Evelyn Byrd

“But what do they want with me in court?” I asked insistently.

“Dunno, Miss.”

“But who is it that wants me?”

“Dunno, Miss, only the warrant head said, ‘Campbell vee ess Byrd and Dennison.’”

“But what right have they to bother me in this way? Am I not a free person? Haven’t I a right – ”

“Dunno, Miss, ’tain’t my business to know. But I suppose you’re a gal under age, and I suppose gals under age ain’t got no rights in pertic’lar, leastways in opposition to their gardeens.”

By this time, we had arrived at the courthouse, and I was taken before the judge. I remember thinking that if I should displease him in any way, he could order me hanged. I know better now, but I thought so then; so I made up my mind to be very nice to the judge.

Campbell was there, and he had a lawyer with him. The lawyer told the judge that Campbell was – something in Latin —loco parentis, I think it was. Anyhow, it meant stepfather, or something like that. He said the courts in his State had made him my guardian; that I possessed valuable property; that I had been abducted by my father, who was a dissolute person, now serving out a sentence in the State’s prison for some crime. He gave the judge a lot of papers to prove all this.

I was so shocked and distressed to hear that my father was in prison, that for a while I couldn’t speak. At last I controlled myself and said to the judge: —

“I love my father. If he has been sent to prison, it was that man” – pointing to Campbell – “who got him sent there. My father is good and kind, and I love him. Campbell is wicked and cruel, and I hate him. Look at his flat nose! That’s where I smashed it with a heavy hair-brush when he tried to whip me for telling the truth about him. I don’t want to go with him. I want to go back to Mrs. Dennison, till my father can come after me. Please, Judge, let me do that.”

The judge asked Campbell’s lawyer how old I was, and he answered: —

“Thirteen years old, your Honour.”

Then the judge said: —

“She seems older. If she were fourteen, I should be bound by the law to let her choose her own guardian for so long at least as she shall remain in Illinois. But as the papers in the case seem to show that her age is only thirteen, I am bound to recognise the guardianship established by the courts of another State. I must remand the girl to the custody of her guardian, Mr. Campbell.”

Then, seeing in how desperate a strait I was, I summoned all my courage. I rose to my feet and faced the judge. I said: —

“But, please, Mr. Judge, this isn’t fair. That man Campbell hates me, and I hate him. Isn’t it better to send me to somebody else? Besides that, he has a lawyer, and I haven’t one. Can’t I hire a lawyer to speak for me? I’ve got two dollars in my pocketbook to pay him with.”

Everybody laughed when I said that. You see, I had no idea what the price of lawyers was. But just then an old gentleman arose and said to the judge: —

“If it please the court, I will appear as counsel for this persecuted girl. I have listened to these proceedings with indignation and horror. It is perfectly clear to my mind that this is a case of kidnapping under the forms of the law.”

There the judge interrupted him, saying: —

“The court will permit no reflections upon its proceedings.”

Then my lawyer answered: —

“I have cast no reflections upon the court. My challenge is to the integrity and good faith of this man, Campbell. I do not know the facts that lie behind this proceeding. I am going to ask the court for an adjournment, in order to find them out. It is obvious that this young girl – helpless and friendless here – looks not only unwillingly, but with positive horror, upon the prospect of being placed again in Campbell’s charge. Morally, and I think legally, she has a right to be heard in that behalf, to have the facts competently explored and fully presented to the court. To that end, I ask that the matter be adjourned for one week, and that the young girl be paroled, in the meanwhile, in the custody of her counsel.”

Then the dear old gentleman, whom everybody seemed to regard with special reverence, took his seat by my side, and held my hand in his. Campbell’s lawyer made a speech to the judge, and when he had finished, the judge said that my lawyer’s request was denied. He explained the matter in a way that I did not understand. It seemed to anger the old lawyer who had taken my case. He rose and said, as nearly as I can remember: —

“Your Honour’s denial of my motion is a denial of justice. This young girl, my client, is a minor child, utterly defenceless here except in so far as I have volunteered my services to defend her. But she is an American citizen, and as such is entitled to be heard in her own behalf. In this court she cannot get a hearing, for the reason that this court has corruptly prejudged the case, as it corruptly prejudges every case in which money or influence can be brought to bear.”

By this time the judge was pounding with his mallet, and the whole court-room was in an uproar. But, raising his voice, my dear old lawyer continued: —

“If justice were done, you, sir, would be dragged from the bench that you dishonour by sitting upon it. Oh, I know, you can send me to jail for speaking these truths in your presence. I trust you will try that. If, by any martyrdom of mine, I can bring the corruption of such judges as you are to the knowledge and attention of this community, I shall feel that my work is well done. In the meantime I shall set another to secure for this helpless girl a writ of habeas corpus which shall get for her, in another and more righteous court, the fair hearing which you insolently and criminally deny to her here. Now send me to jail in punishment of the immeasurable contempt I feel for a court where justice is betrayed for money, and where human rights are bartered away for a price.”

The judge was very angry, and a lot of men surrounded my old lawyer. But what happened afterward I have never known. For no sooner was I put in Campbell’s charge than I was hurried to a train, and the next morning I heard him say to one of the men he had with him: —

“We are out of Illinois now; we’ve beaten that writ of habeas corpus.”

Then he turned to me and said: —

“If you care for your own comfort, you will recognise me as your guardian, and behave yourself accordingly.”

I reckon you must be tired reading by this time, Dorothy, so you are to take a rest here, and I’ll write the remainder of my story in other chapters. I’m afraid I’m making my story tedious; but I’ve fully made up my mind to tell it all, because I don’t know what you will care for in it, and what will seem unimportant to you. If I try to shorten it by leaving out anything, the thing I leave out may happen to be precisely the thing that would change your opinion of me. I want to deal absolutely honestly with you; so I am telling you everything I remember.

XXVII

KILGARIFF’S PERPLEXITY

DURING the two days that Dorothy had thus far given to the reading of Evelyn’s book, Kilgariff had been chafing impatiently. He wanted to go back to Petersburg and active duty, and he wanted, before doing so, to ride over to Branton and “talk it out with Evelyn,” as he formulated his thoughts in his own mind.

He could do neither, for the reason that his wound began to trouble him again, and Arthur Brent, upon examining it, condemned him to spend another week or ten days in the house.

So far as “talking it out with Evelyn” was concerned, it was perhaps fortunate that he was compelled to submit to an enforced delay. For he really did not know what he was to say to Evelyn; and the more he thought about the matter, the more he did not know.

The question was indeed a very perplexing one. How should he even begin the proposed conversation? Should he begin by abruptly telling Evelyn that he loved her, but that there were reasons why he did not want her to give him love in return? That was not the way in which a woman had a right to expect to be wooed. It would be a direct affront to her womanly and maidenly pride, which she would promptly, and bitterly, and quite properly, resent. Moreover, by arousing her anger and resentment, it would utterly defeat his purpose, which was to find out his own duty by finding out how far Evelyn had already learned to think of him as a possible lover.

Should he, then, ask her that question, in her own singularly direct and truthful way of dealing?

That would be to affront and wound her by the assumption that she had given her love unasked.

Should he begin by explaining to her the circumstances which prompted him to shrink from wooing her, and then offer her his love if she wanted it?

Nothing could be more preposterous than that.

Should he simply pay her his addresses, ask her for her love, and then, if she should give it, proceed to explain to her the reasons why she should not have permitted herself to love such a man as he?

That question also promptly answered itself in the negative, with emphasis.

What, then, should he do?

Clearly it would be better to await Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke, and trust to good luck to open some possible way. At any rate, he might there approach the subject in indirect ways; while if he could have ridden over to Branton for the express purpose of having a conference with her, no such indirection would have been possible. His very going to her there would have been a declaration of some purpose which he must promptly explain.

Obviously, therefore, it was better that he should not go to Branton, but should await such opportunity as good fortune might give him after Evelyn’s return to Wyanoke. But that necessity postponed the outcome, and Kilgariff was in a mood to be impatient of delay, particularly as every hour consciously intensified his own love, and rendered him less and less capable of saying nay to his passion.

With her woman’s quickness of perception, Dorothy shrewdly guessed what was going on in his mind, and she rejoiced in it. But she made no reference to the matter, even in the most remotely indirect way. She simply went about her tasks with a pleased and amused smile on her face.

XXVIII

EVELYN’S BOOK, CONCLUDED

WHEN Dorothy took up Evelyn’s manuscript again, it was nine o’clock in the evening of the second day, and, moved by her eagerness to follow the story, even more than by her conscientious desire to finish it before the author’s return on the morrow, she read late into the night. But she had sent Evelyn a note in the late afternoon, in which she had written: —