Part 37 (1/2)

But Robbins did not listen. It was as though the foundations of his world crumbled round him. That truth should fail, that innocent men should suffer-- He fumbled at the sleeve of the man on the other side.

'I--didn't hear. They said--'

'Sh-h!' the man warned him, and then, behind his sheltering hand, 'Guilty.'

The judge's voice dropped, and the speaker began moving with others toward the door. Robbins moved, too--as one dazed, uncertain what he did. Some one stopped him in the outer pa.s.sage. He was conscious of congratulatory sentences. He heard his own voice speaking words which, seemingly, were not without meaning. And all the while his mind waited, awed, for the impending catastrophe.

Mercifully, the house was empty when he reached home. He tiptoed into his own room, and there, the door closed behind him, stood for a moment, listening. Then, with an exclamation, he dropped to his knees beside the bed and buried his face against it.

For an hour he knelt there, bodily quiet, his mind beating, circling, thrusting desperately against its surrounding cage of falsehood. At first it was all fear--how the exposure would come, how best he might sustain himself against it. Then, imperceptibly, a deeper terror crept into his thinking. Suppose it should not come? Suppose-- But that was unthinkable. For a lie to blast a man's whole life, for a lie to brand him. Stealthily, as if his very stirring might incense the devil-G.o.d of such a world, he slid down, sitting beside the bed, his distended, horror-fascinated eyes hard on the wall. In these minutes his young faith in G.o.d and justice fought to the death with the injustice before him--fought and won.

'He'll be sentenced Friday,' he found himself thinking, drawing on some half-heard sc.r.a.p of conversation. 'That's four days. There's time enough--'

He dragged himself up and lay down at full length. Something hot smarted upon his face; he put up his hand to find his cheeks wet with tears.

They flowed quietly for a long time--soothingly. He fell asleep at last, his lashes still heavy with them.

He was very early at the court-house Friday morning. Cartwright, coming in at nine to his office, crossed the corridor to speak to him--cheerily.

'Well, we got our man, Robbins. You made a good witness--I meant to tell you so before; no confusing you. Look here, my boy, you're not fretting over this? If it hadn't been you, it would have been some one else.

There's no covering a crime like that.'

'Not--ever?' said Robbins thickly.

His secret was at his tongue's end. A glance of interrogation would have brought it spilling out. But there was no interrogation in his companion's eyes--only an abstracted kindness. He looked away from the lad toward the stragglers along the corridor.

'You came up to hear the sentence? Come in through my office and we'll find you a seat. The place will be packed.'

'There's nothing new?' Robbins asked unwillingly. 'No--new evidence?'

'Why, no! The case will be closed in another half-hour. And then I hope it will be a long time before you have any thing to do with a criminal charge again. Now if you want to come in--'

Robbins followed, silent. It did not trouble him to find himself placed conspicuously in the front row. His whole attention was set upon holding fast to the one strand of hope extended to him. In half an hour it would be over. In half an hour the hideous thing would be folded into the past. But it would _not!_ The case against Whiting would be ended, the arraignment of G.o.d would be but just begun! To go on living in a world so guardianed--

The judge entered and took his place; the lawyers on either side filed in to their stations about the long table; the prisoner was brought in, in the custody of a deputy sheriff. There was a little bustle of curiosity to herald his coming. Then the packed room settled to attention.

Robbins leaned forward in his seat. He heard vaguely the opening interchanges of speech. He saw the prisoner rise. The man was clay-colored; his teeth sc.r.a.ped back and forth continually on his dry lower lip. There was no resource in him, no help. And suddenly the watcher knew that help was nowhere. The voice of the judge reached him, low-pitched and solemn, as befitted the occasion.

'--Having been found guilty--decree that you be confined--'

'_No!_' said Robbins suddenly almost in a scream.

All at once the thing was clear to him. It was not Whiting who was being sentenced: it was G.o.d who was on trial, it was truth, good faith, the right to hope.

The impulse of his cry had wrenched him from his chair. He stood flung forward against the rail.

'You can't! I never saw him! They were tormenting me and I said I did.

He wasn't there--'