A Man of Honor

CHAPTER XXIII.

Mr. Pagebrook Takes a Lesson in the Law

As Robert was unable to give bail without calling upon his friend Dudley, which he determined not to do in any case, he was taken to the jail and locked up. Upon his arrival there he employed a messenger to carry a note to a young lawyer with whom he happened to be slightly acquainted, asking him to come to the jail at once. When he arrived Robert said to him:

"Let me tell you in the outset, Mr. Dyker, that I have no money and no friends; wherefore if you allow me to consult you at all, it must be with the understanding that I cannot possibly pay you for your services until I can make the money. If you are willing to trust me to that extent, we can proceed to business."

"You are very honorable, sir, to inform me, beforehand, of this fact. Pray go on. I will do what I can for you."

"In the first place, then," said Robert, "I am a little puzzled to know how or why I am locked up. You have the papers, will you tell me how it is?"

"O it's plain enough. You are held under an order of arrest."

"But I don't understand. I thought imprisonment for debt was a thing of the past, in this country at least, and my only offense is indebtedness. Is it possible that men may still be imprisoned for debt in America?"

"Well, that is about it," said the lawyer. "We have abolished the name but retain the thing in a slightly modified form – in New York at least. Theoretically you are not imprisoned, but merely held to answer. The plaintiffs have made out a case of fraud and non-residence, and so they had plain sailing."

"But I always understood that our constitution or our law or something else secured every man against imprisonment except by due process of law, and gave to every accused person the right to be confronted with his accusers, to cross-examine witnesses, and to have his guilt or innocence passed upon by a jury of his countrymen."

"That is the theory; but there are some classes of cases which are practically exceptions, and yours is one of them."

"Then," said Robert, "it is true, is it, that an American may be arrested and sent to jail without trial, upon the mere strength of affidavits made by lawyers who know nothing of the facts except what they have heard from distant, irresponsible, and personally interested clients – affidavits upon information, I believe you call them?"

"Well, you put it a little strongly, perhaps, but those are the facts in New York. Respectable lawyers, however, are careful to satisfy themselves of the facts before proceeding at all in such cases; and so the law, which is a very convenient one, rarely ever works injustice, I think – not once in twenty times, I should say."

"But," said Robert, "the personal liberty of every non-resident and some resident debtors is, or in some cases may be, dependent solely upon the character of attorneys, as I understand you."

"In some cases, yes. But pardon me. Had we not better come to the matter in hand?"

"As we are not a legislature perhaps it would be better," said Robert. He then proceeded to relate the facts of the case, beginning with his drawing of the draft in good faith, its protest, and his consequent perplexity.

"I did not 'abscond' at all," he continued, "but came away to see if I could save something from the wreck of the bank, and to seek work. In leaving, I promised to pay the debt on or before the fifteenth of last month, feeling certain that I could do so. I failed to do it, through – never mind, I failed to do it, but I have been trying hard ever since to get the money and discharge the obligation. I yesterday remitted a hundred dollars, and should have sent the rest as fast as I could make it. These are the facts. Now how am I to get out of here?"

"You have nobody to go your bail?"

"Nobody."

"And no money?"

"None. I sold my watch in order to get money on which to live while I was looking for work."

"You did have money enough to your credit in that bank to have made your draft good if the bank hadn't suspended?"

"Yes."

"You can swear to that?"

"Certainly."

"Then I think we can manage this matter without much difficulty. We can admit the facts but deny the fraudulent intent, in affidavits of our own, and get discharged on that ground. I think we can easily overthrow the theory of fraud by showing that you actually had the money in bank and swearing that you drew against it in good faith."

"Pardon me; but in doing that I should be bound, should I not, in honor if not in law, to state all the facts of the case in my affidavit? The theory of the proceeding is that I am putting the court in possession of all the facts and withholding nothing, is it not?"

"Well – yes. I suppose it is."

"Then let us abandon that plan forthwith."

"But my dear sir – "

"Pray don't argue the point. My mind is fully made up. Is there no other mode of securing my release?"

"Yes; you might schedule out under article 5 of the Non-Imprisonment Act, I think."

"How is that?"

"It is a sort of insolvency or bankruptcy proceeding, by which you come into court – any court of record – and offer to give up everything you have to your creditors, giving a sworn catalogue of all your debts and all your property, and praying release on the ground that you are unable to do more."

"Well, as I have literally nothing in the way of property just now, that mode of procedure seems to fit my case precisely," said Robert, whose courage and good humor and indomitable cheerfulness stood him in good stead in this time of very sore trial. The world looked gloomy enough to him then in whatever way he chose to look at it, but the instinct of fight was large within him, and in the absence of other joys he felt a savage pleasure in knowing that his life henceforth must be a constant struggle against fearful odds – odds of prejudice as well as of poverty; for who could now take him by the hand and say to others this is my friend?

"It's too late to accomplish anything to-day, Mr. Pagebrook," said the lawyer, looking at his watch; "but I will be here by ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and we will then go to work for your deliverance, which we can effect, I think, pretty quick. Good evening, sir."

CHAPTER XXIV.

Mr. Pagebrook Cuts himself loose from the Past and Plans a Future

When the lawyer had gone Robert sat down to deliberate upon the situation and to decide what was to be done in matters aside from the question of his release. He had that morning received Col. Barksdale's letter and Miss Sudie's. These must be answered at once, and he was not quite certain how he should answer them. After turning the matter over he determined upon his course and, according to his custom, having determined what to do he at once set about doing it. Having brought a supply of paper and envelopes from his room he had only to borrow pen and ink from the attendant.

His first letter was addressed to the president of the college from which he had received his appointment as professor, and it consisted of a simple resignation, with no explanation except that contained in the sentence:

"I can ill afford to surrender the position or the salary, but there are painful circumstances surrounding me, which compel me to this course. Pray excuse me from a fuller statement of the case."

To Col. Barksdale he wrote:

"Your letter surprises me only in its kindness and gentleness of tone. Under the circumstances I could have forgiven a good deal of harshness. For your forbearance, however, you have my hearty thanks. And now as to the subject matter of your note: I am sorry to say I can offer neither denial nor satisfactory explanation of the facts alleged against me. I must bear the blame that attaches to what I have done, and bearing that blame I know my duty to you and your family. I shall write by this mail to Miss Barksdale volunteering a release, which otherwise you would have a right to demand of me."

Sealing this and directing it, Robert came to the hardest task of all – the writing of a letter to Cousin Sudie.

"I hardly know how to write to you," he wrote. "Your generous faith in me in spite of everything is more than I had any right to expect, and more, I think, than you have any right, in justice to yourself, to give me. I thank you for it right heartily, but I feel that I must not accept it. When you listened to my words of love and gave them a place in your heart, I was a gentleman without reproach. Now a stain is upon my name, which I can never remove. The man to whom you promised your hand was not the absconding debtor who writes you this from a jail. I send this letter, therefore, to offer you a release from your engagement with me, if indeed any release be necessary. You cannot afford to know me or even to remember me hereafter. Forget me, then, or, if you cannot wholly forget, remember me only as an adventurer, who for a paltry sum sold his good name.

"Good-by. I wish you well with all my heart."

As he sealed these letters Robert felt that his hopes for the future were sealed up with them, and that the post which should bear them away would carry with it the better part of his life. And yet he did not wholly surrender himself to despair, as a weaker man might have done. The old life was gone from him forever. The only people whom he had known as in any sense his own would grasp his hand no more, and if they ever thought of him again it would be only to regret that they had known him at all. All this he felt keenly, but it did not follow that he should abandon himself, as a consequence. He was still a young man, and there was time enough for him to make a new life for himself – to find new friends and to do some worthy work in the world; and to the planning of this new life he at once addressed himself.

He would teach no longer, and now that he had cut himself loose from that profession there was opportunity to do something at the business which he had found so agreeable of late. He would devote himself hereafter wholly to writing, and at the first opportunity he would become a regular member of the staff of some paper. Even if his earnings with his pen should prove small, what did that matter? He could never think of marrying now, and a very little would suffice to supply all his wants, his habits of life being simple and regular. It stung him when he remembered that there was a stain upon his name which could never be removed; but that, he knew, he must bear, and so he resolved to bear it bravely, as it becomes a man to bear all his burdens.

With thoughts like these the stalwart young fellow sank to sleep on the bed assigned him in the jail.

CHAPTER XXV.

In which Miss Sudie Acts very Unreasonably

The men who make up mails and handle great bags full of letters every day of their lives grow accustomed to the business, I suppose, and learn after awhile to regard the bags and their contents merely as so many pounds of "mail matter." Otherwise they would soon become unfit for their duties. If they could weigh those bags with other than material scales – if they could know how many human hopes and fears; how much of human purpose and human despair; how many joys and how much of wretchedness those bags contain; if they could hear the moans that utter themselves inside the canvas; if they could know the varying purposes with which all those letters have been written, and the various effects they are destined to produce; if our mail carriers could know and feel all these things, or the half of them, we should shortly have no mail carriers at all. But fortunately there are prosaic souls enough in the world to make all necessary mail agents and postmasters, and undertakers and grave-diggers out of.

In the small mail bag thrown off at the Court House one December morning, there was one little package of New York letters – three letters in all, but on those three letters hung the happiness of several human lives. Of one of them we shall learn nothing for the present. The other two, from Robert Pagebrook to his uncle and Miss Barksdale, we have already been permitted to read. When these were received at Shirley, Miss Sudie took hers to her own room and read it there, after which she sat down and answered it. Col. Barksdale read his with no surprise, as he had not been able to imagine any possible explanation of Robert's conduct; and now that that gentleman frankly confessed that there was none, he accepted the confession as a bit of evidence in the case, for which he had waited merely as a matter of form. It was his duty now to talk again with his niece, but he was very tender always in his dealings with her, and felt an especial tenderness now that she must be suffering sorely. He quietly inquired where she was, and learning that she was in her own room, he refrained from summoning her himself, and gave her maid particular instructions to allow no one else to intrude upon her privacy upon any pretense whatsoever.

"Lucy," he said, to the colored woman, "your Miss Sudie wishes to be alone for awhile. Sit down in the passage near her door, but don't knock, and don't allow any one else to knock. When she wishes to see any one she will open the door herself, and until then I do not want her disturbed."

Then going into the dining-room, where Dick was polishing the mahogany with a large piece of cork, he said:

"Dick, go out to the office and ask your Mas' Billy if he will be good enough to come to me in the library. I want to talk with him."

When Billy came in his father showed him Robert's letter.

"The thing looks very ugly," said the younger gentleman.

"Very ugly, indeed," said his father; "but the confounded rascal holds up his head under it all, and acts as honorably in Sudie's case as if he had never acted otherwise than as a gentleman should. He is a puzzle to me. But, of course, this must end the matter. We can have nothing whatever to do with him hereafter."

"But how is it, father, that they have managed to imprison him?"

"I presume they have secured an order of arrest under that New York statute which seems to have been devised as a means of securing to creditors all the advantages of imprisonment for debt without shocking the better sense of the community, which is clearly against such imprisonment. The majority of people rarely ever pay any attention to the fact so long as they are spared the name of odious things. No debtors' prison would be allowed to stand in the United States, of course, but the common jails answer all purposes when a way for getting debtors locked up in them has been devised."

"But how does it happen, father," asked Mr. Billy, "that only New York has such a statute?"

"Well, in New York the commercial interest overrides every other, and commercial men naturally attach undue importance to the collection of debts, and look with favor upon everything which tends to facilitate it. These things always reflect the feeling rather than the opinion of a community. In new countries, where horses are of more importance than anything else, horse-stealing is pretty sure to be punished with death, either by law or by the mob, which is only public sentiment embodied. Here in Virginia you know how impossible it is to get anything like an effective statute for the suppression of dueling, simply because the ultimate public sentiment practically approves of personal warfare. But, I confess, I did not know that the New York statute could be stretched to cover a case like Robert's. As I understand it, there must be some evidence of fraud in the inception of the transaction."

"They proceed upon affidavits, I believe," said Billy, "and when that is done it isn't hard to make out a case, if the attorney is unscrupulous enough."

"That's true. But isn't it curious that Edwin should have proceeded so promptly to harsh measures? He is so mild of temper that this surprises me."

"Cousin Edwin doesn't always act out his own character, you know, father. His wife is the stronger willed of the two."

"True. I hadn't thought of that. However, it serves the young rascal right."

At this point of the conversation Cousin Sudie's knock was heard at the inner door, and Col. Barksdale opening the outer one said:

"You'd better go out this door, William. It would embarrass Sue to find you here just now."

"Come in my daughter," he said, admitting Miss Sudie. "Sit down. I am greatly pained, on his account as well as yours, to find that Robert has no explanation to offer. But, of course, this ends it all, and you must take a little trip somewhere, my dear, until you forget all about it. Where shall we go?"

"I do not care to go anywhere, Uncle Carter," replied the little maiden, without the faintest echo of a sob in her voice. "I am sorry for poor Robert, but not because I think him guilty of any dishonorable action, for indeed I do not."

"But, my dear, it will never do – "

"Pray hear me out, Uncle Carter, and then I will listen to anything you have to say. I love you as a father, as you know perfectly well. Indeed I have never known you as anything else. I have always obeyed you unquestioningly, and I shall not begin to disobey you now. I shall do precisely what you tell me to do, so long as I remain in your house."

"What do you mean by that, daughter?" asked her uncle, startled by the singular emphasis which Miss Sudie gave to the last clause of the sentence.

"Merely this, Uncle Carter. I cannot consent to do that which my conscience teaches me is a crime, even at your command; but while I remain at Shirley as a daughter of the house I must obey as a daughter. If you command me to do anything which I cannot do without sinning against my conscience, then I must not obey you, and when I can't obey you I must cease to be your daughter. I shall conceal nothing from you, Uncle Carter; you know that, and I beg of you don't command me to do the things which I must not do. I love you and it would kill me – no, it would not do that, but it would pain me more than I can possibly say, to leave Shirley."

Col. Barksdale leaned his head sorrowfully upon his hand. He loved this girl and held her as his own. Moreover, he had solemnly promised his dying brother to care for her always as a father cares for his children, and an oath could not have been more sacred in his eyes than this promise was. Without raising his head he asked:

"You mean, Sudie, that you will not accept Robert's release?"

"Yes, uncle, that is what I mean." This was sorrowfully and gently said, but firmly too.

"He has offered to release you; has he not?"

"Yes."

"And in so offering, did he express or hint a wish that you should not accept his release?"

"No. On the contrary he assumed that I would accept it, and that I must do so in justice to myself. Here is his letter. Read it if you please."