THE BURDEN OF PROOF.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 1, 4 January 1908, Page 31

THE BURDEN OF PROOF.

A STORY OF THE COURT’S.

BY

AGNES L. PRATT.

THE little woman in the corridor outside clenched her hands around the polished marble of the balustrade as the voice of the first witness for the prosecution, clear, cold and incisive, cut the stillness. From where she cowered, helplessly, miserably, she could see, through the great swinging doors of the courtroom, the judge’s desk, jury seats, witnesses, a few interested spectators and the prisoner in the dock. That was her husband. It was cold, gray and November outside. She shivered a little as the relentless voice of the woman on the witness stand began its recital of death to her hopes of happiness, here and hereafter. “In 1870 ” How cruelly the passionless tones hurt her sharpened hearing! “I was married to him.” She beheld the finger of scorn pointed at the man in the dock, felt him cringe and cower as his arraignment proceeded. “’Twas only a few years after the war. He’d been all through that; come home an’ settled down an’ married m?," No hint of romance thrilled the calm recital, the mere statement of facts, stirring only the deadened embers without enlivening spaik, of what had once been, perhaps, a glowing fire of love. “Go on.” The little woman caught a glimpse of, the silvered head of the prosecutor as he nodded encouragement to th? witness. “We lived together two years. Then, one day, he left all of a sudden, without tollin’ me, an’ I hain’t seen nor heard of him sense. They told me, at Washington, when I tried to git my pension. that he was drawin' that himself, an’,” the emotionless voice was raised a little now and th? icy coldness of th? marble'congealed' the Very heart of the little woman in the corridor, "that lib’ was married —to another woman;’’ Tire words trailed away into silence, as the prosecuting attorney straightened up. “Were there children?” The question came kindly and a score of interested spectators leaned forward to eatch the reply. “On?. A boy. There he is.” One finger, hardened and gnarled with years of self-supporting endeavour, indicated a young man, the youthful replica of her own unyielding features, who, from his seat near the witnesses, was dividing his attention impartially between the father he had never known and the woman who had been both father and mother to him. Out in tho corridor, a mite of humanity in th,? midst of its magnificent distances, the little woman strained her eyes for some reseriiblance familiar to her, in the face of the youn<s man. The next words of th.? attorney roused her from her contemplative study. 1 “You thought this man, your husband,” hesitatingly, with a commiserating glance through the great doorway at the bowed figure in black, “was dead, did you not? And when you found lie was not, what did you do?” “Wrot.? him a letter; told him his boy and myself needed a little of his help an’ asked him to come an’ see us.” “Did he reply?” “No.” One hand unfastened itself from its vicelike grip on th,? polished balustrade and fell to the level of the little woman s heart, covering the tumultuous beating that seemed intensely audible to her above the noises of the court room, shuffling of feet, rattle of papers and the occasional rap on the judge’s desk that called for order. One little ray of wintry sunlight, pale and attenuated, just touched the prisoner’s bowed head, brightened the silvered locks above his temples and accentuated deep furrows that had drawn themselves about his eyes, his mouth. Fierce pity swelled beneath the hand that covered tho little woman’s heart. Ho was so good; so good. Her Ithoughts camo in a choking flood that receded in the little quiver fathering on her lips.

"That will do.” The grave voice of the attorney disenissed the witness, who marched triumphantly to her seat, a tail, angular figure in rusty black, aggressiveness printed in large letters over eaeh rugged lineament of her face. There was a inoment’s solemn hush. Would he eall the boy next? His son —the usurper of her own. Her heart raced madly against the restraining hand she had laid upon it, causing her to lean heavily on the firm marble for support. “John Lane.” That was her husband’s name. It might be the boy’s, too. For one brief second she closed her eyes to shut away the whole scene, then opened them to disclose the bent figure of the man she had called husband. In the chilling half lights that filtered through vast spaces of the court-room he seemed strangely pale and helpless. Her heart went out to him fiercely with such love as a mother feels when her children suffer injustice, and involuntarily her hands reached forth to support him. Thon, remembering, she shrank farther away into the grimmest of the grey shallows that had begun to cluster thickly in the recesses of the corridor and clasped both hands convulsively about the pulseless marble. When she raised her eyes again the preliminaries had been disposed of and she waited with a sickening, horrid fear of expectancy for the knell of what futile hope she had nourished until this moment. Now must the structure of her life work fall, shattered miserably by the confession of the man she loved and trusted, now the mantie of her honour be torn ruthlessly aside by the hand that had hitherto shown nothing but kindly deeds to her. Misty darkness gathered all about her, but contact of the cold marble and an occasional breath of biting air penetrating the steam-heated atmosphere from outside revived her. Tensely she listened for the calm, questioning voice of the prosecutor. “Do you know this woman?” He indicated the grim-visaged woman who was seated beside her son just in front of the prisoner. It was almost a whisper that answered hoarsely, “No,” but the little woman in the corridor caught it and her face went a shade whiter. “Were you ever married to her?” “No.” Fainter than before, and the scorn in the steely eyes regarding him deepened. “Where did you go when you returned from the war? You went to war, did you not?” dolefully. “Yes.” A little light sprang into the man's eyes. He was not physically a coward after all. “Well, tell us then, after you were discharged. and came home, where did you go? What did you do?” “I — 1 — don’t remember. I don’t know.” The prisoner looked around helplessly. He, too, could see by straining his eyes the little huddled figure in the farthest corner of the corridor, and a pitiful misery sprang into Ids glance and abode there ' That will do.” The prosecutor measured him with one comprehensive expression of withering scorn wherein was commingled condescending sympathy for his weakness. “I see you do not know—nor want to know 7 —much about this case. We will leave it to the other witnesses. You may go.” A pair of agonized eyes followed his every halting motion as he made his way painfully back to his place in the prisoner’s dock, then fell to the tiled floor at her feet as she waited numbly. A whispered consultation followed in the court-room. A deputy left his place, coming impressively toward the crouching figure among tin* shadows. She did not stir as he approached, and he touched her gently on the shoulder. “Come. It is your turn now. You’re wanted inside.” “Oh—l cannot go—in there—and tell them—tell them—” her voice broke pitifully, “anything against him.” 'The eyes of the deputy softened strangely. “You won’t have to,” he said kindly. “Just tell the truth as you know it. Maybe,” hopefully, “it'll help him some.” She laid one hand on the strfing arm nearest her and walked unsteadily through the wide doors and to the witness stand. The room whirled dizzily, every face seemed a bobbing black sphere without likeness to anything human, •ave two, the calmly judicial counteu-

ance of the first witness and the wretched, hunted face of the prisoner in the dock. Mechanically she replied to the few preliminary questions put to her. Then the kindly voice of the attorney admonished her. “Now, tell us all you can, of your liff with the defendant —just in your own words, please.” He waited in courteous silence. With downcast eyes she essayed to speak — once — twice. Meanwhile the steely glitter of the passionless eyes opposite her own transfixed and held her gaze. Between that and her rose the haggard countenance of the prisoner. Then, mercifully, words began to come; falling from her lips as they were conceived—without preparation or forethought, just the simple story of her life, the plain, unvarnished tale of her love and trust. “I was an orphan,” scarcely audible were the low tones, and instinctively an added stillness descend?;? on the spectators, “poor and friendless, when he—married me.” “I beg pardon. When was that?” interrupted the attorney. “That was in 1890.” An encouraging nod urged her to proceed. “I have never known what it was to want since for home, or care, or friends, or—or —” chokingly the tribute came, “for affection. He has always been kindness itself to me.” The hard-featured woman of judicial countenance and prior claim sniffed audiby and unmistakably, withering the prisoner in the dock with a shrivelling glance from her cruel eyes. The little woman was disconcerted, flushed, grew pale, twisting her hands nervously in and out. “Go on, please. You owned your home, did you not?” She flashed one grateful glance into the kindly eyes above her own as she continued. “Yes. We laid up the money in the first years after—after—” hesitatingly, “we were married, and—and —he helped to build it with his own hands. He is a carpenter,” with an apologetic glance at the prisoner who had cast his eyes down miserably to his feet. “Kinder husband woman never had.” She paid the trembling tribute eagerly as if fearful it would not be allowed, but a reassuring smile answered her, and steadying her voice she went bravely on. “He was always home nights—never went, out and left me; and 80 handy round the house. When—when I was sick, he was gentle :tn4 soothing as a woman,” but her eyes wandered away from the woman opposite. “There are children ?” The attorney gently jogged her memory. “Yes—one.” She had forgotten the stain east by the father on the birth of her child, on the purity of her name, and the glow of mother love illumined her face as the low voice went on. “A boy. He is the only one. There was a little girl, but—but she only lived a year.” The face of the prisoner was buried in his hands and big tears trickled through the rough, gnarled fingers covering his eyes. The grim-visaged woman glanced from one to the other doubtfully. “Our boy—he is just thirteen —and he thinks all the world of his father.” Is she pleading now with the impassible countenances of the jury—to bring one answering look of sympathy, or trying to soften the rigid muscles of the face of the woman whose rights are prior to her own, who interposes the justness and inflexibility of her personality between her and the honour that is dearer than life itself ? They are just like two boys together when the father gets home at night—playing and frolicking with never a cross word between the two. Since father has been away,” her eyes fell in shame at the cause of his absence, “Freddie—that's his name—has just moped and been miserable all the time.” Court room, judge, attorneys, deputies, jury, prisoner and the grim visage of her destroyer seemed to melt mistily away into space, leaving nothing but the vision of her quiet home, the cheerful routine of their humble happiness and her motherly pride in the perfect harmony lietween father and son. In brief forgetfulness she continued, while judge and attorney smiled leniently. “1 think, perhaps, some of the boys—in school—mocked at him, because his father was in jail.”

A swift shadow flitted across the smile of a moment ago, but she lifted her eyes bravely. “Anyway, he’s been sick and peevish, ailing and fretting all the time for his father. If he could see him again,” she raised her voice appealingly, “I think ’twould do them both a world of good.” The attorney cleared his throat as the words died away, and asked, “Did you see the letter this woman wrote to your —husband ?” “No,” sadly; “he always kept anything that troubled him from me. I wish he hadn’t.” “And you never saw this woman before ?” “No.” “Never heard your husband mention a previous marriage?” “No—but,” eagerly, lest she should be misinterpreted, “he was always fair and square with me. I don’t believe,” ingenuously, “he could deceive me so.” Over the face of the woman who had first testified crept a change, intangible at first, but as the simple story was unfolded, a transforming influence. She drew nearer to the young man and whispered inaudibly. The story of the little boy’s childish affection awakened some reminiscent chord in her memory evidently, for unconsciously the hard lines of her face softened and a little sympathy stole into the steely orbs. She started guiltily when the prosecutor re leased the witness. “You may go.” The sentence was hardly completed, the little woman had stepped tremblingly down and stood waveringly between the great open doors, when a stir arose in the audience. She turned, her diminutive proportions framed in the elaborate carvings of the doorway, a tiny glimmer from departing day lighting up the holy emotions that had not yet faded from her face, to see the wrecker of her happiness stalking down the broad aisle to the place she had quitted. As if in a dream she watched the strange proceeding. Without right or permission this woman was again taking the stand to testify. Had she forgotten something still more derogatory to the reputation of the prisoner, and which her own recital had resurrected from a sleeping memory? Surprised stillness held the occupants of the courtroom spellbound. Then, through the graying shadows, her face somehow softened by the ghastly light pouring through the windows from the pallid sunset. the first tones of her voice fell on the sharply comprehensive ears of the little woman in the doorway. “There’s something else I want to tell.” Could vindictiveness go farther? The judge murmured “order,” looked gravely at a deputy, changed his mind and nodded acquiescingly. It was irregular, out of order, against all precedent, but something in the woman’s eyes compelled the august court to coincide. “Sense she testified”—she pointed one angular finger at the trembling little woman, and for one brief instant scanned the misery-stricken features from which now all hope had fled. Then the quiet tones of her voice cleft the unaccustomed stillness sharply—“l hev been sittin’ there an’ thinkin’ that perhaps I didn’t tell all I should about this case. I thought when I came here there wa’n’t no doubt but 1 had the right man. Sense I’ve set here I don’t know. There’s a good many John Lanes in the world, 1 guess, an’ time—thirty years —changes a man a good deal. But I’ve got a test —an’ it’s sure.” She looked about coolly, convincingly, her eyes roving from the face of her boy to that of the prisoner, then to the little woman who stared into vacancy, seeing nothing but the utter blackness of her own future. “My John Lane,” she cut the words off one by one, insistently, “had a flag tattooed on his left arm. Hev you?” She thrust the inquiry at the prisoner, and as at the voice of a commanding officer, he started to his feet. All eyes by common impulse travelled swiftly to his face. The little woman in the dporway clutched her heart agonizedly, opened her lips in soundless protest and her gaze fixed itself fascinatedly on the face of the man in the dock. The tableau remained thus fixed for an instant. Then, even before, with one convulsive gesture, he could raise the sleeves of his shabby coat, a comprehensive smile began to gather on the face of the little woman, a smile that expanded until it

illumined the countenance of every person in the great court-room, save the grim-visaged one on the stand. She knew—and the sudden revulsion of feeling caused her to cling dizzily to the door for support. In another instant a grizzled arm, bared to the shoulder, was raised for inspection, and a strong, hopeful voice rang out: ' “No. I never had such a mark.” The woman on the witness stand sniffed disgustedly, a queer smib? filtered, into her green-gray eyes, settled into the deep furrows about her mouth and glinted in the departing rays of the setting sun. “I thought you hadn’t,” she remarked as she walked gingerly down from the witness stand.