatic proprieties required it. The novelist
who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess

could not escape condemnation. Besides, the safety of society,
the decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our
modern civilization, all would demand that Laura should be
disposed of in the manner we have described. Foreigners,
who read this sad story, will be unable to understand any other
termination of it.

But this is history and not fiction. There is no such law
or custom as that to which his Honor is supposed to have
referred; Judge O'Shaunnessy would not probably pay any
attention to it if there were. There is no Hospital for Insane
Criminals; there is no State commission of lunacy. What
actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided
the sagacious reader will now learn.

Laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother
and other friends, amid the congratulations of those assembled,
and was cheered as she entered a carriage, and drove
away. How sweet was the sunlight, how exhilarating the
sense of freedom! Were not these following cheers the

expression of popular approval and affection? Was she not
the heroine of the hour?

It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura reached her
hotel, a scornful feeling of victory over society with its own
weapons.

Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken
with the disgrace and the long anxiety.

“Thank God, Laura,” she said, “it is over. Now we will
go away from this hateful city. Let us go home at once.”

“Mother,” replied Laura, speaking with some tenderness,
“I cannot go with you. There, don't cry, I cannot go back
to that life.”

Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing. This was more cruel than
anything else, for she had a dim notion of what it would be
to leave Laura to herself.

“No, mother, you have been everything to me. You
know how dearly I love you. But I cannot go back.”

A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch. Laura took it
and read:

For a moment the words swam before her eyes. The next
her eyes flashed fire as she handed the dispatch to her mother
and bitterly said,

“The world is against me. Well, let it be, let it. I am
against it.”

“This is a cruel disappointment,” said Mrs. Hawkins, to
whom one grief more or less did not much matter now, “to
you and Washington; but we must humbly bear it.”

“Bear it,” replied Laura scornfully, “I've all my life borne
it, and fate had thwarted me at every step.”

A servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman
below who wished to speak with Miss Hawkins. “J.
Adolphe Griller” was the name Laura read on the card. “I
do not know such a person. He probably comes from Washington.
Send him up.”

Mr. Griller entered. He was a small man, slovenly in
dress, his tone confidential, his manner wholly void of animation,

all his features below the forehead protruding—particularly
the apple of his throat—hair without a kink in it, a
hand with no grip, a meek, hang-dog countenance. He was
a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for while every visible
sign about him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless weakling,
the truth was that he had the brains to plan great enterprises
and the pluck to carry them through. That was his
reputation, and it was a deserved one.

He softly said:

“I called to see you on business, Miss Hawkins. You have
my card?”

Laura bowed.

Mr. Griller continued to purr, as softly as before:

“I will proceed to business. I am a business man. I am
a lecture-agent, Miss Hawkins, and as soon as I saw that you
were acquitted, it occurred to me that an early interview
would be mutually beneficial.”

“I don't understand you, sir,” said Laura coldly.

“No? You see, Miss Hawkins, this is your opportunity.
If you will enter the lecture field under good auspices, you
will carry everything before you.”

“But, sir, I never lectured, I haven't any lecture, I don't
know anything about it.”

“Ah, madam, that makes no difference—no real difference.
It is not necessary to be able to lecture in order to go into
the lecture field. If one's name is celebrated all over the
land, especially, and if she is also beautiful, she is certain to
draw large audiences.”

“But what should I lecture about?” asked Laura, beginning
in spite of herself to be a little interested as well as
amused.

“Oh, why, woman—something about woman, I should
say; the marriage relation, woman's fate, anything of that
sort. Call it The Revelations of a Woman's Life; now,
there's a good title. I wouldn't want any better title than that.
I'm prepared to make you an offer, Miss Hawkins, a liberal
offer,—twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights.”

Laura thought. She hesitated. Why not? It would give
her employment, money. She must do something:

“I will think of it, and let you know soon. But still, there
is very little likelihood that I—however, we will not discuss
it further now.”

“Remember, that the sooner we get to work the better,
Miss Hawkins, public curiosity is so fickle. Good day,
madam.”

The close of the trial released Mr. Harry Brierly and left
him free to depart upon his long talked of Pacific-coast mission.
He was very mysterious about it, even to Philip.

“It's confidential, old boy,” he said, “a little scheme we
have hatched up. I don't mind telling you that it's a good
deal bigger thing than that in Missouri, and a sure thing. I
wouldn't take a half a million just for my share. And it will
open something for you, Phil. You will hear from me.”

Philip did hear from Harry a few months afterward.
Everything promised splendidly, but there was a little delay.
Could Phil let him have a hundred, say for ninety days?

Philip himself hastened to Philadelphia, and, as soon as
the spring opened, to the mine at Ilium, and began transforming
the loan he had received from 'Squire Montague into
laborers' wages. He was haunted with many anxieties; in the
first place, Ruth was overtaxing her strength in her hospital
labors, and Philip felt as if he must move heaven and earth
to save her from such toil and suffering. His increased pecuniary
obligation oppressed him. It seemed to him also
that he had been one cause of the misfortune to the Bolton
family, and that he was dragging into loss and ruin everybody
who associated with him. He worked on day after day
and week after week, with a feverish anxiety.

It would be wicked, thought Philip, and impious, to pray
for luck; he felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a blessing
upon the sort of labor that was only a venture; but yet in
that daily petition, which this very faulty and not very consistent
young Christian gentleman put up, he prayed earnestly

enough for Ruth and for the Boltons and for those whom he
loved and who trusted in him, and that his life might not be
a misfortune to them and a failure to himself.

Since this young fellow went out into the world from his
New England home, he had done some things that he would
rather his mother should not know, things maybe that he
would shrink from telling Ruth. At a certain green age
young gentlemen are sometimes afraid of being called milk-sops,
and Philip's associates had not always been the most
select, such as these historians would have chosen for him, or
whom at a later period he would have chosen for himself. It
seemed inexplicable, for instance, that his life should have
been thrown so much with his college acquaintance, Henry
Brierly.

Yet, this was true of Philip, that in whatever company he
had been he had never been ashamed to stand up for the
principles he learned from his mother, and neither raillery
nor looks of wonder turned him from that daily habit he
learned at his mother's knees. Even flippant Harry respected
this, and perhaps it was one of the reasons why Harry and
all who knew Philip trusted him implicitly. And yet it
must be confessed that Philip did not convey the impression
to the world of a very serious young man, or of a man who
might not rather easily fall into temptation. One looking
for a real hero would have to go elsewhere.

The parting between Laura and her mother was exceedingly
painful to both. It was as if two friends parted on a
wide plain, the one to journey towards the setting and the
other towards the rising sun, each comprehending that every
step henceforth must separate their lives wider and wider.