Part 20 (1/2)

”You were living in Peoria?”

The insinuation that anything less than a metropolis should be her abiding-place was more than she could bear and in turbulent leaps, broken by her gasps for breath, she blurted, her lips quivering and her eyes filling with tears: ”I should--say--not! My husband and I were playing there. We were partners doing a dancing act--”

Thomas tried to interrupt her and succeeded with half a question. ”When did your husband first show signs of not loving you and--”

He got no farther, for she went on, determined to get over the disagreeable business of being truthful. ”He stopped loving me about a year before we were married.”

This time a storm of laughter surged through the court-room and it took several taps of Blodgett's gavel to regain quiet. Undaunted, she finished her story. ”It's really hard to explain why we were married.

You see”--she hesitated and resumed jerkily--”we were in Peoria--and we were partners--and--and--it rained all week--Well, somehow it seemed a good idea at the time.”

At this point it became necessary for Townsend, in order to maintain the dignity of the bench, to caution the spectators that if there were any more such outbursts of joy he would have the court-room cleared.

Thomas still maintained his control, although cold perspiration was wilting his highly polished collar. ”But after you were married he was cruel to you, was he not?” he asked.

”I should say he was!” The answer was accompanied by an emphatic nod of the head and again she flew onward, over his head, determined that she should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

”Why,” she opened her left hand and enumerated the said Gerald Davis's shortcomings by pressing its fingers with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, ”he put his name on the bill in larger type than mine.

He tried to strike me once--but he was a poor judge of distance.

And--and--” she stopped. This time her appeal was directed to Thomas.

”He deserted you, did he not?” Thomas eagerly took up the thread, hoping to unravel the snarl she had worked with it.

”Well, we parted--”

”After he deserted you?”

Before Mrs. Davis could answer the last question, Townsend straightened the spectacles on his nose and entered the case. Slowly welling within him was a jealousy now overwhelming. His political ambitions alone had stood in the way of his descending from the bench and throwing Thomas out of the court-room. It was only by remaining silent that he had curbed his temper. Now it broke away from him, and he turned, thundering, ”So far, Mr. Thomas, the witness has not testified that her husband deserted her!”

”Oh--” Margaret Davis turned squarely in her chair, pursing her carmine lips into an irresistible moue. ”Of course he deserted me! We were playing in Chicago, and I went West and he stayed there and--”

”That looks to me, madam, as if you deserted him. So far, your testimony has not brought out anything to substantiate your complaint.”

Tears unrestrained burst forth at this moment. The thought that not only had she lost all chance of securing her freedom, but that Lemuel Townsend, whose attentions had helped to while away a six months which would otherwise have been dull to one accustomed to a barrage of suitors at the stage door, was more than she could bear. Pointing to Thomas, she sobbed into a purple silk handkerchief that smelled not faintly of patchouli. ”That's because he told me to do nothing but answer his questions, and then he asked me all the wrong things--” Her emotion, out of bounds, spent itself in a cataract of tears. Unable to go on, she sat there, trying to stem the tears with a handkerchief inadequate for their volume.

Thomas tried to save his case. ”Your Honor--I--”

He hesitated, Margaret Davis coming to his rescue. ”Oh, I don't mean to blame you,” she said to him, addressing the last of her remark to the judge. ”He doesn't know anything about my case!”

What Lemuel Townsend would have liked to do at that moment was to have taken her in his arms and rea.s.sure her, as old fools are apt to do with nave young creatures. But her apparent friendliness with Thomas and her deceitfulness in employing him for her attorney was more than he could condone. He would not relax his stern exterior, although his interior was softening. ”Then, why,” he asked, in measured tones, ”is he appearing for you if he does not understand your case?”

Recognizing the opportunity for explanation, Margaret wiped her eyes, sniffed, and, went on: ”My lawyer's sick, you see. And I wanted to tell you all about it, but Mr. Thomas explained that I couldn't see you. And he said he'd do everything for me, and you'd give me a divorce without any trouble at all.”

Thomas whitened and turned to the table, where he fingered his brief-case nervously. He could not brave the glare which he knew Townsend was directing at him, nor the tirade he feared would follow.

”When did he tell you all that?” the judge asked, his nostrils quivering with rage, his voice strained to a tenor.

”Just now.” Margaret grew happily voluble and she nodded her head back and forth like a child of six as she ogled the judge. ”When I came into court he was here and I told him the trouble I was in. It's the only time I've seen him since you asked me not to.”

Townsend was so relieved that he did not hear the last of her remark and the noisy delight of the spectators also escaped him. He was bent upon one purpose, that of chastising Thomas. ”Why didn't you tell me this before?” he asked Margaret, in tender tones, forgetting, in his ardor, that there was such a thing as a court-room. He leaned far over the desk and beamed upon her. ”There, there, don't let it upset you.” He offered her a gla.s.s of water.