CHAPTER LVI.
MARK TIME, MARCH!
Now that Robert's acquittal was almost assured, Emily's pity began tooverflow toward Harry Arnold and Rosalie, whose position was exactly herown of the day before. For the vox populi had generally determined onHarry's guilt, though there were not wanting some who, like the fatherin the parable, were disposed to welcome the brilliant prodigal withlavish entertainment, freely extending the forgiveness he implored,while slighting the steadfastly loyal son who had never wandered fromthe path of virtue. This was poor recompense to Robert for hissummer-long immurement, but he was put together of a substanceimpervious to the acid actions of criticism or neglect--the oaken fiberof the English Arnolds.
In all quarters curiosity was active about the defense. It was said bysome that the prosecution had broken down, or might break down at anyminute, and even if the last reluctant victim were haled up by Bigelowto the shambles, where Shagarach stood, ax in hand, awaiting her, thatit would be hammering on a driven nail to put on the long array ofwitnesses who had been summoned in behalf of the accused. Neverthelessthe newspapers were at pains to worm out the names of these witnessesand to diet the public with prophetic outlines of their testimony.
The gist of it all was that Shagarach meant to clinch his client'sdefense by building up a case against Harry.
Of course Emily found it hard to communicate her own confidence toRosalie March, although Bertha was to take the stand the followingmorning and her theory would then (as she believed) receive a triumphantdemonstration. What made Harry's face fall more bitter was that the dateof his espousal to the beautiful actress had just been given to theworld. From Rosalie's hard glance at Shagarach, Emily knew there was asmuch blame in her heart for the lawyer as for her lover. And Rosalie wasnot the only girl who would have ransomed Harry Arnold, perjurer,self-seeker, gambler, as he owned himself to have been, with her life,if such a price should be asked.
"Are they sisters?" asked the thoughtless, misled by their golden hair,when the two beautiful girls went out together, leaving Mme. Violetbehind. But a student of faces would never have fallen into such anerror. One placid and aloof, even toward the audiences whose favor shecourted, the other impulsive and approachable, throwing out tentacles ofsympathy toward every human being with whom she came in contact, theysupplemented rather than reflected each other; otherwise they wouldhardly have been drawn together so strongly, and made such a concord offriendliness.
Several surprises awaited Emily when she reached home. The first andpleasantest was an envelope, surcharged in the upper left-hand cornerwith the name of a certain magazine. This she opened with tremblingfingers, for it was not quite three weeks since she mailed to theeditor, unsigned, Robert's article on, "Proposals for a Consumers'Trust," that fruit of his prison reflections which Dr. Silsby had foundso unpalatable. When an oblong slip of paper, perforated at the margin,slipped out, she knew it was a check; and the editor's letter was veryurgent that "so striking a contribution should not be given to the worldwithout its author's signature." Here was the beginning of a career forher sweetheart. She looked forward to the time when his qualities andtalents should be recognized, and she herself perhaps be pointed out asthe wife of Floyd, the famous writer, or thinker, or worker, orwhatsoever other name they chose to give to the best, the truest and themost abused of men. The check, too, was of comforting value, and, sinceshe was a shrewd little housekeeper withal, this discovery did not abateone particle of Emily's joy.
And yet, so little was she a lover of lucre for its own sake, the veryfirst item on which her eye lighted in the evening paper, though itmeant a money loss which the whole cash box of the Forum, converted intochecks, could not make good, evoked almost a scream of delight fromEmily and sent her flying into the kitchen where her mother was steepingthe tea. The good lady wiped her honest hands on her apron and with a"Do tell!" fingered the Evening Beacon, which to-day is skimmed andtomorrow cast into the oven, as respectfully as if it had been a fancyvalentine; then read, with Jennie, a slip of 14, on tiptoe leaning overher shoulder, that Judge Dunder had finally decided to uphold the lateProf. Arnold's will. Even Shagarach had hardly expected this decision.For Judge Dunder was a confirmed devotee of legal technique and it hadbeen supposed that nothing less than a verbatim copy of a destroyed willwould be sustained by him.
But the main clauses of the will had certainly been reproduced, with anabundance of circumstantial detail. The only hiatus was a remotepossibility. There may have been some smaller bequests that could not betraced. Apparently Judge Dunder had in this case resolved to wink alittle at chicane and decide for justice in the broader sense.
"Harry Arnold may have to do something to justify his existence now,"said Mrs. Barlow after supper to Emily. She had a prejudice against wildyoung men.
"Oh, Rosalie has enough for two," answered Emily, who was standingbefore the mirror putting her hat on for a visit to Walter Riley.
The first sight that met her eye when she reached the sidewalk was asquad of salvation army soldiers, with Serena Lamb at their head,parading through the street, chanting their invitation to sinners.Serena held her tambourine high in air and her shrill voice dominatedthe chorus like that of a precentor in the kirk. But the exercise seemedto lack its usual spirit this evening. Was it because nobody took anyparticular notice of the group? Curiosity about them was wearying itselfthreadbare, and even the toddling urchins no longer gathered at thedrumbeat as they used to. Emily had often admired the devotion of thesesisters, but, looking at this unnoticed and discouraged band, shewondered if the antagonism of the multitude were not in truth the verysustenance of their zeal. Might not all their heroic energy exhaustitself, like the nerve of a boxer, compelled to waste his blows in theair, if the atmosphere of opposition should change to one of apathy?
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery Page 56
