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GIFT OF 
Professor Elisabeth L. Buckinghai 



STANFORD 
UNIVERSITY 
LIBRARIES 




MANSLATTGHTEE 




She felt his hand, firm and confident on her shoulder 
Faeing pag* 63 



MANSLAUGHTER 



BY 

ALICE DUER MILLER 

AUTHOR OP 

COME OUT OF THE KITCHEN. Etc. 



ILLUSTRATED BY 

F. R. GRUGER 

AND WITH 

SCENES FROM THE PHOTOPLAY 

A PARAMOUNT PICTURE 



^ 




GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 

iviAOB iu the United dcate* of AmOM 






OOFTBIGHT, 1921| Bif 

AUCE DUER mjuum 



Kwt Printing, Oct., 1921 
Second Printing, Oct., zgaz 
Third Printing, Nov., 1921 
Fourth Printtng, Nov., 1931 
Fifth Priatiit. 9m^ igm 
Aiath Printing, Jan.ritai 
Seveath Printing, Feb., iojj 



PrvrCt&i tri U.^ E^, A^ 



HAKSLAUGHTES 



MANSLAUGHTER 

CHAPTER I 

WHENEYEB she and Lydia liad a scene Miss 
JSennett thought of the first scene she had 
witnessed in the Thome household. She saw 
before her a vermillion carpet on a mottled marble 
stair between high, polished-marble walls. There was 
gilt in the railing, and tall lanky palms stood about in 
majolica pots. Tip this stairway an angry man was 
carrying an angrier child. Miss Bennett could see 
that broad bac^ in its heavy blue overcoat, and his 
neck, above which the hair was still black, crimsoning 
with fury and exertion. On one side of him she could 
see the thin arms and clutching hands of the little 
girl, and on the other the slender kicking legs, express- 
ing passionate rebellion in every spasmodic motion. 
The clutching hands caught the tip of a palm in pass- 
ing, and the china pot went rolling down the stairs 
and crashed to bits, startling the two immense great 
Dane puppies which had been the occasion of the 
>vhole troubla 

The two figures, swaying and struggling, went on' 
up I for though the man was strong, a writhing child 

1 



/ 



} 






 \ * 



2 MANSLAUGHTER 

of ten is no light burden ; and the stairs^ for all their 
grandeur^ were steep, and the carpet so thick that the 
foot sank into it as into new-fallen snow. Just as 
they passed out of sight Miss Bennett saw the hands 
of the child, now clenched fists, begin to beat on the 
man's arms, and she heard the clear, defiant young 
voice repeating, "I wiU keep them! I willl'' The 
man's "You won't" was not spoken, but was none 
the less understood. Miss Bennett knew that when 
the heads of the stairs was reached the blows would 
be returned with interest. 

Usually in the long struggle between these two 
^ ^ t indomitable wills Miss Bennett had been on Joe 
Thome's side, coarse, violent man though he was, for 
she was old-fashioned and believed that children 
ought to obey. But this night he had alienated her 
sympathy by being rude to her — for the first and last 
tima He had come home after one of his long 
absences to the hideous house in Fifth Avenue in 
which he took so much pride, and had found these 
two new pets of Lydia's careening about the hall like 
. young calves. He had turned on Miss Bennett 

"What the hell do you let her do such things for ?" 
he had demanded, and Miss Bennett had answered 
with unusual spirit. 

'because she's so badly brought up, Mr. Thome, 
that no one can do anything with her." 

Lydia had stood by defiantly, glancing from one 
to the other, with a hand in the collar of each of her 



»\ ^-'.i- v^ 



x^ 



t 



**fc 



MANSLAUGHTER 






.1 , \ . 



dogs, her face pale, her jaw set, her head not much 
above the sleek battleship-gray heads of the great * **'^* 
Danes, her small lK)dy"puIIed first one way and then . ' • « 
the other by their gambols. All the time she was 
saying over and over, *^I will keep them! I will! 
I wiU !" 

She hadn't kept them ; she had lost that particular 
skirmish in the long war. Not till some years later 
did she begin to win; but whether she lost or won. 
Miss Bennett was always conscious of a rush of pity 
for the slim, black-eyed little girl thrusting her iron 
will so fearlessly against that of the man from whom 
"she had inherited it. 

And for the Lydia of to-day, now engaged in 
thrusting her will against the will of the world. Miss 
Bennett felt the same unreasoning pity — pity which 
rendered her weak in her own defense when any 
dispute arose between them. She and Lydia had 
been having a scene now ; only a little scene — hardly 
more than a discussion. 

Morson saw it clearly when he came in after lunch- 
eon to get the coffee cups, although a complete and 
decorous s>ilenc6 greeted his entrance. He saw it in 
the way in which his young employer was standing, 
as erect as an Indan, looking slantingly down her 
cheek at her companion. Miss Bennett was sitting 
on the sofa with her feet in their high-heeled satin 
slippers crossed, and she was slipping the rings nerv- 
ously lip and down her fine, thin fingers. 



.•.«> 



^ MANSLAUGHTER 

She was a small, well-made woman, to whom pret- 
tiness had come with her gray hair. The perfec- 
tion of all her appointments, which might once have 
been interpreted as the vanity of youth, turned out to 
be a settled nicety that stood her in good stead in 
middle life and differentiated her at fifty-five — a 
neat, elegant little figure among her contempo- 
raries. 

The knowledge that he was interrupting a discus- 
sion did not hurry Morson any more than the faintest 
curiosity delayed him. He brushed up the hearth, 
turned a displaced chair, collected the cups on his 
tray and left the room at exactly the same pace at 
which he had entered it. He had known many scenes 
in his day. 

As soon as the door closed behind him Miss Ben* 
nett said : "Of course, if you meant you don't want 
me to ask my friends to your house you are perfectly 
within your rights, but I could not stay with you, 
lydia." 

"Tou know I don't mean that, Benny," said the 
girl without either anger or apology in her voice. 
"I'm delighted to have you have anyone at all when 
I'm not here and anyone amusing when I am. The 
point i» that ttose old women were tiresome. They 
bored you and you knew that they were going to bore 
me. You sacrificed me to make a Eoman holidajj 
for them." 

Miss Bennett oould not let this pass. 



f 



\ 



MANSLAUGHTER 5 

**Tou siould feel it an honor — a woman like Mrs. 

Galton, whose work among the female prisoners of 
i^z »> 

'^Noble women, noble women, I have no doubt, but 
bores, and it makes me feel sick, literally sick, to be 
bored/' 

"Don't be coarse, Lydia." 

"Sick — here,^' said Lydia with a sharp dig of her 
long fingers on her diaphraj^. *TLet's be clear about 
this, Benny. I can't stand having my own tiresome 
friends about, and I will not put up with having 
yours.'^ 

Lydia had come home after a morning of shopping 
in town. Disagreeable things had happened, only 
Benny did not know that. She had bought a hat — 
a tomato-colored hat — had worn it a block and de- 
cided it was a mistake, and had gone back and wanted 
to change it, and the woman had refused to take it 
\ back. There had been little consolation in removing 
her custom from the shop forever — she had been 
forced to keep the hat. Then motoring back to Long 
Island a tire had gone, and she had come in late for 
luncheon to find Benny amiably entertaining the two 
old ladies. 

The very fact that they were, as she said, noble 
^omen, that their minds moved with the ponderous 
eauictitude characteristic of so many good executives, 
made their society all the more trying to Lydia. She 
iraaried of them, wearied, as Mariana in the Moated 

•7 - 
i. 5 



1. 



.:*•. ■•'■■■ 



V 



,6 MANSLAUGHTER 

Grange. She had &o often asked Benny not to do 
this to her and after all it was her house. 

'TTou^re very hard, my dear/' said her companion 
— "very hard and very ignorant and very young. 
If you could only find an interest in such work as 
Mrs. Galton is doing ^^ 

"Good heavens, was this a benevolent plot on your 
part to find me an interest ?" 

Miss Bennett looked dignified and a little stub- 
bom, as if she were accustomed to being misunder- 
fitood, as if Lydia ought to have known that she had 
had a reason for what she did. As a matter of fact, 
she had no plan; she was not a plotter. That was 
one of the difficulties between her and Lydia. Lydia 
arranged her life, controlled her time and her sur- 
roundings. Miss Bennett amiably drifted, letting 
events and her friends control. She could never un- 
derstand why Lydia held her responsible for situ- 
ations which it seemed to her simply happened, and 
yet she could never resist pretending that she had 
deliberately brought them about. She began to think 
now that it had been her idea, not Mrs. Galton's, to 
get Lydia interested in prison reform. 

^^o one can be happy, Lydia, without an tmsd- 
fifih interest, something outside of themselves.'^ 

Lydia smiled. There was something pathetic in 
poor little ineffective Benny trying to arrange her life 
for hep. 

"^I contrive to be fairly happy, thank you, Benny, 



MANSLAUGHTER 7 

I've got to leave you, because I have an engagement 
at Eleanor's at four, and it's ten minutes before 
now." 

'TLydia, it's ten miles I" 

"Ten miles — ten minutes." 

"You'll be killed if you drive so recUessly.** 

"No Benny, because I drive yerj Fell." 

"You'll be arrested then." 

"Even less." 

"How can you be so sure ?" 

That was something that it was better not to tell^ 
80 Lydia went away laughing, leaving Miss Benneti 
to wonder, as she always did after one of these inter- 
views, how it was possible to feel so superior to Lydia 
when they were apart and so ineffectual when they 
were together. She always came to the same con- 
clusion — that she was betrayed by her own fineness ; 
that she was more aware of shades, of traditions than 
this little daughter of a workingman. Lydia was not 
little. She was half a foot taller than Adeline Ben- 
nett's own modest five-feet-two, but the adjective ex- 
pressed a latent wish. Miss Bennett often intro- 
duced it into her descriptions. A nice little man, a 
clever little woman, a dear little person were some of 
her favorite tags. They made her bulk larger in 
her own vision. 

The little daughter of the workingman ran up- 
stairs for her hat. She found her maid, Evans, en- 
gaged in polishing her jewels. The rite of polishing 



8 MANSLAUGHTER 

Miss Thome's jewels took place in the bathroom, 
[which was also a dressing room, containing long 
mirrors, a dressing table, cupboards with glass doors 
through which Miss Thome's bright hats and berib- 
boned underclothes showed faintly. It was carpeted 
and curtained and larger than many a hall bed- 
room. 

Here Evans, a pale, wistful English girl, was 
spreading out the Jewelry as she finished each piece, 
laying them on a white towel where the rays of the 
afternoon sun fell upon them — the cabochon ruby 
like a dome of frozen blood, the flat, clear diamond 
as blue as ice, and the band of emeralds and dia- 
monds for her hair flashing rays of green and orange 
lights. Lydia liked her jewelry for the best of all rea- 
sons — she had bought most of it herself. She par- 
ticularly liked the emerald band, which made her 
look like an Eastern princess m a Eussian ballet, 
and in her opinion exactly fitted her type. But her 
beauty was not so easily classified as she thought. To 
describe her in words was to describe a picture by 
Cabanel of The Star of the Harem — such a picture 
as the galleries of the second half of the nineteenth 
century were sure to contain — the oval face, the 
splendid dark eyes, the fine black eyebrows, the raven 
hair; but Lydia's skin was not transparently white, 
and a slight heightening of her cheek bones and a 
thrust forward of her jaw suggested something more 
Indian than Eastern, something that made her seem 



MANSLAUGHTER 9 

more at home on a mountain trail than on the edge 
of a marble pool. 

As she entered; Evans was brushing the last traces 
01 powder from a little diamond bracelet less mod- 
em than the other pieces. Ljdia took it in her hand. 

*T! almost forgot I had that," she said. 

Three or four years before, when she had first 
known Bobby Dorset, when they had been very 
young, he had given it to her. It had been his 
mother^s, and she had worn it constantly for a year 
or so. An impulse of tenderness made her slip it 
on her arm now, and as it clung there like a living 
pressure the heavy feeling of it faintly revived a 
whole cycle of old emotions. She thought to herself 
that she had some human affections after all. 

"It ought to be reset, miss,'' said Evans. "The 
gold spoils the diamonds." 

"Tou do keep my things beautifully, Evans." 

The girl colored at the praise, not often given by 
her rapidly moving young mistress, and the muscles 
twitched in her throat. 

"A hat — any hat, Evans." 

She pulled it on with one quick, level glance Ih 
the glass, and was gone with the bracelet, half for* 
gotten, on her arm. 

During the few minutes that Lydia had been up- 
stairs a conflict had gone on in the mind of Miss 
Bennett downstairs. Should she be offended or 
should she be superior? Was it more dignified to 



i. 



10 MANSLAUGHTER 

be angry because she really could not allow herself 
to be treated like that? Or should she forgive be- 
cause she was obviously so much older and wiser than 
Lydia ? 

She decided — as she always did — in favor of 
forgiveness, and as she heard Lydia's quick light foot- 
steps crossing the hall she called out, "Don't drive the 
little car too fast!" 

"Not over sixty," Lydia's voice answered. 

As she sprang into the gray runabout waiting at 
the door with its front wheels turned invitingly out- 
ward, pressed on the self-starter with her foot, slid 
the gears in without a sound, it looked as if she in- 
tended her reply to be taken literally. But the speed- 
ometer registered only thirty on her own drive — 
thirty-five as she straightened out on the highway. 
As she said, she never drove fast without a good rea- 
son. 

Like most people of her type and situation, Lydia 
was habitually late. The reason she gave to herself 
was that she crowded a little more activity into the 
twenty-four hours than those who managed to be on 
time. But the true reason was that she preferred to 
be waited for rather than to run any risk of waiting 
herself. It seemed a distinct humiliation to her that 
ihe should await anyone else's convenience. To- 
day, however, she had a motive for being on time — 
that is to say, not more than twenty minutes late. 
They were going to play bridge at Eleanor's and 



MANSLAUGHTER 11 

Bobby would be there; and for some reason she 
never understood it fussed Bobby if she were late and 
everyone began abusing her behind her back; and if 
Bobby were fussed he lost money, and he couldn't 
afford to lose it. She hated Bobby to lose money — 
minded it for him more than he minded it for him- 
self. 

One of the facts that she saw most clearly in re- 
gard to her own life was that the man she married 
must be a man of importance, not only because her 
friends expected that of her but because she needed 
a purpose, a heightened interest — a great man in her 
life. Yet strangely enough the only men to whom 
her heart had ever softened were idle, worthless men, 
of whom Bobby was only a sample. Among women 
she liked the positive qualities — courage, brilliance, 
achievement; but among men she seemed to have 
eelected those who needed a strong controlling hand 
upon their destiny. Benny said it was the maternal 
in her, but less friendly critics said it was the boss. 
Perhaps the two are not so dissociated as is generally 
thought. Lydia repudiated the maternal explanation 
without finding another. Only she knew that the very 
thing that made her fond of men like Bobby prevented 
her falling in love with them ; whereas the men with 
^hom it seemed possible to fall in love were men 
with whom she always quarreled, so that instead 
of love there was not even friendship. 

Some years before she had been actually engaged 



IS MANSLAUGHTEK 

to be married — though, the engagement had never 
been announced — to an Englishman, a thin, hawk- 
faced man, the Marquis of Ilseboro. She was not 
in love with him, though he was a man with whom 
women did fall in love. Benny had been crazy about 
him. He was companionable in a silent sort of way, 
made love to her with extreme assurance and knew 
a great deal about life and women. 

But from the very first their two wills had clashed 
in small matters — in questions of invitations, man- 
ners, Lydia^s dress. Again and again Ilseboro had 
yielded, but yielded with a deliberation that gave no 
suggestion of defeat. These struggles which go on out 
of sight and below consciousness in most relations are 
never decided by the actual event but by the strength 
of position in which the combatants are left. Benny, 
for instance, sometimes did the most rebellious things, 
but did them in a sort of frenzy of panic, followed 
by unsought explanations. Ilseboro was just the re- 
verse. He yielded because he had a positive wish 
to adjust himself, as far as possible, to her wishes. 
Lydia began to be not afraid of him, for like Caesar 
she was not liable to fear, but dimly aware that his 
was a stronger nature than her own. This means « 
either love or hate. There had been a few hours one 
evening when she had felt grateful, admiring, eager 
to give up; when if she had loved him at all she 
tould have worshiped him. But she did not love 
him, and when she saw that what he was looking 



MANSLAUGHTER 13 

forward to was fitting her into a niche which he^d 
been building for centuries for the wives of the Use- 
boros she really hated hinu 

Ever since her childhood the prospect of laying 
aside her own will had stirred her to revolt. She 
could still remember waking herself up with a start 
in terror at the thought that in sleep she would doff 
her will for so many hours. Later her father had 
wished to send her to a fashionable boarding school ; 
but she had made such wild scenes at the idea of being 
shut up — of being one of a community — that the 
plan had been given up. She would have married 
anyone in order to be free, but being already uncom- 
monly free she rebelled at the idea of giving up her 
individuality by marriage, particularly by mar- 
riage with Ilseboro. She broke her engagement. Ilse- 
boro had loved her and made himself disagreeable. 
She never forgot the parting curse he put upon 
her. 

"The trouble with being such a damned bully as 
you are, my dear Lydia," he said, "is that you'll 
always get such second-rate playmates." 

She answered that no one ought to know better 
than he did. His manner to her servants had long 
secretly shocked her. He spoke to them without one 
shade of humanity in his tone, yet oddly enough they 
all liked him except the chauffeur, who was an 
American and couldn't bear him, feeling the very 
easence of <slass superiority in that tone. 



14 MANSLAUGHTER 

A few months later she showed an English illus- 
trated to Miss Bennett 

"A picture of the girl Useboro is going to marry.*' 

There was a pause while Miss Bennett read those 
romantic words : '^A marriage has been arranged and 
will shortly take place between George Frederick 
Albert Eeade, Marquis of Useboro, and ^^ 

"She looks like a lady," said Miss Bennett 

"She looks like a rabbit," said Lydia. "Just think 
how Freddy will order her about !" 

It was not in her nature to feel remorse for her 
well-considered actions, and she soon forgot that Ilse- 
boro had ever existed, except for certain things she 
had learned from him — a way of being silent while 
people explained to you you couldn't do something 
you intended to do, and then doing it instead of argu- 
ing about it, as had been her old habit ; and an excel- 
lent manner with butlers too. 

Her foot pressed gently on the accelerator, when 
the road became straight, holding the car now at forty 
miles. On either side of the road purple cabbages 
grew like a tufted carpet to the very edge of the mac- 
adam, without fences or hedges to protect them. 
There was enough mist in the autumn air to magnify 
the low hills along the Sound to an imposingly vague 
bulk, and to turn the cloudless sky to a threatening 
bluish gray. In every other direction the flat, fertile, 
eandy plains of Long Island stretched uninterrupt- 
edly. 



MANSLAUGHTEB 15 

It was really a beautiful afternoon — too beautiful 
to spend playing bridge in a stuffy room. It might 
be more sensible^ sbe tbougbt, to break up the party, 
kidnap Bobby and drive him over to sit on the edge 
of the water and watch the moon rise ; only she rather 
feared the moon was over. Of course she was dining 
at the Leonard Piers^ that evening, but it was a party 
eminently chuckable — that is to say, she was going 
to please them rather than herself. Anyhow, she 
would have Eleanor move the bridge table out on the 
terrace. Eleanor was so stupid about preferring to 
play indoors. 

A minute figure, smaller than a man's hand, flashed 
into the little mirror at her left Was it — no-^ 
yes? A bicycle policeman! Well, she would give 
him a little race for his stupidity in not recognizing 
her. She loved speed — it made her a little drunk. 
The needle swung to forty-five — to fifty, and hung 
there. She passed a governess cart full of children 
with a sound like "whist'' as the wind rushed by. 
Kow there was a straight road, and clear. 

The miniature figure kept growing and growing 
until it seemed to fill the whole circle of the mirror. 
The sound of the motorcycle drowned the sound of 
her own car. A voice shouted "Stop I" almost in her 
ear. Turning her head slightly to the left, she saw 
a khaki figure was abreast of her. She slowed the 
car down and stopped it. A sun-burned young face 
flushed with anger glared at her. 



16 MANSLAUGHTER 

*^er^ what do you think this is ? A race track f 

Lydia did not answer, staring straight ahead of 
her. She was thinking that it was a foolish waste of 
taxpayers' money to keep changing the policemen. 
Just as you reached a satisfactory arrangement with 
one of them you found yourself confronted hy an- 
other. She wasn't in the least alarmed, though he 
was scolding her roughly — scolding, to be candid, 
very much as her own father had done. She did not 
object to his words, but she hated the power of the 
law behind them — hated the idea that she herself 
was not the final judge of the rate at which she should 
drive. 

Now he was getting his summons ready. Glancing 
idly into her mirror, she saw far away, like a little 
moving picture, the governess cart come into view. 
8he intended to settle the matter before those giggling, 
goggle-eyed children came abreast She was a person 
in whom action followed easily and instantly from the 
decision to act Most people, after making a decision, 
hesitate like a stream above a waterfall, and then 
plunging too quickly, end in foam and whirlpools. 
But Lydia's will, for good or evil, flowed with a 
steady current 

She looked down at the seat beside her for her mesh 
bag, opened it and found that Evans, who was a good 
ideal of a goose, had forgotten to put her purse in it, 
although she knew bridge was to be played. Lydia 
looked up and saw that the officer of the law had f ol* 



MANSLAUGHTER IT 

lowed her gesture with his eyes. She slipped Bobby's 
bracelet off her arm, and holding her hand well over 
the edge of the car dropped it on the road. She heard 
it tinkle on the hard surf aca 

"You dropped something," he said. 

"No/' 

He swung a gaitered leg from the motorcycle and 
picked up the bracelet. 

"Isn't this yours V 

She smiled very slightly and shook her head, once 
again in complete mastery of the situation, 

'Whose is it then ?" 

"I think it must be yours,'' she answered with a 
aort of sweet contempt, and still looking him straight 
in the eye she leaned over and put her gear in first. 
He said nothing, and her car began to move forward. 
Presently she heard the sound of a motorcycle going 
in the opposite direction. She smiled to herself. 
There was always a way. 

She found them waiting for her at Eleanor's, and 
she felt at once that the atmosphere was hostile ; but 
when Lydia really liked people, and she really liked 
all the three who were waiting, she had command of 
a Twnderfully friendly cooperative sort of gayety 
that was hard to resist. 

She liked Eleanor Bellington better than any 
^yoman she knew. They had been friends since their 
school days. Eleanor had brains and a dry, bitter 
tongue, usually silent, and she wasn't the least bit 



18 MANSLAUGHTEK 

afiraid of Ljdia. She was blond^ plain, aristocratIC| 
independent and some years Lydia's senior. Fear- 
less in thought, she was conservative in conduct. All 
her activity was in the intellectual field, or else vicari- 
ously, through the activity of others. There were 
always two or three interesting men, coming men, 
men of whom one said on speaking of them *'You 
know, he's the man ^^ who seemed to be inti- 
mately woven into Eleanor's everyday life. A never- 
ending subject of discussion among Miss Belling- 
ton's friends was the exact emotional standing of these 
intimacies of Nellie's. 

Lydia liked Tim Andrews too — a young man of 
imiversal friendships and no emotions; but most 
necessary of all to her enjoyment was Bobby Dorset, 
who came out to meet her, sauntering down the steps 
with his hands in his pockets. He looked exactly 
as a young man ought to look — physically fit, mascu- 
line. He was young — younger than his twenty-six 
years. There wasn't a line of any kind in his clean- 
shaven face, and the time had come — had almost 
come — when something ought to have been written 
there. The page was remaining blank too long. That 
was the only criticism possible of Bobby's appearance, 
and perhaps only an elderly critic would have thought 
of making it. Lydia certainly did not. When ho 
smiled at her, showing his regular, handsome teeth, 
she thought he was the nicest-looking person she 
knew. 



MANSLAUGHTER 19 

Just as she had expected, the bridge table was set 
inside the house, and while she was protesting and 
having it moved to the terrace she mentioned that 
she was late because she had had a fuss with Miss 
Bennett 

"Dear little Benny/' said Andrews. "She's like 
a nice brown^yed animal with gray fur, isn't sheP 

"Tim always talks as if he were in love with 
Benny." 

"She's so gentle, Lydia, and you are so ruthless 
yfith her," said Dorset. 

"I have to be, Bobby," answered Lydia, and per- 
haps to no one else would she have stooped to offer 
an explanation. "She's gentle, but marvelously per- 
Bistent. She gets her own way by slow infiltration. 
I wish you'd all tell me what to do. Benny is a person 
on whom what you say in a critical way makes no im- 
pression until you say it so as to hurt her feelings, 
and then it makes no impression because she's so taken 
up with her feelings being hurt That's my problem 
with her." 

'T!t's everybody's problem with everybody," replied 
Eleanor. 

"She likes to ask her dull friends to the house wheit 
I'm there to entertain them." 

^'Entertain them with a blackjack," said Bobby. 

*'She had two prison reformers there to-day — old 
women with pear-shaped faces, and I had a perfectly 
horrid morning in town trying to get some rags to put 




20 MANSLAFGHTKR 

OB my back, and — Nell, will you tell me why you 
recommended Luiiine to me! I never saw such 
atrocious clothes." 

*'I didn't recommend her," answered Nellie, un- 
Btampeded by the attack. "I told you that pale, pearl- 
like chorus girl dressed there, and your latent desire 
to dress like a chorus girl ** 

^^Oh, Lydia doesn't want to dress like a chorus 
girir 

"Thank you, Bobby." 

''She wants to dress like the savages in Aida." 

'TCn mauve maillots and chains ?" 

''In tiger skins and beads, and crouch through th© 
Jungle." 

"I was so stdky I didn't give a cent to prison 
reform. Do you think prisons ought to be made too 
comfortable ? I don't want to be cruel, but ^" 

''Well, it's something, my dear, that you don't want 
to be." 

"You mean I am ? That's what Benny says. But 
I'm not Is this ten cents a point ?" 

Eleanor, who like many intellectuals found her ex- 
citement in fields where chance was eliminated, pro- 
tested that ten cents a point was too high, but her. 
objections were swept away by Lydia. 

"Oh, no, Eleanor ; play for beans if you want ; but 
if you are going to gamble at all ^" 

Tim Andrews interrupted. 

**My dear Lydia," he said, "I feel it only right to 



IIANSLAUQHTEB 21 

tell you that the Anti-Ljdia Club was being organized 
when you arrived. Its membership consists of all 
those you have bullied, and its object is to oppose you 
in all small matters.'' 

^'Whether I'm right or not, Tim?" 

^^Everybody's worst when they're right," mur- 
mured Eleanor. 

*^We decided before you came that we all wished to 
play five cents a point," Tim continued firmly. 

"All right," said Lydia briskly. *^Only you know 
it bores me, and it bores Bobby, too, doesn't it, 
Bobby?" 

"Not particularly," replied Dorset; %ut I know 
if it bores you none of us will have a pleasant time." 

Lydia smiled. 

"Is that an insult or a tribute ?" 

Bobby smiled back at her. 

"I think it's an insult, but you rather like it" 

Half an hour later they were playing for tea 
fOMiti a point 



( 



CHAPTER n 

LYDIA had offered to drop Bobby at tbe railroad 
station on her way borne, altbougb she had to 
go a few miles out of her way to do it. He waa 
going back to town. It was dark by the time they 
started. She liked the feeling of having him there 
tucked in beside her while she absolutely controlled 
his destiny for the next half hour. She liked even to 
take risks with his life, more precious to her at least 
for the time than any other, in the hope that he would 
protest, but he never did. He understood his Lydia. 

After a few minutes she observed, "I suppose you 
know Eleanor has a new young man.'' 

"Intensely interesting, or absolutely worth while V* 
he asked. 

"Both, according to her. She's bringing him out 
at the Piers' this evening. She was just asking me 
to be nice to him." 

"Like asking the boa constrictor to be nice to a new- 
bom lamb, isn't it ?" 

"If I'm nice to her men it gives her a feeling of 
confidence in them." 

"If you're nice to them you take them away from 
her." 

22 



MANSLAUGHTER 23 

*^o, Bobby. If s a funny thing, but it isn^t so easjr 
88 you think to get Eleanor's men away from her." 

"Ah, youVe tried?'' 

"She has a funny kind of hold on ihem. It's her 
brains. She has brains, and they appreciate it. I 
don't often want her men. They're apt to be so dread- 
ful. Do you remember the biologist with the pearl 
buttons on his boots? This one is in politics — or 
something. He has a funny name — O'Bannon." 

"Oh, yes — Dan O'Bannon." 

^TTou know him ?" 

*'l used to know him in college. Lord, he was a 
wild man in those days!" Bobby snickered remi- 
niscently. "And now he's the local district at- 
torney." 

**What does a district attorney do, Bobby ?" 

"Why, he's a fellow elected by the county to prose- 
cute ^" 

"Look here, Bobby, if the Emmonses ask you to 
spend this coming Sunday with them, go, because I'm 
going." She interrupted him because it was the kind 
of explanation that she had never been able to listen 
to. In fact she had so completely ceased to listen that 
she was unaware of having interrupted the answer to 
her own question, and Bobby did not care to bring 
the matter to her attention for fear her invitation to 
the Emmonses might be lost in the subsequent 
scuffle. Besides he esteemed it his own fault. Most 
people who ask you a question like that really mean 



24 MANSLAUGHTER 

to Bay, ''Would there be anything interesting to me 
in the answer to this question ? If not, for goodness' 
Bake don't answer it" So he gladly abandoned de- 
fining the duties of the district attorney and answered 
her more important statement. 

"Of course I'll go, only they haven't asked me." 

"They will — or else I won't go. You'll come out 
on Friday afternoon." 

"I can't, Lydia, until Saturday." 

"Now, Bobby, don't be absurd. Don't let that old 
man treat you like a slave." 

Lydia's attitude to Bobby's work was a trifle con- 
fusing. She wished him to attain a commanding 
position in the financial world but had no patience 
with his industry when it interfered with her own 
plans. The attaining of any position at all seemed 
imlikely in Bobby's case. He was a clerk in the great 
banking house of Gordon & Co., a firm which in the 
course of a hundred and twenty-five years had built 
itself into the very financial existence of the country. 
In almost any part of the civilized globe to say you 
were with Gordon & Co. was a proud boast. But 
pride was all that a man of Bobby's type was likely 
to get out of it. Promotion was slow. Lydia talked 
of a junior partnership some day, but Bobby knew 
that partnerships in Gordon & Co. went to qualities 
more positively valuable than his. Sometimes he 
thought of leaving them, but he could not bear to give 
;iip the easy honor of the connection. 



MANSLAUGHTER 25 

It was better to be a doorkeeper witb Gordon & Co. 
Ilian a partner with some ephemeral firm. 

It amused him to hear her talk of Peter Gordon 
treating him like a slave. The dignified, middle- 
aged head of the firm, whose business was like an 
ancestral religion to him, hardly knew his clerks by 
Bight. 

"It isn't exactly servile to work half a day on Sat- 
today,'' he said mildly. 

"They'd respect you more if you asserted yourself. 
Do come on Friday, Bobby. I shall be so bored if 
you're not there." 

He reflected that after all he would rather be dis- 
missed by Gordon & Co. than by the young lady be- 
side him. 

.*T)earest Lydia, how nice you can be when you 
jHrant to — like all tyrants." 

They had reached the small deserted wooden hut 
that served as a railroad station, and Lydia stopped 
the car. 

*^I suppose it's silly, but I wish you wouldn't say 
that — that I'm a tyrant," she said appealingly. *^ 
don't want to be, only so often I know I know better 
what ought to be done. This afternoon, for instance, 
wasn't it much better for us all to play outside instead 
of in that stuffy little room of Eleanor's ? Was that 
being a tyrant ?" 

'^Yes, Lydia, it was; but I like it AlII ask is a 
little tyrant in my home.^ 



26 MANSLAUGHTER 

She sighed so deeply that he leaned over and kissed 
her cool cheek. 

*^Good-by, my dear/' he said* 

The kiss did not go badly. He had done it as if, 
though not sure of success, he was not adventuring 
on absolutely untried ground. 

^'I think you'd better not do that> Bobby.'' 

"Do you hate it V 

"Not particularly, only I don't want you to get 
dependent on it.'' 

He laughed as he shut the car door. The light of 
the engine was visible above the low woods to their 
left 

"I'll take my chances on that," he said. 

As she drove away she felt the injustice of the 
world. Everyone did ask your advice ; they did want 
you to take an interest, but they complained when this 
interest led you to exert the slightest pressure on them 
to do what you saw was best. That was so illogical. 
You couldn't give a person advice that was any good 
xmless you entered in and made their problem yours, 
and of course if you did that — only how few people 
except herself ever did it for their friends — then you 
>7ere concerned, personally concerned that they should 
follow your advice. They were all content, too, she 
thought, when her tyranny worked out for their good. 
Bobby, for instance, had not complained of her having 
forced the Emmonses to ask him for Sunday. He 
thought that commendable. Perhaps the Emmonsed 



MANSLAUGHTER 27 

hadn't. And yet how much better to be clear. She 
did not want to go and spend Sunday with anyone 
unless she could be sure of having someone to amuse 
her. Suppose she had gone there and found that like 
Benny they were using her to entertain some of their 
dull friends. That would have made her angry. She 
might have been disagreeable and broken up a friend- 
ship. This way it was safe. 

She did not get home until half past seven, and 
fihe was dining at eight, fifteen minutes' drive away. 

A pleasant smell of roses and wood smoke greeted 
her as she entered the house. She loved her house, 
with the broad shingles and classic pilasters of the 
front still untouched. Ten years ago her father had 
bought it — a nice old farmhouse with an ornamental 
band running round it below the eaves and a perfect 
little porch before the door. Since then she had been 
becoming more and more attached to it as it became 
more and more the work of her own creation. She 
had added whatever she needed without much regard 
to the effect of the whole — a large paneled room, 
English as much as anything, an inner garden sug- 
gestive of a Spanish patio, a tiled Italian hall and a 
long servant's wing that was nothing at alL 

She put her head in the dining room, where Miss 
Bennett in a stately tea gown was just beginning a 
solitary dinner. 

"Hello, Benny ! Have a good dinner. I forgot to 
tell you I'm going to the Emmonses for Sunday, so if 



28 MANSLAUGHTER 

you want to ask someone down to keep you company, 
do. Fm going to be late for dinner/' 

Miss Bennett smiled and nodded, recognizing this 
as a peace demonstration. Fourteen years had taught 
her that Lydia was not without generosity. 

Fourteen years ago this coming winter the Thornes 
had entered Miss Bennett's life. Old Joe Thome had 
come by appointment to her little New York apart- 
ment The appointment had been made by a friend 
of Miss Bennett's — Miss Bennett's friends were al- 
ways looking for something desirable for her in those 
days. Her family, who had been identified with New 
Tork for a hundred and fifty years, had gradually de- 
clined in fortune until the panic of 1893 had almost 
wiped out the little fortune of Adeline and her 
mother, the last of the family. Adeline had been 
brought up, not in luxury but in a comfortable, unal- 
terable feminine idleness. She had always had all the 
clothes she needed to go about among the people she 
knew, and they were the people who had everything. 
The Bennetts had never kept a carriage, but they had 
never stinted themselves in cabs. The truth was they 
had never stinted themselves in anything that they 
really wanted. And Adeline, when she found herself 
alone in the world at thirty, with an income of only a 
few thousand, continued the family tradition of hav- 
ing what she wanted. She took a small apartment, 
v^hich she contrived to make charming, and she lived 
.oicely by the aid of her old French nurse, who came 



MANSLAUGHTEE 29 

and cooked for her and dressed her and turned her 
out as perfectly as ever. She continued to dine out 
every night, and though nominally she spent her sum- 
mers in New York as an economy, she was always on 
fiomebodys yacht or in somebody's country house. 
She paid any number of visits and enjoyed life more 
than most people. 

Her friends, however, for she had the power of 
creating real attachments, were not so well satisfied. 
At first they were persuaded that Adeline would 
marry — it was so obviously the thing for Adeline to 
do — but she was neither designing nor romantic 
She lacked both the reckless emotion which may lead 
one to marry badly and the cold-blooded determina- 
tion to marry well. 

She was just past forty the day Joe Thome came. 
She could still see him as he entered in his blue over- 
coat with a velvet collar. A big powerful man with 
prominent eyes like Bismarck's, and a heavy dark 
brown mustache bulging over his upper lip. He did 
not expect to give much time to the interview. He 
had come to see if Miss Bennett would do to bring up 
his daughter, who at ten years was giving him trouble. 
He wanted her prepared for the social opportunities 
he intended her to have. It seemed strange to him 
that a person who lived as simply as Miss Bennett 
could really have these social opportunities in her 
control, but he had been advised by people whom ho^ 
trusted that such was the fact, and he accepted it. 



30 MANSLAUGHTER 

He was the son of a Kansas farmer, had left the 
farm as a boy and settled in a small town, and had 
learned the trade of bricklaying. By hard work he 
gradually amassed a few hundred dollars, and this he 
invested in a gravel bank just outside the town. It 
was the only gravel bank in the neighborhood and 
brought him a high return on the money. Then just 
as the gravel was exhausted the town began to spread 
in that direction, and Thome was arranging to level 
his property and sell it in building lots, when a still 
more unexpected development took place. Oil was 
struck in the neighborhood, and beneath Thome's 
gravel lay a well. 

If Fate had intended him to be poor she should 
never have allowed him to make his first thousand 
dollars, for from the moment he had any surplus 
everything he touched did well. In one of his trips 
to the Louisiana oil district he met and married a 
local belle, a slim, pale girl with immense dark- 
circled black eyes and a skin like a gardenia. She 
followed him meekly about the country from oil wells 
to financial centers until after the birth of her daugh- 
ter. Then she settled down in Kansas City and 
waited his rare visits. The only inconsiderate thing 
she had ever done to him was to die and leave him 
with an eight-year-old daughter. 

For several stormy years he tried various solu« 
tions — foreign governesses who tried to marry him, 
American college girls who attempted to make him 



MANSLAUGHTER 31 

take his fair share of parental responsibiKty, an old 
cousin who had been a school teacher and dared to 
criticize his manner of life. At last his enlarging 
affairs brought him to 'New York and he heard of 
Miss Bennett. He heard of her through Wiley, his 
lawyer. Wiley, a man in the forties, then attaining 
preeminence at the bar in New York, had been 
thought by many people to be an ideal husband for 
Adeline. They were old friends. He admired her, 
wished her well, and thought of her instantly when 
his new client applied to him for help. 

The minute Thorne saw Miss Bennett he saw that 
she would do perfectly. He mad^ her the offer of a 
good salary. He couldn't believe that she would re- 
fuse it. She could hardly believe it herself, for she 
was unaccustomed to setting up her will against any- 
one's least of all against a man like Joe Thorne, who 
had successfully battled his way up against the will 
of the world. The contest went on for weeks and 
weeks. Poor Miss Bennett kept consulting her 
friends, almost agreeing to go when she saw Thome, 
and then telephoning him that she had changed her 
mind, and bringing him round to her apartment — 
which was just what she didn't want — to argue her 
into it again. 

Some of her friends opw^ged her going to the house 
of a widower whose reputation in regard to women 
was not spotless. Others thought — though they did 
not say — that ^"^ she went, and succeeded in marry- 



32 MANSLAUGHTER 

ing him, she would be doing better than she had any 
right to expect. Perhaps if Miss Bennett could have 
fallen in love with Lydia she might have yielded, but 
even at ten, Lydia, a black-eyed determined little 
person, inspired fear more than love. 

Poor Adeline grew pale and thin over the struggle. 
At last she decided, after due consultation with 
friends, to end the matter by being a little bit rude, 
by telling Thorne that she just didn't like the whole 
prospect ; that she preferred her own little place and 
her own little life. 

"Like it — like this cramped little place ?'' he said, 
looking about at the sunshine and chintz and potted 
daisies of her cherished home. "But I'd make you 
comfortable, give you what you ought to have — 
Europe, your friends, your carriage, everything." 

He went on to argue with her that she was wrong, 
utterly wrong to like her own life. Her last card 
didn't win. She yielded at last for no better reason 
than that her powers of resistance were exhausted. 

Thome was then living in a house on a comer of 
upper Fifth Avenue, with a pale-pink brocade ball* 
room running across the front and taking all the 
morning sunshine, and a living room and library at 
the back so dark that you couldn^t read in it at mid- 
day, with marble stairs and huge fire-places that 
didn't draw — a terrible house. Some years later, 
under Miss Bennett's influence, he had bought the 
more modest house in the Seventies where Lydia now 



MANSLAUGHTER 33? 

epent her winters. But it was to the Fifth Avenue 
house that Miss Bennett came, and found herself 
plunged into one of the most desperate struggles in the 
world. Thome, whose continuous interest was given 
to business, attempted to rule Lydia in crises — by 
scenes, scenes of a violence that Miss Bennett had 
never seen equaled. As it turned out, her coming 
weakened Thome's power; not that she wasn't usu- 
ally on his side — she was — but she was an audi- 
ence, and Thome had some sense of shame before an 
audience, while Lydia had none at alL 

Many a time she had seen him box Lydia's ears 
and, mild as she was, had been glad to see him do it. 
But it was his violence that undid him. It was then 
that Lydia became suddenly dignified and, unbroken, 
contrived to make him appear like a brute. 

There is nothing really more unbreakable than a 
child who considers neither her physical well-being 
nor public opinon. An older person, however vio- 
lent, has learned that he must consider such questions, 
fand it is a weakness in a campaign of violence to con- 
sider anything but the desired end. 

And on the whole Thome lost. He could make 
Lydia do or refrain from doing specific acts — at 
least he could when he was at home. He had not per- 
mitted her at ten to keep her great Danes nor at 
thirteen to drive a high-stepping hackney in a red- 
wheeled cart which she ordered for herself without 
consultation with anyone. 



• 



34: MANSLAUGHTER 

The evening after that struggle was over he had 
asked Miss Bennett to marry him. She knew why 
he did it. Lydia in the course of the row had referred 
to her as a paid companion. He had long been con- 
sidering it as a sensible arrangement, particularly in 
case of his death. Miss Bennett refused him. She 
tried to think that she had been tempted by his offer, 
but she was not. To her he seemed a violent man who 
had been a bricklayer, and she always breathed a sigh 
of relief when he was out of the house. She was glad 
that he did not press the point, but in after years it 
was a solid comfort to her to remember that she might 
have been Lydia's stepmother if she had chosen. 

But it was in the long-drawn-out contest that 
Thome failed. He could not make Lydia keep gov- 
ernesses that she didn't like. Her method was 
simple — she made their lives so disagreeable that 
nothing could make them stay. He never succeeded 
in getting her to boarding school, though he and Miss 
Bennett, after a long conference, decided that that was 
the thing to do. But that failure was partly due to 
his failing health. 

That was their last great struggle. He died in 
1912. In his will he left Miss Bennett ten thousand 
a year, with the request that she stay with his daugh- 
er until her marriage. It touched Miss Bennett that 
he should have seen that she could not have stayed if 
ehe had been dependent on Lydia's capricious will. 
It was this that made her position possible — the fact 



MANSLAUGHTER S6 

that they both knew she could go in an instant if she 
[wanted ; not that she ever doubted that L^dia was sin* 
perel^ attached to hor* 



CHAPTEE 



WHEN" Lydia ran upstairs to dress everything 
was waiting for her — the lights lit, the fires 
crackling, her bath drawn, her underclothes 
and stockings folded on a chair, her green-and-gold 
dress spread out upon the bed, her narrow gold slip- 
pers standing exactly parallel on the floor beside it, 
and in the midst Evans, like a priestess waiting to 
serve the altar of a goddess, was standing with her 
eyes on the clock. 

Lydia snatched off her hat, rumpled her hair with 
both hands as Evans began to undo her blouse. She 
unfastened tho cuff, and then looked up with pale 
startled eyes. 

'^Your bracelet, miss ?" 

'bracelet V^ For a second Lydia had really for- 
gotten it. 

"The little diamond bracelet. Tou were wearing it 
this afternoon.'' 

Something panic-stricken and excited in the girl's 
tone annoyed Lydia. 

'^I must have dropped it," she said. 

The maid gave a little cry as if she herself had Buf- 
ifered a loss. 

36 



MANSLAUGHTER 37 

"Oh, to lose a valuable bracelet like tbat 1^' 

"If I don't mind I don't see wby you should, 
Evans/' 

Evans began unhooking her skirt in silence. 

Twenty minutes later she was being driven rap- 
idly toward the Piers'. These minutes were among 
the most contemplative of her life, shut in for a few 
seconds alono without possibility of interruption. 
Now as she leaned back she thought how lonely her 
life was — always facing criticism alone. Was she 
a bully, as Ilseboro had said ? Perhaps she was hard. 
But then how could you get things done if you were 
soft? There was Benny. Benny, with many excel- 
lent abilities, was soft, and look where she was — a 
paid companion at fifty-five. Lydia suspected that 
ten years before her father had wanted to marry 
Benny, and Benny had refused. Lydia thought she 
knew why — because Benny thought old Joe Thorne 
a vulgar man whom she didn't love. Very high- 
minded, of course, and yet wasn't there a sort of weak- 
ness in not taking your chance and putting through a 
thing like that ? Wouldn't Benny be more a person 
from every point of view if she had decided to marry 
the old man for his money? If she had she'd have 
been his widow now, and Lydia a dependent step- 
daughter. How she would have hated that 1 

The Piers had built a perfect French chateau, and 
Kad been successful in changing the scrubby woods 
into gardens and terraces and groves. Lydia stepped 



88 MANSLAUGHTER 

out of the car and paused on the wide marble steps, 
gapping her cloak about her with straight arms, as 
an Indian wraps his blanket about him. She turned 
her head slightly at her chauffeur's inquiry as to the 
hour of her return. 

"Oh/' she said, "eight — ten — bridge. Come 
back at eleven. 

The mirrors in the Piers' dressing room were flat* 
tering as she dropped her cloak with one swift motion 
into the hands of the waiting servant and saw a reflec- 
tion of her slim gold-and-green figure with the emerald 
band across her forehead. 

She saw at a glance on entering the drawing-room 
that it wasn't a very good party — only eight, and 
nothing much in the line of bridge players. She 
listened temperately to Fanny Piers' explanation 
that four people had given out since six o'clock. She 
nodded, admitting the excuse and reserving the opin- 
ion that if the Piers gave better parties people 
.wouldn't chuck them so often. 

She looked about. There was Tim Andrews again. 
Well, she could always amuse herself well enough 
witli Tim. May Swayne — a soft blond creature 
>vhom Lydia had known for many years and ignored. 
Indeed, May was as little aware of Lydia's methods 
as a mole of a thunderstorm. Then there was Hamil- 
ton Gore, the lean home wrecker of a former genera- 
tion, not bad — a little elderly, a little too epigram- 
matic for the taste of this day ; but still, once a home 



MANSLAUGHTER 39 

Ifrecker always a home wrecker. He was still stim- 
ulating. The last time she had talked to him he had 
called her a sleek black panther. That always pleases, 
of course. Since then Fanny Piers, a notable mis- 
chief-maker, had repeated something else he said. He 
had called her a futile barbarian. She disliked the 
*'f utile." She would take it up with him; that 
would amuse her if everything else failed. She would 
say, "Hello, Mr. Gore! I suppose you hardly ex- 
pected to meet a barbarian at dinner — especially a 
futile one." It would make Fanny wretched, but then 
if Fanny would repeat things she must expect to get 
into trouble. 

And then, of course, there was Eleanor's new best 
bet — the intensely interesting and absolutely worth- 
while young man. Lydia looked about, and there he 
was. Dear me, she thought, he certainly was inter- 
esting and worth while, but not quite from the point 
of view Eleanor had suggested — public service and 
political power. He was very nice looking, tall and 
heavy in the shoulders. He was turned three-quarters 
from her as she made her diagnosis. She could see 
little more than his mere size, the dark healthy 
brown of a sunburned Anglo-Saxon skin, and the 
deep point at the back of his neck where short thick 
hair grew in a deep point. Eleanor, looking small 
beside him, was staring idly before her, not attempt- 
ing to show him off. There was nothing cheap about 
Eleanor. She spoke to him now, preparing to intro- 



40 MANSLAUGHTER 

duce him to her friend. Lydia saw him turn, and 
their eyes met — the queerest eyes she had ever seen. 
She found herself staring into them longer than good 
manners allowed; not that Lydia cared much about 
good manners, but she did not wish to give the man 
the idea she had fallen in love with him at first sight ; 
only it just happened that she had never seen eyes 
before that flared like torches, grew dark and light 
and small and large like a cat^s, only they weren't 
the color of a cat's, being gray — a pure light gray ini 
contrast with his dark hair and skin. There was a 
contrast in expression too. They were a little mad, 
at least fanatical, whereas his mouth was controlled 
and legal and humorus. What was it Bobby had said 
about him in college — a wild man ? She could well 
believe it. During these few seconds Eleanor was in- 
troducing him, and she was casting about for some- 
thing to say to him. That was the trouble with meet- 
ing new people — it was so much easier to chatter to 
old friends. Benny said that was provincial. She 
made a great effort. 

"How are you ?'' — this quite in the Useboro man- 
ner. "Are you staying near here ?" 

You might have counted one-two before he betrayed 
the least sign of having heard her. Then he said, 
"Yes, I live about ten miles from here.'' 

"Oh, of course I You're a judge or something like 
that, aren't you ?" 

Was the man a little deaf ? 



MANSLAUGHTER 41 



<ei 



^Something like that" 

She noted that trick of pausing a second or two 
before answering. Ilseboro had had it too. It was 
rather effective in a way. It made the other person 
:wonder if what he had said was foolish. He wasn't 
deaf a bit — quite the contrary. 

"Aren't you going to tell me what you are ?" she 
said. 

He shook his head gravely. Then her eye fell on 
Gore standing at her elbow and she couldn't resist 
the temptation. She turned her back on Eleanor's 
discovery. 

"Hullo, Mr. Gore ! Did you expect to meet a bar- 
barian at dinner — especially a futile one ? 

Gore, unabashed, took the whole room in. 

"Now," he said in his high-pitched voice, "could 
anything be more barbarous than that attack? Oh, 
yes, I said it ; and what's worse, I think it, my dear 
young lady — I think it!" 

She turned back to O'Bannon. 

"Would you think I was a barbarian ?" 

"Certainly not a futile one," he answered. 

They went in to dinner. It was a fixed principle 
of Fanny Piers' life to put her women friends next 
to their own young men, so that Eleanor found her- 
self next to O'Bannon at dinner. He was on his 
hostess' right, Gore on her left, then Lydia and Tim 
and May and Piers, and Eleanor again. The ar- 
rangement suited Lydia very well. She went on bait- 



42 MANSLAUGHTER 

ing Gore. It suited Eleanor even better. She had 
known Noel Piers far too long to waste any time 
talking to him, and as this was the arrangement he 
preferred, they were almost friends. This left her 
free to talk to O'Bannon. Her native ability, joined 
to her personal interest in him, made her familiar 
with every aspect of his work. He talked shop to 
her and loved it. He was telling her of a case in 
which labor unions, with whose aims he himself as 
an individual was in sympathy, had made themselves 
amenable to the law. That was one of the penalties 
of a position like his. Piers caught a few words and 
leaned over. 

"Well, I'm pretty liberal," he said — that well- 
known opening of the reactionary — ^Tbut I'm not in 
favor of labor." 

"Not even for others, Noel," said Eleanor, who did 
not want to be interrupted. 

"I mean labor unions," replied Piers, who, though 
not without humor in its proper place, had too much 
difficulty in expressing an idea to turn aside to laugh 
about it.* "I hope you'll be firm with those fellows, 
O'Bannon. I hope you're not a socialist like Elea- 
nor." 

Piers had used the word "socialist" as a hate word, 
and expected to hear O'Bannon repudiate the sugges- 
tion as an insult. Instead he denied it as a fact. 

"No," he said, "I'm not a socialist. I think you'll 
find lawyers conservative as a general thing. I be- 



MANSLAUGHTER 43 

lieve in my platform — tlie equal administration of 
the present laws, Tliat's radical enough — for the 
present" 

Piers gave a slight snort Everyone, he said, be- 
lieved in that. 

"I don't find they do — it isn't my experience," 
answered O'Bannon. "Some fellows broke up a so- 
cialist meeting the other evening in New York, and 
no one was punished, although not only were people 
injured, but even property was damaged." Eleanor 
was the only person who caught the "even." "You 
know very well that if the socialists broke in on a 
meeting of well-to-do citizens they would be sent up 
the river." 

Piers stared at his guest with his round, bloodshot 
eyes. He was a sincere man, and stupid. He reached 
his conclusions by processes which had nothing to do 
with thought, and when someone talked like this — 
attacking his belief that it was wrong to break up 
his meetings and right to break up the other man's — 
he felt as he did at a conjurer's performance: that 
it was all very clever, but a sensible person knew it 
was a trick, even though he could not explain how it 
was done. 

"I'm not much good at an argument," he said, 
"but I know what's right I know what the country 
needs, and if you show favoritism to these disloyal 
fellows I shall vote against you next time, I tell you 
frankly." 



iti MANSLAUGHTEK 

Lydia, hearing by the tones that the conversation 
across the table promised more vitality than her wan- 
i^g game with Gore about the barbarian epithet, 
dropped her own sentence and answered, "No one 
really believes in equality who's on top. I believe 
in special privilege." 

O'Bannon, who had been contemptuously annoyed 
with Piers, was amused at Lydia's frankness as she 
bent her head to look at him under the candle shades 
and the light gleamed in her eyes and flashed on the 
emeralds on her forehead. Beauty, after all, is the 
greatest special privilege of all. 

"That's what I said," he returned. "ITo one hon- 
estly believes in my platform — the equal administra- 
tion of the present laws." 

"I do," said Piers. "I do — everyone does." 

O'Bannon glanced at him, and deciding that it 
wasn't worth while to take him round the circle 
again let the sentence drop. 

"Do you believe in it yourself, Mr. O'Bannon?" 
asked Lydia, and she stretched out a slim young arm 
and moved the candle so that she could look straight 
at him or he at her. "I mean, if you caught some 
friend smuggling — me, for example — would you be 
as implacable as if you caught my dressmaker ?" 

"More so ; you would have less excuse." 

She laughed and shook her head. 

'^You know in your heart it never works like that.'' 

^^Unfortunately," he answered, "my office does not 



MANSLAUGHTEK 45 

itake me into Federal customs^ or you might find I 
iWas right" 

"The administration of the customs of the United 
States," Piers began, but his wife interrupted. 

"Don't explain it, there's a dear," she said, and 
oddly enough he didn't. 

Lydia was delighted with O'Bannon's challenging 
tone. 

"I wish you were," she said, "because I know you 
would turn out to be just like everyone else. Or even 
if you are a superman, Mr. O'Bannon, you couldn't 
be sure all your underlings were equally noble." 

"What you mean is that you habitually bribe cus- 
toms inspectors." 

"No," said Lydia, as one suprised at her own mod- 
eration — "no, I don't, for I never much mind pay- 
ing duty; but if I did mind — well, I must own I 
have bribed other officers of the law with very satis- 
factory results." 

O'Bannon, looking at her under the shades, thought 
— and perhaps conveyed his thought to her — that 
she could bribe him very easily with something more 
desirable than gold. It was Gore who began care- 
fully to point out to her the risk run by the taker of 
the bribe. 

"You did not think of him, my dear young lady." 

'^Yes, I did," answered Lydia. "He wanted the 
xnoney and I wanted the freedom. It was nice for 
both of us." She glanced at O'Bannon, who was 



:46 MANSLAUGHTER 

talking to Mrs. Piers as if Lydia didn^t exist. Bh& 
felt no hesitation in interrupting. 

"You couldnH put me in prison for that, could you, 
Mr. O-BannonT 

"No, I'm afraid not/' said O'Bannon, and turned 
back to Fanny Piers. 

After dinner she told Eleanor in strict confidence 
the story of the bicycle policeman, and made her 
promise not to tell O'Bannon. 

"I shouldn't dream of telling anyone/' said Eleanor 
with her humorous lift of the eyebrows. "I think it's 
a perfectly disgusting story and represents you at 
your worst." 

When they sat down to bridge Lydia drew O'Ban- 
non, and whatever antagonism had flashed out be- 
tween them at dinner disappeared in a perfectly ad- 
justed partnership. They found they played very 
much the same sort of game; they understood one 
another's makes and leads, and knew as if by magic 
the cards that the other held. It seemed as if they 
could not mistake each other. They were both coura- 
geous players, ready to take a chance, without over- 
bidding. They knew when to be silent, and, with an 
occasional bad hand, to wait. But the bad hands were 
few. They had the luck not only of holding high cards 
but of holding cards which invariably supported each 
other. Their eyes met when they had triumphantly 
doubled their opponents' bids; they smiled at each 
other when they had won a slam by a subtle finesse 



MANSLAUGHTER 47 

or by patiently forcing discards. Their winnings 
were large. Lydia seemed as steady as a rock — not 
a trace of excitement in her look. 

O'Bannon thought, after midnight when he was 
totaling the score, "I could make a terrible fool of 
myself about this girl." 

When they were leaving he found himself standing 
on the steps beside her. The footman had run down 
the drive to see why her chauffeur, after a wait of 
more than an hour, wasn't bringing her car round. 
O'Bannon, who was driving himself in an open car, 
came out, turning up the collar of his overcoat, and 
found himself alone with her in the pale light of the 
waning moon, which gave, as the waning moon always 
does, the effect of being a strange, unfamiliar celestial 
visitor. 

O'Bannon, like so many strict supporters of law, 
was subject to invasions of lawless impulses. He 
thought now how easy it would be to run off with a 
girl like this one and teach her that civilization was 
not such a complete protection as she thought it. 
What an outcry she would make, and yet perhaps 
she wouldnH really object 1 He had a theory that men 
and women were more susceptible to emotion in the 
first minutes of their meeting than at any subsequent 
time — at least in such first meetings as this. 

She was standing wrapping her black-and-silver 
doak about her with that straight-armed Indian pose. 

^*It^s a queer light, isn't it ?" she said. 



.48 MANSLAUGHTER 

He agreed. Something certainly was queer — the 
greenish silver light on the withered leaves or the 
mist like a frothy flood on the lawn. Just as she 
spoke two brighter lights shone through the mist — 
her car coming up the drive with the footman stand- 
ing on the step. 

"Is that yours?'' he asked. 

She nodded, knowing that he was watching her. 

"Why don't you send it away," he went on very 
quietly, "and let me drive you home? This is no 
night for a closed car.'' 

He hardly knew whether he had a plan or not, 
but his pulses beat more quickly as she walked down 
the steps without answering him. He did not know 
iwhether she was going to get into her car and drive 
away op give orders to the man to go home without 
her. Then he saw that the footman was closing the 
doop on an empty car and the chauffeur releasing his 
brake. When she came up the steps he was looking 
at the moon. 

"I never get used to its waning," he said, as if he 
Jiad been thinking of nothing else. 

She liked that — his not commenting in any way 
on her accepting an invitation not entirely conven- 
tional from a stranger. Perhaps he did not know 
that it wasn't. Oh, if he could only keep on like 
that — maintaining that remote impersonality until 
she herself wanted him to be different! But if he 
Jn'apped the lap robe about her with too lingering an 



MANSLAUGHTER 49 

arm, or else, flying to the other extreme, began to be 
friendly and chatty, pretending that there was noth- 
ing extraordinary in two strangers being alone like 
this in a sleeping, moonlit world 

He did neither. When he brought the car to the 
steps the lap robe was folded back on the seat so 
that she could wrap it about her own knees. She did 
so with an exclamation. The mist clung in minute 
drops to its rough surface. 

"It^s wet," she said. 

He did not answer — did not speak even, when as 
they left the Piers' place it became necessary to choose 
their road. He chose without consultation. 

"But do you know where I live ?" she asked. 

"Be content for once to be a passenger," he re- 
plied. 

The answer had the good fortune to please. She 
leaned back, clasping her hands in her lap, relaxing 
all her muscles. 

On the highroad she was less aware of the moon, 
for the headlights made the mist visible like a wall 
about them. She felt as if she were running through 
a new element and could detect nothing outside the car. 
She was detached from all previous experience, con- 
tent to be, as he had said, for once a passenger. This 
was a new sensation. She remembered what Use- 
boro had said about her being a bully. Well, she'd try 
the other thing to-night. She only hoped it wouldn't 
end in some sort of a scene. She glanced up at her 



50 MANSLAUGHTER 

companion's profile. It looked quiet enough, but she 
decided that she had better not go on much longer 
without making him speak. Her ear was well at- 
tuned to human vibrations, and if there were a cer- 
tain low tremor in his voice — well, then it would be 
better to go straight home. 

"This is rather extraordinary, isn't it ?" she said. 
This might be interpreted in a number of ways. 

"Yes, it is," he said, exactly matching her tone. 

She tried him again. 

"Did you enjoy the evening?" It seemed almost 
certain that he would answer tenderly, "I'm enjoy- 
ing this part of it." 

"It was good bridge," he said. 

That sounded all right, she thought. His voice 
was as cool as her own. She could let things go and 
give herself up to enjoying the night and the moon 
and the motion and the damp air on her face and 
arms. She felt utterly at peace. Presently he turned 
from the highroad down a lane so untraveled that the 
low branches came swishing into her lap ; they came 
out on a headland overlooking the Sound. Over the 
water the mist was only a thickening of the atmos- 
phere which made the lights of a city across the water 
look like globes of yellow light in contrast to the clear 
red and white of a lighthouse in the foreground. He 
leaned forward and turned off the engine and lights. 

Lydia found that she was trembling a little, which 
seemed strange, for she felt unemotional and stilL 



MANSLAUGHTER 61 

And then all of a sudden she recognized that she was 
really waiting — waiting to feel her cheek against his 
rough frieze coat and his lips against hers. It was not 
exactly that she wanted it, but that it was inevitable 
— simple — not her choice — something that must 
be. This was an experience that she had never had 
before. In the silence she felt their mutual under- 
standing rising like a tide. She had never felt so at 
one with any human being as with this stranger. 

Suddenly he moved — but not toward her. She 
saw with astonishment that he was turning the switch, 
touching the self starter, and the next instant back- 
ing the car out. The divine moment was gone. She 
would never forgive him. 

They drove back in silence, except for her occa- 
sional directions about the road. Her jaw was set 
like a little vise. Never again, she was saying to 
herself, would she allow herself to be a passenger. 
Hereafter she would control. It didn't matter what 
happened to you, if you were master of your own 
emotions. She remembered once that the husband of 
a friend of hers had caught her in his arms in thq 
anteroom of a box at the opera during the darkness 
of a Wagnerian performance. She had felt like 
frozen steel — so sure of herself that she hardly hated 
the man — she felt more inclined to laugh at him. 
But this man who hadn^t touched her, left her feel- 
ing outraged, humiliated — because she had wanted 
kim to kiss her, to crush her to him 



52 MANSLAUGHTER 

They were at her door. She stepped out on the 
broad flat stones, nnder the trellis on which the 
grapevines grew so thickly that not even the flood of 
moonlight could penetrate the thick mass of verdure. 
The air was full of the smell of grapes. She knew he 
was following her. Suddenly she felt his hand, firm 
and confident on her shoulder, stopping her, turning 
her round. She did not resist him — she felt neither 
resistent nor acquiescent — only that it was all in- 
evitable. He took her head in his two hands, looking 
in the dark and half drawing her to him, half bend- 
ing down he pressed his lips hard against hers. She 
felt herself held closely in his arms; her will dis* 
solved, her head drooped against him. 

Then inside the house the steps of the faithful 
Morson could be heard. He must have been waiting 
for the sound of an approaching motor. The door 
opened — letting a great patch of yellow lamp light 
fall on the misty moonlight. Morson peered out ; for 
a moment he thought he must have been mistaken; 
there appeared to be no one there. Then his young 
mistress, very erect, stepped out from the shadow. 
A tall gentleman, a stranger to Morson, said in a 
voice noticeably low and vibrant : 

"At four to-morrow." 

There was a pause. Morson holding the door 
open thought at first that Miss Thome had not heard, 
and then she shocked him by her answer. 

'^o, don't come," she said. "I don't want you to 



MANSLAUGHTER 63 

fcome/' She walked into the house, and indicated 
that he might shut the door. As he bolted it he could 
hear the motor moving away down the drive. Turn- 
ing from the door, he saw Miss Thome standing stiU 
in the middle of the hall, as if she too were listening 
to the lessening drum of the engine. There was a 
long pause, and then Morson said : 

"Shall I put out the lights. Miss V 

She nodded and went slowly upstairs, like a per- 
son in a trance. 

She seemed hardly aware of Evans waiting to un- 
dress her, but stood still in her bedroom, as she had 
stood in the hall, staring blankly in front of her. 
Evans took her cloak from her shoulder. 

"It's quite wet, Miss," she said, "as if it had been 
dipped in the sea and your hair, too." 

Miss Thoi:ne did not come to life, until in unhook- 
ing her dress Evans touched her with cold fingers. 
Then she started, exclaiming: 

*^What is the matter with you, Evans,'' she cried. 
'*Do go and put your hands in hot water before 
you touch me. Tour fingers are like ice." 

The girl murmured that she had been upset since 
the loss of the bracelet — she felt responsible for Misa 
Thome's jewels. 

Lydia flung down the roll of bills and cheques that 
represented her evening's winnings. "I could buy 
myself another with what I've won to-night. Don't 
ivorry about it." The idea occurred to her that she 



54 MANSLAUGHTER 

would bny herself a sort of memento morl, sometlimg 
to remind her not to be a weak craven female thing 
again — nestling against men's shoulders like May 
Swayne. 

Evans did not answer, but gathered up the money 
and the jewels and carried them into the jessing 
room to lock them in the safe. 



CHAPTER TV, 

LTDIA would have been displeased to know 
how little her cnrt refusal affected the emo- 
tional state of the man driving away from her 
door. It was the deed rather than the word that he 
remembered — the fact that he had held a beautiful 
and eventually unresisting woman in his arms that 
occupied his attention on his way home. 

He found his mother sitting up — not for him. It 
iwas many years since Mrs. O'Bannon had gone to bed 
before two o^clock. She was a large woman, mas- 
sive rather than fat. She was sitting by the fire in 
her bedroom, wrapped in a warm, loose white dress- 
ing gown, as white as her hair and smooth pale skin. 
Her eyes retained their deep darkness. Evidently 
Dan's gray eyes had come from his father's Irish 
ancestry. 

It was only the other day — after he was grown 

up — that O'Bannon had ceased to be afraid of his 

mother. She was a woman passionately religious, 

mentally vigorous and singularly unjust, or at least 

inconsistent. It was this quality that made her so 

confusing and, to her subordinates, alarming. She 

would have gone to the stake - — gone with a certain 

^5 



66 MANSLAUGHTER 

bitter amusement at the folly of her destroyers — for 
her belief in the right ; but her affections could en- 
tirely sweep away these beliefs and leave her furiously 
supporting those she loved against all moral princi- 
ples. Her son had first noticed that trait when she 
sent him away to boarding school. His mother — his 
father had died when he was seven — was a most 
relentless disciplinarian as long as a question of duty 
lay between him and her; but let an outsider inter- 
fere, and she was always on his side. She frequently 
defended him against the school authorities, and even, 
it seemed to him, encouraged him in rebellion. In 
her old age most of her strong passions had died away 
and left only her God and her son. Perhaps it was 
a trace of this persecutory religion in her that made 
Dan accept his present office. 

She looked up like a sibyl from the great volume she 
was reading. 

"Tou^re late, my son.'' 

"I've been gambling, mother." 

He said it very casually, but it was the last rem- 
nant of his fear that made him mention particularly 
those of his actions of which he knew she would dis- 
approve. In old times he had been a notable poker 
player, but had abandoned it on his election 'as dis- 
trict attorney. Her brow contracted. 

'^Tou should not do such things — in your 
position." 

"My dear mother, haven't you yet grasped that 



MANSLAUGHTER 57 

fiiere is a toncli of the criminal in all criminal pros- 
ecutors? That^s what draws us to the job/^ 

She wouldn't listen to any such theory. 

"Have you lost a great deal of money V^ she asked 
eeverely. 

'TtTot enough to turn us out of the old home/^ he 
emiled. "I won something under four hundred 
dollars.'^ 

Her brow cleared. She liked her son to be suc- 
cessful, preeminent in anything — right or wrong — 
;which he undertook. 

"You made a mistake to get mixed up with people 
like that/' she said. She knew where he had been 
dining. 

"I can't be said to have got mixed up with them. 
The only one I expressed any wish to see again 
dammed the door in my face." 

The next instant he wished he had not spoken. He 
hoped his mother had not noticed what he said. She 
remained silent, but she had understood perfectly,, 
and he had made for Lydia an implacable enemy. 
A woman who slammed the door in the face of Dan 
:was deserving of hell-fire, in Mrs. O'Bannon's opin- 
ion. She did not ask who it was, because she knew 
that in the course of everyday life together secrets 
between two people are impossible and the name 
would come out. 

After an almost sleepless night he woke in the 
morning with the zest of living extraordinarily re- 



68 MANSLAUGHTER 

newed within lum. Every detail in the pattern of 
life delighted him, from the smell of coffee floating up 
from the kitchen on the still cold of the November 
morning to the sight from his window of the village 
children in knit caps and sweaters hurrying to school 
— tall, lanky, competent girls bustling their little 
l)rothers along, and inattentive boys hoisting small 
fiisters up the school steps by their arms. Life was 
certainly great fun, not because there were lovely 
women to be held in your arms, but because when 
young and vigorous you can bully life into being 
what you want it to be. And yet, good heavens, what 
a girl 1 At four that very afternoon he would see her 
again. 

He was in court all the morning. The courthouse, 
which if it had been smaller would have looked like 
a mausoleum in a cemetery, and if it had been larger 
would have looked like the Madeleine, was set back 
from the main street. The case he was prosecuting — 
a case of criminal negligence against a young driver 
of a delivery wagon who had run over and injured a 
prominent citizen — went well ; that is to say, O'Ban- 
non obtained a conviction. It had been one of those 
cases clear to the layman, for the young man was no- 
toriously careless; but difficult, as lawyers tell you 
(criminal-negligence cases are, from the legal point 
of view. 

O'Bannon came out of court very well satisfied 
both with himself and the jury and drove straight to 



ILAJTSLAUGHTER 6& 

the Thome house. The smell of the grapes started 
his pulses beating. Morson came to the door. No, 
Miss Thome was not at home. 

*^Did she leave any message for me V^ said O'Ban? 
jion. 

"Nothing, sir, except that she is not at home." 

He eyed Morson, feeling that he would be within 
his masculine rights if he swept him out of the way 
and went on into the house ; but tamely enough he 
turned and drove away. His feelings, however, were 
not tame. He was furious against her. How did 
she dare behave like this — driving about the country 
at midnight, gambling, letting him kiss her, and then 
ordering her door slammed in his face as if he were 
a book agent? Civilization gave such women too 
much protection. Perhaps the men she was accus- 
tomed to associating with put up with that kind of 
treatment, but not he. He^d see her again if he 
wanted to — yes, if he had to hold up her car on the 
highroad. 

He thought with approval of Eleanor, a woman who 
played no tricks with you but left you cool and braced 
like a cold shower on a hot day. Yet he found that 
that afternoon he did not want to see Eleanor. He 
drove on and on, steeping himself in the bitterness of 
his resentment. 

At dinner his mother noticed his abstraction and 
feared an important case was going wrong. After- 
{Brards, supposing hd wanted to think out some tangle 



60 MANSLAUGHTER 

of the laWy she left Um alone — not meditating^ but 
seething. 

The next morning at half past eight he was in his 
office. The district attorney's office was in an old 
brick block opposite the courthouse. It occupied the 
second story over Mr. Wooley's hardware shop. As 
he went in he saw Alma Wooley, the fragile blond 
daughter of his landlord, slipping in a little late for 
her duties as assistant in the shop. She was wrapped 
in a light-blue cloak the color of her transparent 
turquoise-blue eyes. She gave O'Bannon a pretty 
little sketch of a smile. She thought his position a 
great one, and his age extreme — anyone over thirty 
iwas ancient in her eyes. She was profoundly grate- 
ful to him, for he had given her fiance a position 
on the police force and made their marriage a possi- 
bility at least. 

'^How are things. Alma?" he said. 

"Simply wonderful, thanks to you, Mr. O'Ban* 
non," she answered. 

He went upstairs thinking kindly of all gentle 
blond women. In the office he found his assistant, 
Foster, the son of the local high-school teacher, a 
keen-minded ambitious boy of twenty-two. 

"Oh," said Foster, "the sheriff's been telephoning 
for you. He's at the Themes'." 

O'Bannon felt as if his ears had deceived him. 

"Where?" he asked sternly. 

"At the Thomes' house — you know, there's a Miss 



MANSLAUGHTER 61 

Thome who lives there — the daughter of old Joe S. 
Thome/' Then, seeing the blank look on his chiefs 
face, Foster explained further. "It seems there was a 
jewel robbery there last night — a million dollars' 
worth, the sheriff says." He smiled, for the sheriff 
was a well-known exaggerator, but he met no an- 
swering smile. "They've been telephoning for you 
to come over." 

'^ho has ?" said O'Bannon. 

Foster thought him unusually slow of understand- 
ing this morning, and answered patiently, "Miss 
Thome has. There's been a robbery there." 

The district attorney was not slow in action. 

'Til go right over," he said, and left the office. 

There were some advantages in holding publio 
office. You could be sent for in your official capac- 
ity — and stick to it, by heaven ! 

This time he asked no questions at the door, but 
entered. 

Morson said timidly, "Who shall I say, sir?" 

"Say the district attorney." 

Morson led the way to the drawing-room and threw 
open the door. 

"The district attorney," he announced, making it 
sound like i itle of nobility, and O'Bannon and 
Lydia stood face to face again — or rather he stood. 
She, leaning back in her chair, nodded an adequate 
enough greeting to a public servant in the perform- 



62 MANSLAUGHTEB 

ance of Ids duty. They were not alone — a slim gray* 
haired lady^ Miss Bennett, was named. 

"I understood at my office you had sent for me/' 
said he. 

"I V^ There was something wondering in her tone. 
^^Oh, yes, the sheriff, 1 believe, wanted you to come. 
All my jewels were stolen last night. He seemed to 
think you might be able to do something about it.'' 
Her tone indicated that she did not share the sheriff's 
optimism. Miss Bennett, with a long habit of count- 
eracting Lydia's manners, broke in. 

"So kind of you to come yourself, Mr. O'Bannon." 

"It's my job to come.'* 

"Yes, of course. I think I know your mother." 
Che was very cordial, partly because she felt some- 
thing hostile in the air, partly because she thought 
him an attractive-looking young man. "She's so help- 
ful in the village improvement, only we're all just 
a little afraid of her. Aren't you just a little afraid 
of her yourself?" 

"Very much," he answered gravely. 

Miss Bennett wished he wouldn't just etare at her 
with those queer eyes of his — a little crazy, she 
thought. She liked people to smile at her when they 
spoke. She went on, "Not but what we work all the 
better for her because we are a little afraid ^" 

Lydia interrupted. 

^*Mr. O'Bannon hasn't come to pay us a social visit, 



MANSLAUGHTEE 63 

Beimj/' she said^ and this time there was something 
immistakablj insolent in her tone. 

O'Bannon decided to settle this whole question on 
the instant. He turned to Miss Bennett and said 
firmly, *'I should like to speak to Miss Thome alone/' 

"Of course/' said Miss Bennett, already on her 
;way to the door, which O'Bannon opened for her. 

"No, Benny, Benny V^ called Lydia, but O'Bannon 
had shut the door and leaned his shoulders against 
it. 

'T^isten to me I'' he said. "Ton must be civil to 
me — that is, if you want me to stay here and try 
to get your jewels back/' 

Lydia wouldn't look at him. 

"And what guaranty have I that if you 3o stay you 
can do anything about it ?" 

"I think I can get them, and I can assure you the 
sheriff can't" There was a long pause. "Well ?" he 
said. 

"Well what ?" said Lydia, who hadn't been able to 
think what she was going to do. 

**Will you be civil, or shall I go ?" 

"I thought you just said it was your duty to stay." 

^dJIake up your mind, please, which shall it be ?" 

Lydia longed to tell him to go, but she did want to 
get her jewels back, particularly as she was setting 
out for the Emmonses' in a few minutes, and it would 
»ave a lot of trouble to have everything arranged be- 
fore she left She thought it over deliberately, and 



U MANSLAUGHTEE 

looking up saw that he was amused at her cold- 
blooded hesitatioiL Seeing him smile, she found to 
her surprise that suddenly she smiled back at him. 
It was not what she had intended. 

''Well/' she thought, 'let him think he'9 getting the 
best of me. As a matter of fact, I'm using him." 

She hoped he would be content with the smile, but, 
no, he insisted on the spoken word. She was forced to 
say definitely that she would be civiL She carried 
it off, in her own mind at least, by saying it as if 
it were a childish game he was playing. Having re- 
ceived the assurance, he moved from the door and 
stood oposite her, leaning on the back of a chair. 

"Now tell me what happened ?" he said. 

She told him how she had been waked up just 
before dawn by the sound of someone moving in her 
dressing room. At first she had thought it was a 
window, or a curtain blowing, until she had seen a 
fine streak of light under the door. Then she had 
sprung up — to find herself locked in. She had rung 
her bells, pounded on the door — finally succeeded in 
rousing the household. The dressing room waa 
empty, but her safe had been opened — her jewela 
and about five hundred dollars gone — her recent 
framings at bridge. 

"You've had good luck lately V^ he asked. 

"Good partners,'' she answered with one of her 
illuminating smiles. 

Bhe'd gone all over the house after that. Alone t 



MANSLAUGHTEE 6S 

Hfo. Morsan had tagged on. Morson was afraid a£ 
burglars^ having had experience with them in somel 
former place. Besides, she always had a revolver^ 
Oh, yes, she knew how to shoot I She'd gone over thfi^ 
whole house — there wasn't a lock undone. 

He questioned her about the servants. Suspicion 
seemed to point to Evans, who had the run of the 
fiaf e and might so easily have failed to lock it in the 
evening when she had put her mistress to bed. Lydia 
demurred at the idea of Evans' guilt The girl had 
been with her for five years. 

"I don't really think she has the courage to steal/' 
she said. 

"Do you know the circumstances of her life ? Any- 
thing to make her feel in special need of money just 
now ?" he inquired. 

Lydia shook her head. 

"I never see how servants spend their wages any- 
how," she said. "But what makes me feel quite 
sure it isn't Evans is that I'm sure she would have 
confessed to me when I questioned her. Instead of 
that she's been packing my things for me just as 
usual." 

O'Bannon cut the interview short by announcing 
that he'd see the sheriff. Lydia had expected — 
''dreaded" was her own word — that he would saj, 
something about the incidents of their last meeting. 
But he didn't. He left the room, saying as he went: 
^'You'll wait here until I've had a talk with the girl.'' 



66 MANSLAUGHTER 

His tone had a rising inflection of a question in 
it, but to Lydia it sounded like an order. She had 
had every intention of waiting, but now she began to 
contemplate the possibility of leaving at once. The 
car was at the door and her bags were on the car. How 
it would annoy him, she thought, if when he came 
back, instead of finding her patiently waiting to be 
civil, he learned that she had motored away, as much 
as to say: '^It's your duty as an officer of the law to 
find my jewels, but it isn't my duty to be grateful to 
you." 

Presently Miss Bennett and the sheriff came in to- 
gether, talking — at least the sheriff was talking. 

"It looks like it was her all right," he was saying, 
'^and if so he'll get a confession out of her. That's 
why I sent for him. He's a great feller for getting 
folks to confess." Then with natural courtesy he 
turned to Lydia. "I was just saying to your friend, 
Miss Thome, that O'Bannon's great on getting con- 
fessions." 

"Eeally?" said Lydia. "I wonder why." 

"Well," said the sheriff, ignoring the note of doubt 
in her wonder, "most criminals want to confess. It's 
a lonely thing — to have a secret and the whole world 
against you. He plays on that. And between you 
and I, Miss Thome, there's some of this so-called 
psychology in it You see, I prepare the way for 
him — ^telling how he always does get a confession, and 
how a confession last time eaved the defendant from 









1 J«i^ ▼ 



MANSLAUGHTER 67 

the chair, and a lot of stuff like that, and then ha 
bomes along, and I guess there's a little hypnotism 
in it too. Did you ever notice his eyes ?" 

"I noticed that he has them/' answered Lydia. 

Miss Eennett said that she had noticed them at 
ionce, as soon as he came into the room. Perhaps it 
:was remembrance of them that made her add, "He 
jwon't be too hard on the poor girl, will he ?'' 

"No, ma'am, he won't be hard at all," said the 
isheriff. "He'll just talk with her ten or fifteen min- 
iates, and then she'll want to tell him the truth. I 
couldn't say how it's done. 

Lydia suddenly stamped her foot. 

"She's a fool if she does !" she said, biting into her 
words. 

So this young man went in for being a woman 
tamer, did he ? — the mistress downstairs ordered to 
be civil and the maid upstairs ordered to confess. If 
ehe had time, she thought, it would amuse her to show 
him that thipgs did not run so smoothly as that. She 
almost wished that Evans wouldn't confess. It would 
be worth losing her jewels to see his face when he 
came down to announce his failure. 

Steps overhead, the door opened, a voice balled, 
^^Sheriff, get your men up here, will you ?" 

The sheriff's face lit up. 

"Didn't I tell you ?" he saii 'CHe's done it P Ho 
hurried out of the room. 

When, a few minutes later, the district attorn^ 




[68 MANSLAUGHTEB 

ioame down lie found Miss Bennett alone. He looked 
about quickly. 

"Where's Miss Thome ¥' he said. 

Miss Bennett had not wanted Lydia to go — she 
had urged her not to. What difference did the 
Enunonses make in comparison with the jewels? 
But now she sprang to her defense. 

^^She was forced to go. She had a train to catch — 
a long-standing engagement. She was so sorry. She 
left all sorts of messages." This was not, strictly 
speaking, true. 

O'Bannon smiled slightly. 

'^She does not seem to take much interest in the 
recovery of her jewels,'^ he said. 

"She has every confidence in you," said Miss Ben- 
nett flatteringly. 

Miss Bennett herself had. Never, she thought, had 
she seen a man who inspired her with a more com- 
fortable sense of leadership. She saw he was not 
pleased at Lydia's sudden departure. 

He was not. He was furious at her. His feelings 
about her had flickered up and down like a flame. The 
vision of her going over her house alone, her hair 
down her back and a revolver in her hand, alone — 
except for Morson tagging on behind — moved him 
with a sense of her courage ; and not only her courage 
but her lack of self-consciousness about it. She had 
spoken as if anyone would have done the same. Her 
hardness toward the criminal had repelled him, and 



MANSLAUGHTER 69 

when lie went upstairs to interview Evans a new sen- 
sation waited for liim. 

The robbery had not released Evans from her regu- 
lar duties. She had just finished packing Ljdia's 
things for the visit to the Emmonses, and the bed- 
room where she had been detained had the disheveled 
look of a room which had just been packed and dressed 
in. The bed had not been made, though its pink silk 
cover had been smoothed over it to allow for the fold- 
ing of dresses on it. Lydia's slippers — pink mules 
with an edging of fur — were kicked off beside it. 
Long trails of tissue paper were on the floor. O'Ban- 
non saw it all with an eye trained to observe. He saw 
the book of verses on the table beside her bed, the pic- 
ture of the good-looking young man on her dressing 
table. He smelled in the air the perfume of violets, 
ft scent which his sense remembered as having lingered 
in her hair. All this he took in almost before he saw 
the pale, black-clad criminal standing vacantly in the 
midst of the disorder. 

"Sit down,'' he said. 

He spoke neither kindly nor commandingly, but 
as if to speak were the same thing as to accomplish. 
Evans sat down. 

It was a curious picture of Lydia that emerged 
from the story she finally told him — a figure kind 
and generous and careless and cruel, and, it seemed to 
him above everything else, stupid, blind about life, 
the lives of those about her. 



fO MANSLAUGHTER 

Evans had a lover, a young English footman who 
had gerved a term for stealing and just lately got out 
iwith an advanced case of tuberculosis, Evans, who 
had remained adamant to temptation when every- 
thing was going well with him, fell at the sight of his 
ill health. She had attempted, lonely and inefficient 
as she was, to do the trick by herself. It was Lydia's 
irritation over Evans* regret at the loss of the bracelet 
that had apparently decided the girl. 

"If she was so glad to be relieved of the things I 
thought Td help her a bit,** she said bitterly. 

What seemed to 0*Bannon so incomprehensible was 
that Lydia shouldn't have known that the girl was in 
fiome sort of trouble. The sight of the room made him 
vividly aware of the intimacy of daily detail that any 
maid has in regard to her mistress — two women, and 
one going through hell. 

He said to Miss Bennett after they had gone down- 
stairs again: "Didn't Miss Thome suspect that 
Bomething was going wrong with the girl ?** 

Miss Bennett liked the district attorney so much that 
she felt a strong temptation, under the mask of discuss- 
ing the case, to pour out to him all her troubles — the 
inevitable troubles of those whose lives were bound up 
twith Lydia's But her standards of good manners 
jpi^re too rigorous to allow her to yield. 

"No, I*m afraid we didn't guess," she answered. 
**But now that we do know, is there anything we can 
ido for the poor thing ?" 



MANSLAUGHTEE 71 

**Not just now," lie answered. "The case is clear 
against her. But when it comes to sentencing her you 
could do something. Anything Miss Thome said in 
her favor would be taken into consideration by the 
judge.'' 

"Tell me just what it is you want her to say/' 
answered Miss Bennett, eager to help. 

"It isn't what I want," O'Bannon replied with soma 
initation. "My duty is to present the case against 
her for tho state. I'm telling what Miss Thome can 
do if she feels that there are extenuating circum-- 
stances; if^ for instance, she thinks that she herself 
has been careless about her valuables." 

"She will, I'm sure," said Miss Bennett with more 
conviction than she felt, "because, between you and 
me, Mr. 0'''Bannon, she is careless. She lost a beauti- 
ful little bracelet the other — but when you're as 
young and lovely and rich as she is ^" 

She was interrupted by the district attorney's rather 
curt good-by. 

"Do you want to drive back with me, sheriff?" 

The sheriff did, and jumping in he murmured as 
they drove down the road : "She is all that She's 
easy to look at all right. She's handsome^ and yet 
not — not what I should call womanly. Look out at 
the turn. There's a hole as you get into the main 
road." 

*^Yes, I know about it," said O'Bannon. 



CHAPTER K 

WHEN Lydia came back from the Emmonses 
late Monday afternoon slie brought Bobby 
Dorset with her. Miss Bennett, who was 
arranging Morson's vases of flowers according to her 
more fastidious ideas, heard them come in, as noisy 
and high-spirited, she thought, as a couple of puppies. 
Lydia was so busy giving orders to have Bobby's room 
got ready and to have Eleanor telephoned to come over 
to dinner in case they wanted to play bridge, and 
sending the car for her, because Eleanor was so near- 
sighted she couldn't drive herself, and always let her 
chauffeur go home, and he had no telephone — so in- 
competent of Eleanor — that Miss Bennett had no 
chance to exchange a word with her. Besides, the 
poor lady was taken up with the horror of the ap- 
proaching bridge game. She liked a mild rubber now 
and then, but not with Lydia, who scolded her after 
each hand, remembering every play. 

Lydia, who was almost without physical or moral 
timidity, was always fighting against a subconscious 
horror, a repulsion rather than a fear, that life was 
just a futile, gigantic, patternless confusion, a tale told 

Vqr Wi idiot, signifying nothing, which is the horror 

72 



MANSLAUGHTEK 73 

of all materialists. When she walked into her bed- 
room and found her things laid out just as usual, and 
a new maid — a Frenchwoman, brown and middle- 
aged and competent — waiting for her, just as Evana 
had waited, one of her moods of deep depression en- 
gulfed her, just as those who fear death are sometimes 
brought to a realization of its approach by some every- 
day symboL Lydia did not fear death, but sometimes 
6he hated life. She never asked if it were her own 
relation to life that was unsatisfactory. 

"When she came downstairs in a tea gown of orange 
and brown chiffon no one but Bobby noticed that her 
high spirits had all evaporated. 

At table, before Morson and the footman, no one 
mentioned the subject of the robbery, but when they 
were back in the drawing-room Miss Bennett intro- 
duced it by asking: "Did the new woman hook you 
up right ? Will she do, dear V^ 

Lydia shrugged her shoulders, not stopping to think 
that Miss Bennett had spent one whole day in intelli- 
gence offices and a morning on the telephone in her 
effort to replace Evans. 

The older woman was silenced by the shrug— not 
hurt, but disappointed — and in the silence Bobby 
eaid : "Oh, what happened about Evans ? They took 
her away ?'' 

Lydia answered, with a contemptuous raising of 
ter chin, "She confessed — she always was a goose.^ 

"That didn't prove it,*' returned Miss Bennett with 



74 MANSLAUGHTER 

epirit, *1t was the wisest thing to do. The district 
attorney — my dear girls, if I were your age, and 
that man ^^ 

"Look out I'^ said Lydia. **He^8 a great friend of 
Eleanor's.'* 

"Of Eleanor V^ exclaimed Miss Bennett. She was 
not and never had been a vain woman, but she was 
always astonished at men caring for a type of fern- 
ininity different from her own. She liked Eleanor, 
but she thought her dry and unattractive, and she 
didn't see what a brilliant, handsome creature like 
O'Bannon could see in her. "Is he, really ?" 

"Yes, he is'," said Eleanor coolly. Experience 
had taught her an excellent manner in this situa* 
tion. 

"I wish you had waited, Lydia/' Miss Bennett 
went on. "It was very impressive the way he man- 
aged Evans, almost like a hypnotic influence. She 
told him everything. She seemed to give herself over 
into his hands. It was almost like a miracle. A 
moment before she had been so hostile — a miracle 
taking place right there in Lydia's bedroom." 

Lydia, who had been bending over reorganizing 
the fire, suddenly straightened up with the poter in 
her hand and said quickly, *^Where ? Taking place 
where ?" 

"In your room, dear. Evans was shut up there.'' 

"That man in my rooml" said Lydia, and her 
yrhole face seemedi to blaze with anger. 



MANSLAUGHTER 76 

"It never occurred to me that you would object, mj 
dear. He said he ^^ 

"It should have occurred to you. I hate the idea — 
that drunken attorney in my bedroom. It's not 
decent 1" 

"Lydia !" said Miss Bennett. 

Eleanor spoke in a voice as cold as steel. 

"What do you mean by calling Mr. O'Bannon a 
3runken attorney V^ 

"He drinks — Bobby says so. 

"I did not say so 1^' 

*Why, Bobby, you didP' 

"I said he used to drink when he was in collie.'' 

"Oh, well, a reformed drunkard," said Lydia, 
shrugging her shoulders. "I can't imagine your do- 
ing such a thing, Benny, except that you always do 
anything that anyone asks you to do." 

Her tone was more insulting than her words, and 
Miss Bennett did the most sensible thing she could 
think of — she got up and left the room. Lydia stood 
on the hearthrug, tapping her foot, breathing quickly, 
her jaw set. 

"I think Bennett's losing her mind," she said. 

"I think you are," said Eleanor^ "JThat possible 
difference does it make t" 

"You say that because you're crazy about this man. 
Perhaps if I were in love with him I'd lose all mj; 
sense of delicacy too ; but as it is — ^* 

Eleanor got up. 



te. MANSLAUGHTEE 

*T[ think I'll take my lack of delicacy home,'' she 
ftaidL "Tell Morson to send for the motor, will you, 
Bohbyf Good night Lydia. IVe had a perfectly 
horrid evening/' 

**Good night,'' said Lydia with a fierce little beck 
of her head. 

Bobby saw Eleanor to the car, and sat with her 
some time in the hall while it was being brought 
round. 

"No one could blame you for being furious; but 
f ou're not angry at her, are you, Eleanor ?" he said. 

**0f course I'm angry !" answered Eleanor. "She's 
loo impossible, Bobby. You can't keep on with people 
who let you in for this sort of thing. I could have 
had a perfectly pleasant evening at home — and to 
eome out for a row like thisl" 

"She doesn't do it often." 

"Often 1 No, there wouldn't be any question 
ihen." 

"She's been perfectly charming at the Emmonses'— 
gay and friendly, and everyone crazy about her. And 
by the way, Eleanor, I didn't say O'Bannon was a 
drunkard." 

"Of course you didn't," said Eleanor. 

"But he used to go on the most smashing sprees in 
college, and I told her about one of those and made 
her promise not to tell." 

"A lot that would influence Lydia." 

The oar was at the door now, and as he put her isto 



MANSLAUGHTER 77 

it he asked, "Oh, don't you feel so sorry for her some- 
times that you could almost weep over her ?" 

"I certainly do not !'* said Eleanor. 

Turning from the front door, Bobby ran upstairs 
and knocked at Miss Bennett's door. He found her 
sunk in an enormous chair, looking very pathetic and 
more like an unhappy child than a middle-aged 
yeoman. 

"It isn't bearable," she said. "Life under these 
conditions is too disagreeable. I don't complain of 
her never noticing all the little sacrifices one makes — 
all the trouble one takes for her sake. But when she's 
absolutely rude — just vulgarly, grossly rude as she 
was this evening ^" 

"Miss Bennett," said Bobby seriously, 'Svhen 
things go wrong with women they cry, and when 
things go wrong with men they swear. Lydia takes 
a little from both sexes. These outbursts are her 
equivalent for feminine tears or masculine profanity." 

Miss Bennett looked up at him with her starlike 
eyes shining with emotion. 

*^But someone must teach her that she can't behave 
like that. I can't do it. I can only teach by being 
kind — endlessly kind — and she can't learn from 
that. So the best thing for both of us is for me to 
leave her and let someone else try." 

Bobby sat down and took her thin aristocratic hand 
In both of his. 

^^o one can teach her;, dear Benny," he said, '^ut 



ftS MANSLAUGHTER 



can — and wilL That's my 'particular 2uglit> 
mare — that people like Lydia get broken by life — 
and ifa always such a smash. That's why I'm con* 
tent to stand by without, as most of my friends think, 
due regard for my own self-respect That's why I do 
hope youll contrive to. That's why she seems to me 
the most pathetic person I know. She almost makes 
me cry." 

'Tathetic I" said Miss Bennett with something ap- 
proaching a snort. 

^^Tes, like a child playing with a dynamite fuse. 
Even to-night she seemed to me pathetic. She can't 
afford to alienate the few people who really care for 
her — you and Eleanor and — well, of course, she 
won't alienate me, whatever she does." 

*^But she takes advantage of our affection," said 
Miss Bennett. 

Bobby stood up. 

"You bet she does I" he said. "She'll have some- 
thing bitter waiting for me now when I go down, some- 
thing she'll have forgotten by to-morrow and 111 re- 
member as long as I live." 

He smiled perfectly gayly and left the room. He 
found Lydia strolling about the drawing-room, softly 
^vhistling to herself. 

*Well," she said, '^y party seems to have broken 
tip early." 

^TBroken's the word," answered Bobby. 

"Isn't Eleanor absurd ?" said Lydia. "She loves so 



MANSLAUGHTER Y9 

to be snperiop — 'Order my carriage' i — like the 
virtuous duchess in a melodrama/' 

*^Slie doesn't seem absurd to me/' said Bobby. 

*'0h, you've been tiptoeing about binding up every- 
body's wounds, I suppose," she answered. "Did you 
tell them that you knew I didn't mean a word I said ? 
Ah, yes, I see you did. Well, I did mean every single 
:word, and more. Upon my word, I wish you'd mind 
your own business, Bobby." 

"I will," said Bobby, and got up and left the room. 

He went out and walked quickly up and down the 
flat stones under the grape arbor. The moon was not 
up, and the stars twinkled fiercely in the crisp cool 
air. He thought of other women — lovelier and 
kinder than Lydia. What kept him in this bondage 
to her ? All the time he was asking the question he 
was aware of her image in her orange tea gown 
against the dark woodwork of the room, and suddenly, 
before he knew it — certainly before he had made any 
resolve to return — he was back in the doorway, say- 
ing, 

"Would you like to play a game of piquet ?" 

She nodded, and they sat down at the card table. 
Bobby's faint resentment had gone in ten minutes, but 
it was longer before Lydia, laying down her cards, 
said, as if they had just been talking about her mis- 
ideeds instead of merely thinking about them, "But 
Benny is awfully obstinate, isn't she ? I mean the 
Jiiray she goes on doing things the way she thinks I 



80 MANSLAUGHTER 

OQght to like them instead of finding out the waj I 
do like/' 

"She^s very sweet — Benny is," 

^*And that's just what makes everyone think me so 
terrible — the contrast. She's sweet, but she wants 
her own way just the same. Whereas I ^^ 

**You don't want your own way, Lydia V* 

They nearly fought it out all over again. This 
time it was Lydia who stopped the discussion with a 
sudden change of manner. 

^The truth is, Bobby," she said with an unexpected 
gentleness," that I feel dreadfully about Evans. You 
jion't know how fond you get of a person who's about 
you all the time like that." 

'horrid that they'll rob you, isn't it ?" 

**Yes." Lydia stared thoughtfully before her. "I 
think what I mind most is that she wouldn't tell 
me — kept denying it, as if I were her enemy — and 
then in the first second she confessed to the district 
Attorney." 

^*0h, well, that's his profession." 

She seemed to think profoundly, and her next sen- 
tenoe surprised him. 

*^Do you think there's anything really between him 
and Eleanor ? I couldn't bear to have Eleanor marry; 
a man like that." 

Bobby, trying to be tactful, answered that he was 
snre Eleanor wouldn't, but as often happens to con* 
peioQsly tactful people, he failed to please. 



MANSLAUGHTER 8] 

**01i/' said Lydia, "you mean that you think he's 
crazy about her ?'* 

"Mercy, nol" said Bobby. "I shouldn't think 
Eleanor was his type at all, except perhaps as a friend 
If s the chorus-girl type that really stirs him." 

^^Oh, is it?" said Lydia, and took up the cards 
«gain. 

They played two hours, and the game calmed her 
but could not save her from the blackness of her mood. 
It came upon her, as it always did if it were coming, 
a few minutes after she had got into bed, turned out 
her light and had begun to discover that sleep was 
not dose at hand. Life seemed to her all effort with- 
out purpose. She felt like a martyr at the stake; 
only she had no vision to bear her company. She 
felt her loneliness to be not tjie result of anything she 
said OP did, but inevitable. There seemed to be 
nothing in the universe but chaos and herself. 

She turned on her light again and read until al« 
most morning. Kights like this were not unusual 
yriih Lydiat 



chapter: 



JOE THORNE had been fond of telling a story 
about Lydia in her childhood — in the days be- 
fore Miss Bennett came to them. After some 
tremendous scene of naughtiness and punishment^ she 
had come to him and said: "Father, if you're not 
angry at me any more, I'm not angry at you." It 
was characteristic of her still. She was not afraid to 
come forward and make up, but she was shy with the 
spoken word. She couldn't make an emotional 
apology, but she managed to convey in all sorts of 
dumb ways that she wanted to be friends — she con- 
trived to remember some long ungratified wish of 
Benny's, whether it were a present, or a politeness to 
some old friend, or sometimes only an errand that 
Benny had never been able to get her to 3o. There 
was always a definite symbol that Lydia was sorry, 
and she was always forgiven. 

Part of Eleanor's sense of her own superiority to 
the world lay in being more than usually impervious 
to emotion. Besides she had expressed herself satis- 
factorily at the time by leaving the house, so that she 

forgave toa Only of course a scene like that is never 

»2 



MANSLAUGHTEE 83 

without consequences — everybody's endurance had 
snapped a few more strands like a fraying rope. And 
there were consequences, too, in Lydia's own nature. 
She seemed to have become permanently wrong-headed 
and violent on any subject even remotely connected 
with the district attorney. 

This was evident a few days later when a voice 
proclaiming itself that of Judge Homans* secretary 
asked her if she could make it convenient to stop at 
the judge's chambers that afternoon to give the court 
some information in regard to a former maid of 
hers — Evans. Lydia's tone showed that it was not at 
all convenient. It seemed at one instant as if she were 
about to refuse point-blank to go. Then she yielded, 
and from that minute it became clear that her mind 
was continually occupied with the prospect of the 
visit. 

Late in the afternoon she appeared befor© the 
judge's desk in his little room, lined with shelves of 
calf-bound volumes. It was a chilly November after^ 
noon, and she had just come from tea at the golf club 
after eighteen holes. She was wrapped in a bright 
golden-brown coat, and a tomato-colored hat was 
pulled down over her brows. 

The judge, for no reason ascertainable, had 
imagined Miss Thome, the landed proprietor, the 
owner of jewels of value, as a dignified woman of 
thirty. He looked up in surprise over his spectacles. 
His first idea — he lived much out of the world — 



84 MANSLAUGHTEE 

was that a mistake had been made and that an unrnly 
female offender had been brought to hin^ not a com* 
plaining witness. 

Even after this initial misunderstanding was ex- 
plained the interview did not go welL The judge 
was a man of sixty, clean shaven and of a waxy hue. 
From his high, narrow brow all his lines flowed out- 
ward. His chin was heavy and deeply creased, and 
he had a way at times of drawing it in to meet his 
heavy, hunched shoulders. A natural interest in the 
continuity of his own thought, joined to fifteen years 
of pronouncements from the bench, rendered him im- 
pervious to interruption. He now insisted on review- 
ing the case of Evans, while Lydia sat tossing back 
first one side and then the other of her heavy coat 
and thinking — almost saying, *'0h, the tiresome old 
man ! !Why does he tell me all this ? Doesn't he knovT 
that it was my jewels that were stolen V^ She began 
to tap her foot, a sound which to those who knew 
Lydia well jvas regarded almost as the rattle of the 
rattlesnake. The judge began to draw his monologue 
fo a close. 

*The district attorney tells me that you feel that 
there was some carelessness on your own part which 
might be considered in a measure as constituting an 

extenuating circumstance '^ 

. He got no further. 

*'The district attorney says so V* said liydift, and 
If lie had quoted the authority of the janitor's boj^ her 



MANSLAUGHTEE 8$ 

tone could not Haye expressed more contemptuoua 
surprise. 

His Honor, however, missed it. 

"Yes,** he went on, "Mr. O'Bannon tells mo that 
the charge of your safe, without supervision ^' 

*'Mr. O^Bannon is completely misinformed," said 
Lydia, shutting her eyes and raising her eyebrows. 

The judge turned his head squarely to look at 
her. 

"You mean,'* he said, "that you do not feel that 
there was any contributory carelessness which might 
in part explain, without in any true sense excus* 

* 99 

mg 

"Certainly not," said Lydia. "And I have never 
said anything to anyone that would make them think 
so." 

"I have been misinformed as to your attitude," said 
the judge. 

*^vidently," said Lydia, and almost at once 
brought the interview to a close by leaving the room. 

As she walked down the path to her car a figure 
came out of the shadow as if it had been waiting for 
her. It was the same traffic policeman who had 
stopped her on her way to Eleanor's. H© took off his 
brown cap. She saw his round, pugnacious head and 
the imcertain curve of his mouth. He was a nice- 
looking man, and younger than she had supposed — 
quite boyish in fact She caught a glimpse of some 
iDrt of ribbon on his breast — the croix do leruerre. 



86 MANSLAUGHTER 

She looked straight at him with interest^ and saw that 
he was tense with embarrassment 

"I beUeve I have something of yours/' he said. ^T. 
want to give it back." He was fumbling in his 
pocket. She couldn't really permit that. 

"Bribed people," she thought, "must be content to 
remain bribed." She walked rapidly toward her car 
without answering. The chauffeur opened the door 
for her. 

"Home," she said, and drove away. 

An hour or so later the judge was giving a descrip- 
tion of the interview to the district attorney. It began 
as a general indictment of the irresponsibility of the 
wealthy young people of to-day, touching on their 
dress, appearance and manners. Then it descended 
suddenly to the particular case. 

"She came into this room in a hat the color of a 
flamingo" — the judge's color sense was not good — 
**and her skirts almost to her knees ; as bold — well, I 
wouldn't like to tell you what my first idea was on 
seeing her. She was as hard as — I could have told 
her that some •f her own father's methods were not 
strictly legal, only the courts were more lenient in 
those days. A ruthless fellow — Joe Thome. Do 
you know this girl ?" 

*Tve met her," said O'Bannon. 

*'She made a very unfavorable impression on me," 
said Judge Homans. "I don't know when a young 
^iroman of agreeable appearance — she has consider- 



MANSLAUGHTER 8T 

able beauiy — lias made sucli an tmf avorable imprea* 
&ion/^ And His Honor added^ as if the two remarks 
luui nothing to do with each other^ '^I shall give this 
imf ortunate maid a very light sentence.^' 

The district attorney bowed. It was exactly what 
he had always intended. 

But a sentence which sonnded light to Judge Ho- 
mans — not less than three and a half nor more than 
fifteen years — sounded heavy to Lydia. She was 
horrified. The recent visit which, under Mrs. Galton's 
auspices, she had paid to a man's prison was in her 
mind — the darkness, the crowded cells, the pale ab- 
normal-looking prisoners, the smell, the guards, the 
silence. She simply would not allow Evans to spend 
fifteen years in such torture. She was all the more 
determined because she knew, without once admitting 
it, that she mighi have prevented it. 

She read the sentence in the local newspaper at 
breakfast — she breakfasted in bed — and the next 
minute she was up and in Miss Bennett's room. 

"This is a little too much,'' she said, walking in so 
fast that her silk dressing gown stood out like a rose- 
colored balloon. "Fifteen years ! Those men must 
be mad! Come, Benny, put on your things. You 
must go with me to the district attorney's office and 
have this arranged. Imagine it I After her confess- 
ing too I I said she was wrong to confess." 

But when she reached the office she found no end 
tibere but Miss Finnegan, the steuographer. 



88 MANSLAUGHTEK 

''Whereas Mr. O'Baimoii V^ she asked as if she had 
an engagement with him which he had baoken. 

Miss Finnegan raised her head from her keys and 
looked at the imexpected visitor in a tomatchcolored 
liat^ whose feet had sounded so sharp and quick on the 
stairs and who had thrown open the door so violently, 

*^Mr. O^Bannon's in court/' she answered in a tone 
which seemed to suggest that almost anyone would 
know that. By this time^ mounting the stairs with 
more dignity^ Miss Bennett entered^ appealing and 
conciliatory. 

"We want so much to see him/* she murmured. 

Miss Finnegan softened and said that she'd tele- 
phone over to the courthouse. He might be able to get 
over for a minute. She telephoned and hung up the 
receiver in silence. 

"When will he be here V^ demanded Lydia. 

"When he's at liberty," Miss Finnegan answered 
coldly. 

Waiting did not calm Lydia nor the atmosphere of 
the office, which proclaimed O'Bannon's power. 
People kept coming in with the same question — 
when could they see the district attorney? An old 
foreigner was there who kept muttering something to 
Miss Finnegan in broken English. 

"Yes, but then your son ought to plead,'* Miss 
Finnegan kept saying over and over again, punctuat* 
Ingher sentence with quick roulades on the typewriter. 

There was a thin young man with shifty eyes, and 



MANSLAUGHTER 89 

a local la-wyer with a strong flavor of the soil about 
hiixL 

Miss Bennett watched Lydia anxiously. The girl 
was not accustomed to being kept waiting. Her bank^ 
her dentist, the shops where she dealt had long ago 
learned that it saved everybody trouble to serve Miss 
Thome first 

At last O'Bannon entered. Lydia sprang up. 

"Mr. O'Bannon ^^ she began. He held up his 

hand. 

"One minute/' he said. 

He was listening to the story of the old woman, not 
even glancing in Lydia's direction ; yet something in 
the bend of his head, in the strain of his effort to keep 
his eyes on his interlocutor and his mind on what was 
being told him made Miss Bennett believe he was 
acutely aware of their presence. Yet Lydia patiently 
bore even this delay. Miss Bennett drew a breath 
of relief. The girl had evidently come resolved to 
show her better side. The impression was strength- 
ened when he approached them. Lydia's manner was 
gentle and dignified. 

"Mr. O'Bannon," said she, "I feel distressed at the 
sentence of my maid — Evans.'* 

Miss Bennett looked on like a person seeing SL 
vision — Lydia had never seemed — had never been 
like this — gentle, feminine, well, there was no other 
word for it, sweet — poignantly sweet. She did not 
how anyone oould resist her, and glancing at the 



90 MANSLAUGHTER 

district attorney she saw lie was not resisting, on the 
contrary, with bent head, and his queer light eyen 
fixed softly on Lydia's he was drinking in every tone 
of her voice. Their voices sank lower and lower until 
they were almost whispering to each other, so low that 
Miss Bennett thought' fantastically that anybody com- 
ing in unexpectedly might have thought they were /* 
lovers. 

"She isn't a criminal," Lydia was saying. "She 
was tempted, and she has confessed. Won't you help 
me to save her ?" 

"I can't,'' he whispered back. "It's too late. 
She's been sentenced." 

"Too lat€, perhaps, by the regular methods — but 
there are always others. You have so much power — 
you give people the feeling you can do anything." 
He shook his head, still gazing at her. "You give me 
that feeling. Do this for me." 

"You could have done it yourself, so easily, before 
she was sentenced." 

"I know, I know. That's why I care so. Oh, Mr. 

O'Bannon, just for a moment, you and I ^" Her 

voice sank so that Miss Bennett could not hear what 
she said, but she saw her put her hand on his arm 
like a person taking possession of her own belongings. 
Then there was no use in listening any more, for a ,^. 
jBomplete silence had fallen between them; they did 
not even seem to be breathing. 

The district attorney suddenly raised his head, with 



MANSLAUGHTEB 91 

a quick shake^ like a dog coming out of water, and 
stepped back. 

"It can't be done," be said. "If I were willing to 
break tbe law into pieces, I can't do it'' 

Lydia's brow darkened, "You mean you won't,'* 
sbe said. 

"No," ho answered quietly. "I mean just what I 
say. I can't. Eemember you have had two chances 
to help the girl — at tbe first complaint, and in your 
conversation with the judge. iWhy didn't you do it 
then ?" 

Why hadn't she? She didn't know, but she 
answered hastily : 

"I did not understand ^" 

"Tou wouldn't understand," he returned, in that 
quiet, terrible tone that made her think somehow of 
Ilseboro. "I tried to tell you and you wouldn't wait 
to hear, and the judge tried to tell you and you 
wouldn't listen. People don't often get three chances 
in this world. Miss Thome." 

His tone maddened her, in combination with her 
own failure. "Are you taking it upon yourself to 
reprove me, Mr. O'Bannon ?" she asked. 

"I'm taking it upon myself to tell you how things 
are," he answered. 

"I don't believe it is the way they are," she said. 

Angry as she was, she did not mean the phrase td 
sound as insulting as it did. She meant that there 
must be some xmsuspeoted avenue of approadi; but 



82 MANSLAUGHTER 

her quick tone and insolent manner made the worda 
themselves sound like the final insult. 

O'Bannon simply turned from her, and holding up 
his hand to the shifty-eyed boy said clearly, "I'll see 
you now, Gray/' 

There was nothing for Lydia to do but accept her 
dismissal. She flounced out of the room, and all the 
way home in the car shocked Miss Bennett by her 
epithets. "Insolent country lout" was the mildest of 
them. 

A few days afterward Miss Thome moved back to 
K'ow York to the house in the East Seventies. Miss 
Bennett, who hated the country, partly because there 
she was more under Lydia's thumb, rejoiced at being 
back in New Tork. She had many friends — was 
much more personally popular than her charge — 
and in town she could see them more easily. 
Every morning after she had finished her housekeep- 
ing she went out and walked round the reservoir. 
She liked to walk, planting her little feet as 
precisely as if she were dancing or skating. Then 
there was usually some necessary shopping for Lydia 
or the house or herself; then luncheon, and afterward 
for an hour or two her own work. She was a member 
of endless committees, entertainments for charitable 
purposes, hospital boards, reform associations. Then 
before five she was at home, behind the tea table, wait- 
ftg on Lydia, engaged in getting rid of people whom 
Lydia didn't Want to see and keeping those whom 



MANSLAUGHTER 93 

Lydia would want to see but had forgotten. And 
then dinner — at home if Lydia was giving a party; 
but most often both women dined out. 

The winter was notable for Lydia's sudden friend- 
ship or flirtation, or affair as it was variously de- 
scribed, with Stephen Albee, the ex-govemor of al 
great state. It would have seemed more natural if he 
had been one of Eleanor's discoveries, but he was 
not — he was Lydia's own find. Eleanor, with all her 
airs of a young old maid, had never been known to dis- 
tinguish any man lacking in the physical attractions 
of youth. Albee, though he had been a fine-looking 
man once and still had a certain magnificent leonine 
appearance, was over fifty and showed his years. He 
had come to New York to conduct an important Fed- 
eral investigation, and the masterly manner in which 
he was doing it led to presidential prophecies. 
Lydia's friends were beginning to murmur that it 
would be just like Lydia to end in the White House. 
Besides, the governor was rich, the owner of silver 
mines and a widower. It was noticed that Lydia was 
more respectful to him than she had ever been to any- 
one, followed his lead intellectually, and quoted him 
to the verge of being comic. 

"It is painful to me,'' Eleanor said, "to watch the 

process of Lydia's discovering politics. Last Monday 

the existence of the Federal constitution dawned upon 

her, and next week states' rights may emerge." 

• It was equally painful to the governor's old friends 



94 MANSLAUGHTER 

to watch the even less graceful process of his dis- 
covery of social life. The two friends adventured 
mutually. If Lydia sat all day listening to his inves- 
tigation^ he appeared hardly less regularly in her 
opera box. 

Oddly enough, they had met at a prison-reform 
luncheon given by the same noble women whose pres- 
ence at her house had so much irritated Lydia. The 
object of the luncheon was to advertise the cause, to 
inspire workers, to raise money. Albee was the prin- 
cipal speaker, not because he had any special interest 
in prison reform, but because he was the most con- 
gpicuous public figure in New York at the moment, 
and as he was known not to be an orator, everyone was 
eager to hear him speak. Mrs. Galton, the chairman 
of the meeting, was shocked by his reactionary views 
on prisons when he expounded them to her in an at- 
tempt to evade her invitation; but with the sound 
!Worldiness which every reformer must acquire she 
knew that his name was far more important to her 
cause than his views, and vrith a little judicious flat- 
tery she roped him into promising he would come and 
say a few words — not, he specially insisted, a speech. 
Mrs. Galton agreed, knowing that no speaker in the 
world, certainly no masculine speaker, could resist the 
appeal of a large, warm, admiring audience when 
once he got to his feet. "The only difficulty will be 
stopping him,^^ she thought rather sadly. It would 
be wise, too, she thought, to put someone next to him 



MANSLAUGHTEB 9S 

at lunclieoii who Tirould please him. Flattery from an 
TUgly old woman like herself wouldn't be enough. 
Then she remembered Lydia, whom, after their un- 
fortunate meeting at luncheon in the autumn, she had 
taken through one of the men's prisons in an effort to 
enlist the girl's cooperation. They had had confer- 
ences over Evans too, for Lydia had not remained 
utterly indifferent to Evans' situation, had indeed per- 
mitted, even urged, Miss Bennett to go to visit the girl 
and see what could be done for her. 

Miss Thome accepted the invitation to attend the 
luncheon; and then, as cold-bloodedly as a diplomat 
might make use of a lovely courtesan, Mrs. Galton put 
her next to the great man at the fipeakers' table, where 
of course so young, idle and useless a person had no 
right to be. 

The governor arrived very late, with his fingers in 
his waistcoat pocket to indicate to all who saw him 
hurrying in between the crowded tables that he had 
been unavoidably detained and had spent the last half 
hour in agonized contemplation of his watch» As a 
matter of fact, he had been reading the papers at his 
dub, wishing to cut down the hour of too much food 
and too much noise which he knew would precede the 
hour of too much speaking. He knew he would sit 
next to Mrs. Galton, whom he esteemed as a wise and 
good philanthropist but dreaded as a companion. 

Everything began as he feared. He took his place 
im Jtra. Galton's right, with an apology for having 



96 MANSLAUGHTER 

been detained — unavoidably. It had looked at one 
time as if he could not get there, but of course hia 

feeling for the great work 

Mrs. Galton, who had been through all this hun- 
dreds of times and knew he had never intended to 
arrive a minute earlier than he did, smiled warmly, 
and said how fortunate they counted themselves in 
having obtained an hour of the time of a man whom 
all the world 



On the contrary, the governor esteemed it a privi- 
lege to speak on behalf of a cause which commanded 
the sympathy 

It was a turning point, indeed, in the history of any 
cause, when a man like the governor 

They would have gone on like this through lunch- 
eon, but at this moment a sudden rustling at his side 
made the governor turn, and there — later a good deal 
than he had contrived to be — was Lydia, Lydia in a 
tight plain dress and a small plumed hat that made 
her look like a crested serpent. Mrs. Galton intro- 
duced them, and with a sigh of relief settled back to 
eating her lunch and running over her own introduc- 
tory remarks in the comfortable certainty that the 
governor would give her no more trouble. 

He didn't. He looked at Lydia, and all his heavy 
politeness dropped from him. His eyes twinkled, and 
He said, "Come, my dear young lady, let us save time 
by your telling me who you are and what you do and 
whj you are here." 



MANSLAUGHTER 97 

This amused Lydia. 

"I think," she said, "that that is the best conver- 
sational opening I ever heard. Well, I suppose I 
ought to say that I am here to listen to you." 

"Yes, yes — perhaps," answered Albee, with a 
somewhat political wave of his hand, "in the same 
sense in which I came here to meet you — because 
fate, luck, divine interposition arranged it so. But 
why, according to your own limited views, are you 
here ?" 

"Oh, in response to a noble impulse. Don^t you 
ever have them ?" 

"I did — I did when I was your age," said the gov- 
ernor, and he leaned back and studied her with open 
admiration, which somehow in a man of his reputa- 
tion was not offensive. 

"Why are you here yourself?" said Lydia, giving 
him a gentle look to convey that she was very grateful 
to him for thinking her so handsome. 

"Why, I just told you," answered the governor, 
"because Fate said to herself : ^Now here's poor old 
Stephen Albee's been having a dull hard time of it. 
Let's have something pleasant happen to him. Let's 
have him meet Miss Thome.' " 

A lady on Lydia's other side, who gave her life to 
the reform of criminals and particularly hated those 
who remained outside of penal institutions, was horri- 
fied by what she considered the flirtatious tone of the 
conversation. She could hear — in fact she listened 



98 MANSLAUGHTEK 

— that several meetings had been arranged before the 
governor's time came to speak. 

Everything worked out exactly as Mrs. Gal ton had 
intended. The governor — who had expected to say 
that he was heart and soul with this great cause, to 
rehearse a few historic examples of prison mismanage- 
ment^ to confide to his audience that a man of national 
reputation was at that moment waiting to see him 
about something of international importance, and then 
to get away in time to play a few holes of golf before 
idark — rose to his feet, fired with the determination 
to make a good speech, good enough to impress Lydia ; 
and he did. He had a simple direct manner of speak- 
ing, so that no one noticed that his sentences them- 
selves were rather oratorical and emotional. Most 
speakers, too many at least, have just the opposite 
technic — an oratorical manner and no matter behind 
it He gave the impression, without actually saying 
so, that the only reason he had not given his life to 
prison reform was that the larger duty of the public 
service called him, and the only reason why he did 
not swamp his audience with the technical details of 
the subject was that it was too painful, too shocking. 

There was great and sincere applause as he sat 
down. Workers were inspired, subscriptions did flow 
in. Before the next speaker rose, Lydia, in sight of 
the whole room, walked out, followed by the great 
man, who had explained hastily to Mrs. Galton that 
lie was already late for an engagement with a man of 



MANSLAUGHTER 69 

Bational reputation who was waiting to discuss a gciat- 

ter of international importance. Mrs. Galton nodded 

. fflHiably. She had little further use for the governor. 

The next day Lydia went downtown to hear him 
conducting his investigation, and was impressed by 
the spectacle of his dominating will and crystalline 
mind in action. She came every day. Her life here- 
tofore had not stimulated her to intellectual endeavor, 
but now she discovered that she had a good, keen, 
mind. She learned the procedure of the investigation, 
remembered the evidence, read books — Wellman on 
Cross-Examination and the Adventures of Sergeant 
Ballentine. She enjoyed herself immensely. It waa 
the best game she had ever played. The vision of a 
vicarious career as the wife of a great politician was 
now always in the back of her mind. 

Eleanor, with her superior intellectual equipment, 
might laugh at Lydia's late discovery of the political 
field ; but Lydia's knowledge was not theoretical and 
remote, like Eleanor's. It was alive, vivified by her 
energy and coined into the daily action of her life. 
With half Eleanor's brains she was twice as effective. 

She admired Albee deeply, almost dangerously, 
and she wanted to admire him more. She enjoyed all 
the symbols of his power. She liked the older, more 
important men of her acquaintance to come suing to 
her for an opportunity of meeting Albee socially. 
She liked to watch other women trying to draw him 
away from her. She even liked the way the traffio 



100 MANSLAUGHTER 

policemen would let her car throngli when he was 
in it. She liked all these things, not from vanity, as 
many girls would have liked them, but because they 
constantly held before her eyes the picture of Albee 
as a superman. And if Albee were a superman the 
problem of her life was solved. Then everything 
would be simple — to give her youth and beauty and 
money, her courage and knowledge of the world to 
making him supreme. It was true that he had not 
as yet asked her to marry him — had not even mada 
love to her, unles admiration is love-making — but to 
Lydia that was a secondary consideration. The first 
thing was to make up her own mind. 

She had two great problems to face. At first he 
did not want to go out at all — did not want to enter 
her field. He appeared to think, as so many Ameri- 
cans do, that there was something trivial, almost im- 
moral, in meeting your fellow creatures except in pro- 
fessional relations. The second problem was worse, 
that having overcome his reluctance, he began to like 
it too much, to take it too seriously. He had never 
had time for it before, he said, but actually he must 
have felt excluded from it, either at college^ or as a 
young man in the legislature of his state. 

The first time he went to the opera with her — he 
was genuinely fond of music — she noticed this. 
Lydia's box was next to Mrs. Little's The news- 
papers made her name impressive, but her slim white- 
haired presence made her more so. Lydia herself ad- 



MANSLAUGHTEB 101 

mired her, and if ever she thouglit of her own old age 
she thought she would like to be like Mrs. Little — a 
wish very unlikely of realization, for Mrs. Little had 
been molded by traditional obligations and sacrifices 
to duties which Lydia had never acknowledged. 

As they were waiting in the crowded lobby of the 
Thirty-ninth Street entrance — all the faces above 
velvets and furs peering out and all the footmen's 
faces peering in and everyone chattering and shouting 
and so little apparently accomplished in the way of 
dearing the crowd — Albee said : *'Mrs. Little has 
asked me to dine on the sixteenth." 

Lydia caught something complaisant in the tone. 
The idea that he could be flattered by such an invita- 
tion was distasteful to her. 

*^Did you accept ?" she asked in a cold tone that she 
tried to make noncommittal. 

Fortunately politics had taught Albee caution. He 
liad not accepted. He had said that he would let the 
great lady know in the morning. 

"Do you think that sort of thing will amuse you V 

He answered that it would amuse him if she were 
going, and against her better judgmoit she allowed 
herself to believe that the eagerness in his voice had 
been occasioned by the promised opportunity of see* 
ing her. 

The fancy ball was more serious. The Pulsifera 
were giving it in their great ballroom just before 
Lent Lydia and Miss Bennett were discussing ooe- 



102 MANSEAUGHTER 

tumes one afternoon at tea time wlien Albee was aor 
nounced. Ljdia liad been at his investigation that 
morning^ and had never admired him more. 

"It's the Pulsifers we're talking abont," said Misa 
[Bennett as he entered. *^Lydia wants to be a 
Japanese, but there'll be lots of them. I want her 
to go as an American Indian." 

With a vivid recollection of him deciding a 
•tniggle that morning between two lawyers, Lydia felt 
ashamed, hnmbled, that she should be presented to 
him as occupied with such a subject as a fancy cos- 
tume. His voice cut in» 

"Oh, yes, the Pulsifers I I ha2 a caar*. f^is morn- 
ing.'* It was the same complaisant tone — as if it 
mattered whether he had or not. 

"Oh, do go !'' cried Miss Bennett. She meant to 
be helpful, and a(Jded the first thing that came into 
her head. "You would make a wonderful Eoman 
senator. I'll arrange your costume for you." 

In a flash Lydia saw him before her, hardened, 
bare armed, bare throated. She recoiled, though of 
course it was not his fault If Benny had said a doge 
or a cardinal ; but glancing at her friend she saw he 
waa not suited to either role. He was not fine and 
thin and subtle. He was the type of a Eoman senator. 

*T[t would be a great t^nptation to go — to see Miss 
Thome as an Indian," he answered, smiling his 
admiration at her» 

"I don't think I shall go," said Lydia, waving her 



MANSLAUGHTER 103 

head filightly, "I don't think it?g dignified — 
dressing np like monkeys.'* 

Miss Bennett looked up surprised. Ljdia had been 
so interested in the whole subject a few minuteB be- 
fore. She thought the girl was growing unoommonl/ 
capricious. Albee caught the note at once. 

"If they would let me go as a spectator ^^ he 

began. 

"That spoils it, you know," Miss Bennett answered, 
but Lydia interrupted : 

"Of course, they'd be glad to get the governor on 
any terms. 

But the question was more simply settled. Albee 
was summoned to Washington to testify before a com- 
mittee of the Senate which under the guise of helping 
him was actually trying to steal the political thunder 
of his investigation and Lydia, with her Indian cos- 
tume just completed — and Benny's, too, from a 
Longhi picture — abandoned the whole thing and 
went off to Washington to hear the great man testify 
carrying the reluctant Miss Bennett with her. 

Bobby Dorset, who had said immediately just what 
Lydia had longed to hear Albee say — that parties 
like that were more trouble than they were worth — 
had been coerced by Lydia into going. She had made 
him get a Greek warrior's costume, in which he was 
very splendid. He was left with his costume and hia 
party, and no Lydia to make it pleasant. 

He had come in late one afternoon and had stayed 



104 MANSLAUGHTER 

on, as be often did to dinner. In the middle of the 
meal Lydia was called away — Gk)vemor Albee 
wanted to speak to her on the telephone. She sprang 
up from the table and left the room. Miss Bennett 
looked pathetically at Bobby. 

"It's to decide whether we go to [Washington to- 
morrow," she said. 

"To Washington V 

'^The governor is going to testify before a Senate 
committee and has invited ns to come. It will be 
very interesting/' Miss Bennett added loyally. 

"BntthePulsifersr 

"Oh, I'm surprised Lydia cares so little for that 
Of course, at my age, I'm grateful to escape it." 

"Oh, Benny," said Bobby, "you're not a bit! 
You'd much rather go to it than to any old Senate 
committee. Tou love parties for the same reason that 
the lamb loved Mary." 

"You make me seem very frivolous — at fifty-five," 
said Miss Bennett 

Then Lydia came back from the pantry, her eyes 
bright, and laid her hand on her companion's 
shoulder, a rare caress, as she passed. 

*^e're going, Benny. It isn't closed to the pub- 
lic." Her whole face W5s softened and lit by her 
pleasure. 

Bobby thought, "Can it be she really cares for tHat 
old urar horse I" 



CHAPTER Vn 

IT WAS great fun traveling with Albee. He had 
engaged a drawing-room on the Congressional 
Limited, and with a forethought, old-fashioned 
but agreeable, had provided newspapers and maga- 
zines and a box of candy. His secretary was hover- 
ing near with letters to be signed. The conductor 
came and asked whether everything was all right, 
governor, and people passed the door deliberately, 
staring in to get a glimpse of the great man; and 
Lydia could see that they were murmuring, "That^s 
Albee, you know, he's going down to testify.^' 

Lydia did not know Washington at all. She had 
been taken there once as a child by one of the ener- 
getic young American governesses — had gone to Mt. 
Vernon by boat and home by trolley, had whispered 
in the rotunda and looked at the statues and seen the 
House and been secretly glad that the Senate was in 
secret session so that she couldn't see that, and there 
would be time to go up the monument — something 
that she really had enjoyed — not only on account of 
the view, but because her governess was afraid of ele- 
vators and was terrified in the slow, jerky ascent. 
Then during the period of her engagement to Hseboro 

105 



106 MANSLAUGHTER 

she had been at one or two dinners at the British em- 
bassy. Sut that had been long ago^ before the days 
of her discovery of the Federal Constitution. Of gov- 
ernmental Washington she knew nothing. 

The Senate committee met at ten the next morning. 
There was a good deal of interest in the hearing, and 
the corridors were full of people waiting for the doors 
to open. Miss Bennett and Lydia were taken in first 
through a private room to assure their having good 
seats. Lydia found the committee room beautiful — 
more like a gentleman's library than an office — wide, 
high windows looking out on the Capitol grounds, tall 
bookcases with glass doors and blue-silk curtains, a 
huge polished-wood table in the center; with chairs 
about it for the senators. 

She recognized them as they came in from Albee's 
description — the neat blue-eyed senator who looked 
like a little white fox, his enemy; the fat blond young 
man, full of words and smiles, who was a most ineffec- 
tive friend ; and the large suave chairman, in a tightly 
fitting plum-colored suit, with a grace of manner that 
I kept you from knowing whether he were friend or foe. 

Not that you would have suspected from anyone's 
manner that there was such a thing as enmity in the 
world — they were all so quiet and friendly. Indeed, 
when Albee came in he was talking — "chatting" 
would be a better word — with the little fox-faced 
BeQator against whom he had so specially warned 
Xjdia. The wkole tone was as if eight or ten hard- 



MANSLAUGHTER 107 

working men had caUed in a friend to help them out 
on the facts. 

Lydia thought it very exciting, knowing as she did 
how much of hate and party politics lay behind the 
hearing. She was only dimly aware that her own 
future depended on the impression Albee might now 
make upon her. In his own investigation in New 
Tork he was the chief, but here he would be attacked, 
ruled against, tripped up if possible. There he was 
a general, here he was a duelist. She saw several 
senators glancing at her, asking who she was, and 
guessed that the answer was that she was the girl 
Albee was in love with, engaged to, making a fool of 
himself over — something like that She didn't mind. 
She felt proud to be identified with him. She looked 
at him as he sat down at the chairman's right, and 
tried to think how she would feel if she were saying 
to herself, "There's my husband," Could you marry 
a man for whom you felt an immovable physical cold- 
ness ? She thought of Dan O'Bannon's kiss, and the 
continuity of her thought broke up in a tangle of emo- 
tion — even there in the white morning light of that 
remote committee room. 

The hearing was beginning; it was beginning wili 
phrases like, "The committee would be glad, governor, 
if you would tell us in your own words ^" 

"If I might be permitted, Mister Senator, my 
imderstanding is " 

Again and again she saw the trap laid for him and 



iOS MANSLAUGHTER 

thought with alarm that there was no escape^ and then 
saw that with no effort^ with just a turn of his easy 
wriat, he escaped, and what was more remarkable, had 
told the truth — yes, as she thought it over, it was 
nearly the truth. He was particularly successful with 
the fox-faced senator, whose only interest seemed to 
be to get the governor to say something that would 
I look badly in newspaper headlines. She grasped 
Albee's method after a few instances. It was to make 
J the senator define and redefine his question untU 
iwhatever odium attached to the subject would fall on 
the questioner, not the answerer. 

After fifteen minutes she knew that he was a match 
for them — his mind was quicker, subtler and more 
powerful. He made them all seem mentally clumsy 
and evilly disposed. He could put their questions, 
€ven the hostile ones, so much better than they could. 
Again and again, with a gentle, an almost loving 
cmile, he would say, "I think, Mister Senator, if you 
wiU allow me, that what you really mean to ask in 

that last question is whether ^" And a clear exact 

statement of the confused ideas of the senator would 
follow, as the senator, with an abashed nod, would be 
forced to admit. 

Lydia, unused to this sort of thing, thought it little 
short of a miracle that anyone's mind could work as 
well as that under such pressure. He seemed to her a 
superman. 

After th# hearing they lunched downstairs in the 



MANSLAUGHTER 10» 

airless basement in wliich the Fathers of the Senate 
are provided with excellent Southern dishes, served 
by white- jacketed negroes. Lydia met most of the 
notables, even the fox-faced senator, who, she was told 
was very much of a ladies' man. She was for the 
first time a satellite, a part of the suite of a great man, 
and glad to be. 

Then, after luncheon, Benny having tactfully ex- 
pressed a wish to go back to the hotel and rest, as they 
were going out to dinner, Lydia and the governor took 
a walk along the banks of the Potomac. March is 
very springlike in Washington. The fruit trees were 
beginning to bud and the air was mild and still, so 
that the river reflected the monument like a looking- 
glass. 

"Ton seemed to me very wonderful this morning,'^ 
she said. 

He turned to her. 

"If I were thirty years younger you wouldnH say 
that to me with impunity.'* 

"If you were thirty years younger you would seem 
like an inefficent boy compared to what you are now.'* 
Her face, her eyes, her whole body expressed the 
admiration she felt for his powers. 

There was a little silence; then he said gravely, 
'T!f I could only persuade myself that it was possible 
that a. girl of your age could love & man of 
mine " Lydia caught her underlip in a white 

tooth — she had not meant love — she had not 



110 MANSLAUGHTER 

thought it a question of that. His sensitive egotism 
understood her thought without any spoken word, and 
he added, "And I should be content with nothing 
else — nofliing else, Lydia/' 

In all her cogitation on the possibility of her mar- 
riage with the governor she had somehow never 
thought of his expecting her to love hini — to be in 
love with him. 

She walked on a few steps, and then saivl, "I don't 
think I shall ever be in love — I never ha^e. I feel 
for you a more serious respect and admiration than I 
have ever felt for anyone, man or woman.*' 

"And what do you feel for this little blond "v^hipper- 
enapper who is always under your feet ?'' 

"For Bobby ?" Her surprise was genuine that his 
name should be dragged into a serious discussion. "I 
feel affection for Bobby. He is very useful and kind. 
I could never love him. Oh, mercy no !'' 

"Do you mean to say,'' said Albee, "you havo never 
felt — you have never had a man take you in his 
arms, and say to yourself as he did, ^This is living' ?" 

"No, no, no, no I Never, never !" said Lydia. She 
lied passionately, so passionately that she never 
stopped to remember that she was lying. "I don't 
want to feel like that. Tou don't understand me, gov- 
ernor. To feel what I feel for you is more, much 
more than " 

She stopped without finishing her sentence. 

"You make me very proud, very happy when you 



MANSLAUGHTEE 111 

talk like that/' said Albee. "I certainly never ex- 
pected that the happiest time of my life — these last 
few weeks — would come to me after I was fifty. I 
ytronder/' he added, turning and looking her over with 
a sort of paternal amusement which she had grown to 
like — "I wonder if there were really girls like you in 
my own time, if I had had sense enough to find 
them.'* 

Lydia, who was under the impression that her 
whole future was being settled there and then in 
Potomac Park, within sight of the White House, on 
which she kept a metaphysical eye, felt that this was 
the ideal way for a man and woman to discuss their 
marriage — not coldly, but without surging waves of 
emotion to blind their eyes. Marriage had not been 
actually mentioned. Nothing definite had been said 
by either of them when before five they came in to 
join Benny at tea. But Lydia had no doubt of the 
significance of their talk. Like most clear-sighted 
heiresses, she know, rationally, that her fortune was a 
part of her charms ; but like most human beings, she 
found it easy to believe that she was loved for herself. 

They were to go back to New York on the midnight 
so that the governor might be in time for his morn- 
ing's work in the investigation, but before going he 
was having a small dinner party. An extra man for 
Benny, a distinguished member of the House, and the 
senator from his own state — an old political ally — 
and his wife. His wife had been a Washington 



113 MANSLAUGHTER 

^ronutn of an old f amilj, and now with Iier husband's 
xnonej and position her honse was a place of some 
political importance. 

From the moment the Framinghams arrived a 
cloud began to descend on Ljdia. She liked them 
both — the freah-faced, white-haired, clever, wise 
senator and his pretty, elegant wife — elegant, but a 
little more elaborate than the same type in New York. 
Mrs. Framingham's hair was more carefully curled, 
her dress a trifle richer and tighter, her jewels more 
numerous than Lydia's or Miss Eennett's; but still 
Lydia recognized her at once as an equal — a woman 
who had her own way socially in her own setting. 

She liked the Framinghams — it was Albee she 
liked less welL He was different from the instant of 
their entrance. To use the language of the nursery, 
he began to show off, not in connection with his suc- 
cess of the morning — Lydia could have forgiven 
some vanity about that performance — but about 
social matters, the opera, Miss Thome's box, and 
then — Lydia knew it was coming — the Pulsifers. 
He wanted Mrs. Framingham to know that he had 
been asked to the Pulsifers'. He did it this way: 

''Tou may imagine, Mrs. Framingham, how much 
flattered I feel that Miss Thome should have come on 
to the hearing, missing one of the most brilliant par- 
ties of the season — yes, the Pulsifers'. Of course, as 
far as I am concerned, it is a great relief to sidestep 
tfial soYl of thing. Oh, I don't wish to appear nn- 



MANSLAUGHTER 11$ 

gracious. It was very kind of Mrs. Pulsifer to inyite 
me, but I was glad of an excuse to avoid it. Only for 
Miss Thome '' 

Even his voice sounded different — specious, serv- 
ile — "servile'^ was the word in Lydia^s mind. Mrs. 
Framingham, if she were impressed by the news that 
the governor could have gone if he had wanted, be- 
trayed not the least interest. Lydia pieced out the 
story of her attitude to the governor. Evidently when 
she had been last in the capital of her husband's state 
Albee had been only a powerful member of the legis- 
lature — useful to her husband, but not invited to her 
house. All very well, thought Lydia — a criticism 
of Mrs. Framingham's lack of vision — if only Albee 
would stand by it, resent it, and not be so eager to 
please. 

As she grew more and more silent the governor, 
ably seconded by Miss Bennett, grew more and more 
affable. It would have been a very pleasant party if 
Lydia had not been there. Miss Bennett aould not 
imagine what was wrong; and even Albee, with his 
instinctive knowledge of human beings and his quick 
egotism to guide him, was too well pleased with his 
<)wn relation to his party to feel anything wrong. 
Lydia's silence only gave him greater scope. 

She did not see him alone again. After dinner they 
yrcDt to lihe theater and then to the train. In the com* 
partment she and Benny had the little scene they 
always had on these occasions. Lydia assumed that 



114: MANSLAUGHTER 

she as the younger woman would take the upper 
berth. Miss Bennett asserted that she infinitely pre* 
ferred it. Lydia ignored the assertion, doubting its 
accuracy. Miss Bennett insisted, and Lydia yielded — 
yielded largely for the reason that the dispute seemed 
to her undignified. 

She was glad on this occasion that she was in the 
lower berth, for she did not sleep, and raising the 
shade she stared out. There was something soothing 
in lying back on her pillows watching the world flash 
past you as if you were being dragged along on a 
magic carpet while everyone else slept. 

Her future was all in chaos again. She could 
never marry Albee. She thought, as she so often did, 
of Hseboro^s parting words about her being such a 
bully that she would always get second-rate playmates. 
It seemed to her the real trouble lay in her demand 
that they should be first-rate. Most women would 
have accepted Albee as first-rate, but she knew he 
wasn't. She felt tragically alone. 

Their train got in at seven, and as soon as Lydia 
had had a bath and breakfast — that is, by nine 
o'clock — she was calling Eleanor on the telephone. 
Consideration of the fact that her friend might have 
been up late the night before was not characteristic 
of Lydia. Tragic or not, she was curious to hear 
what had happened at the Pulsifers'. She wanted 
Eleanor to come and lunch with her, No, Miss Bell- 
ington was going back to the country that morning. 



MANSLAUGHTER 115 

It was finally settled that Lydia should drive Eleanor 
home in the little runabout and stay for luncheon with 
her. 

It was one of those mild days that make you think 
March is really a spring month. Eleanor did not like 
to drive fast; and Lydia, with unusual thoughtful- 
ness, remembered her friend's wishes and drove at a 
moderate pace. That was one way to tell if Lydia 
was really fond of anyone — if she showed the sort of 
consideration that most people are brought up to show 
to all human beings. The two women gossiped like 
schoolgirls. 

**Was Bobby too wonderful in his costume?'* 

"My dear, I wish you could have seen him. May 
Swayne made really rather a goose of herself about 
him.'' 

"Yes" — this thoughtfully from Lydia — "she 
always does when I'm not there to protect him. And 
Fanny — was her Cleopatra as comic as it sounded ?" 

Eleanor wanted to know about Lydia's experi- 
ences — the hearing, Washington. Lydia told how 
magnificently the governor had defended himself, and 
added nothing at first about the less desirable aspects 
of his character. She thought this reserve arose from 
loyalty, but the fact that the governor was generally 
considered to be her own property made her feel that 
to criticize him was to cheapen her own assets. But 
she had great confidence in Eleanor, and by the time 
they had sat down to lunch alone together she found 



1I« MANSLAUGHTER 

berself launched on the whole story of the imprewion 
Albee had made upon her. So interested, indeed, was 
ehe in the narrative that when toward the end of 
luncheon Eleanor was called to the telephone she 
hardly noticed the incident, except as it was an inter- 
ruption. She sat going over it all in her mind during 
the few minutes that Eleanor was away, and the in- 
stant Eleanor oame back she resumed what she was 

saying. 

Eleanor was a satisfactory listener. She did not 

begin scolding you, telling you what you ought to have 

ijone before you had half finished. She did not allow 

lerself to be reminded of adventures of her own and 

gnatch the narrative away from you. She sat silent 

but alert, conveying by something neither words nor 

motion that she followed every intricacy. 

Her comment was, "I feel rather sorry for Albee." 

*^Tou mean you don't think he's a worm ?'' Lydia 
:was genuinely surprised. 

'^Oh, yes, I think he is just as you represent him I 
I feel sorry for people whose faults make them comic 
and defenseless. After all, Albee has great abilities; 
You don't care a bit for those, because he turns out 
not to be perfect. And who are you, my dear, to de- 
mand perfection !'' 

"I don't 1 I don't,'' cried Lydia eagerly. "Oh, 
Eleanor, men are fortunate! Apparently they can 
lall in love without a bit respecting you — all th* 
moT% if llhey don't — but a woman must believe a 



ICANSLAUGHTER IIT 

man lias something superior about Iiim^ if it is onlj; 
hiM wickedness. I don't demand perfection — not a 
bit — but I do ask that a man's faults should not be 
contemptible faults; that he should have some forco 
and snap ; that he should be at least a man/' 

"That doesn't seem to please you always either." 

''You're thinking of Useboro. I did like Useboro, 
though he was such a bully." 

"No, I was thinking of Dan." 

Lydia opened her eyes as if she couldn't imagine 
whom she meant 

"Of Dan ?" 

"Dan O'Bannon." 

"Oh, it's got as far as being T>an' now, has it ?" 

"Tou dislike him for these very qualities you say 
you demand," Eleanor went on — "force and 
strength ^" 

Lydia broke in. 

"Strength and force ! What I really dislike about 
him, Eleanor dear, is that you take him so seriously. 
I can't bear to see you making yourself ridiculous 
about any man." 

"I don't feel I make myself ridiculous, thank you." 

"I don't mean you'd ever be undignified, but it is 
ridiculous for a woman of your attainment and posi* 
tion to take that young Irishman so seriously — a 
country lawyer. Why, I can't bear to name you is 
tiie same breath !" 

Eleanor raised her shoulders a little. 



118 MANSLAUGHTER 

"He'll be here in a few minutes.^ 
"Here V Lydia sprang np. "I'm off then !" 
'T[ wish you wouldn't go. If you saw more of him 
jTou'd change your opinion of him." 

"If I saw more of him I'd insult him. Send for 
my car, will you? No, no, Eleanor 1 I know I'm 
right about this — really, I am. Some day you'll 
come to agree with me." 

"Or you with me," answered Eleanor, but she rang 
and ordered Lydia's car. 

A few minutes later Lydia was on her way home-. 
It was a day when everything had gone wrong, she 
thought; but now a cure for the nerves was open to 
her. The roads were empty at that hour, and her foot 
pressed the accelerator. She thought that if Eleanor 
married O'Bannon she would lose her. She would 
like to prevent it. ."With most girls she could poison 
their minds against a man by representing him as 
ludicrous, but Eleanor was not easily swayed. Lydia 
wondered if after they were married she could be 
more successful. She had never hated anyone quite 
the way she hated O'Bannon. It was fun, in a way, 
to hate a person. Her spirits began to mount as 
speed, like a narcotic, soothed her nerves. The road 
^was smooth and new and had stood the winter frosts 
,well. The first spring thaw had deposited on its 
cement surface a dampness which glistened here and 
there and made the wheels slip and the car waver like 
a living thing. This only increased Lydia's pleasure 



y 



MANSLAUGHTEE 11» 

imd fixed her attention as on the narrow ribbon of 
icement she passed an occasional car. 

Suddenly as she dashed past a crossroad she caught 
a glimpse of a motorcycle and a khaki figure already; 
preparing to mount She turned her head far enough 
to be sure that it was the same man. She saw him 
hold up his hand, heard his voice calling to her to 
etop. 

"No more bracelets, my friend,'* she thought, and 
Jier car shot forward faster than ever. 

She fancied that he must be having trouble getting 
his engine started, for she did not hear the motorcycle 
behind her. She knew that just before she entered the 
.village about half a mile ahead of her there was an 
.unfrequented little road that ran into the highroad 
fihe was on, almost parallel to it If she could get on 
that she could let the car out for miles and miles. 
The only trouble was that she would have to turn al- 
most completely round and, going at this pace, that 
wouldn^'t be easy. 

Presently she caught the sound of the quick, regu- 
lar explosion, and the anticipated speck appeared in 
her mirror. All her powers were concentrated now on 
keeping her car straight on the slippery road, but sha 
thought grimly, ^Worse for him on two wheels than 
for me on four." She felt a mounting determination 
not to be caught — a willingness to take any risk. Still 
the man on the motorcycle was gaining on her. At 
an inequality in the road her front wheels veered 



120 MANSLAUGHTER 

sharply. With a quick twist she recovered control 
and went straight again. She knew how to drive^ 
thank goodness I 

With the man gaining on her, she welcomed the 
sight of her back road coming in on the right. Even 
at the pace she could get round it, she thought, by 
skidding her car; and the motorcycle couldn't but 
.would shoot ahead right into the village of Wide 
Plains, scattering children and dogs before him as he 
came. She felt a wild amusement at the thought, but 
her face did not relax its tense sternness. 

She tightened her grip on the wheel, working the 
car to the left, preparing for the turn, and put on her 
brakes hard enough to lock the back wheels, expecting 
to feel the quick sideways slip of a skidding car. In- 
stead there was a terrific impact — the crash of steel 
and glass, a cry. Her own car shot out of her control, 
turning a complete circle, bounded off the road and on 
again, and came slowly to a standstill, pointing in the 
same direction as before, but some yards beyond the 
fork in the road. She looked about her. Fragments 
of the motorcycle were strewn from the comer to 
where in a ditch at the foot of a telegraph pole the 
man was lying, a featureless mass. 

She leaped out of her car. Amid the wreckage of 
the motorcycle the clock stared up at her like a little 
[white face. The world seemed to have become silent ; 
her feet beating on the cement as she ran made the 
only 80un(i. The man lay motionless. He was bent 



IfANSLAUGHTEB 121 

together and fitrangely twisted lika a boneless scare- 
crow thrown down by the winds. An arm was under 
him, his eyes were closed, blood was oozing from hia 
xnouth. She stooped over him, trying to lift his body, 
into a more natural position ; but he was a large man, 
and she could do nothing with him. She looked up 
from the struggle and found to her astonishment that 
ahe was no longer alone. People seemed to have 
sprung from the earth, the air was full of screams and 
explanations. A large touring car had come to a 
Btandstill near by. She vaguely remembered having 
passed it. A flivver was panting across the road. 
Everyone was asking questions, which she did not 
atop to answer. The important thing was to get 
die man into the touring car and take him to the 
bospitaL 

She was so absorbed in all his that her own connec- 
lition with the situation did not enter her mind. As 
fihe sat in the back of the car supporting his body, the 
blood stiffening on her own dark clothes, she thought 
only of her victim. She was not the type of egotist 
who thinks always, "How terrible that this should 
have happened to me !" 

She said to herself: "He probably has a wife and 
children. It would have been better if I had been &e 
one to be killed.'' 

Arrived at the hospital, she followed him into &6 
ward where the stretcher carried him, and waited OBt- 
«ide tha screen while the nurses cut kia olothea off. It 



123 MANSLAUGHTER 

eeemed to Her hourg before the young house surgeon 
emerged, shaking his head. 

^Tracture of the base/' he said. *^f he gets 
through the next twenty-four hours he'll have a 60 
per cent chance/' and he hurried away to telephone 
the details to his chief. 

As she sat there she realized that her own body 
y^SiS sore and stiff. She must have wrenched herself, 
or struck the steering wheel in the sudden turn of the 
car. She felt suddenly exhausted. There seemed no 
point in waiting. They could telephone her the result 
of the night. She left her name and address and went 
home by train. 

She made a vow to herself that she would never 
drive a car again. She would not explain it or disr 
cuss it, but nothing should ever induce her to touch a 
steering wheel. It was an inadequate expiation. 
Every time she shut her eyes she saw that heap of 
blood and steel at the foot of the telegraph pole. Oh, 
if time could only be turned back so that she could be 
starting a second time from Eleanor's door ! It never 
crossed her mind that this terrible personal misfor- 
tune which had befallen her made her seriously amen- 
able to the law« 



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Uiii Jan. fc i 



CHAPTER Vni 

DEUMMOND died late in the evening. An 
account of the accident was in the headlines 
of the morning papers. TJnfortunately for 
Lydia, he was a conspicuous local figure. He had 
had the early popularity of a good-looking, dissipated 
boy, and then he had been one of the men who had not 
waited for the draft but had volunteered and gone 
into the Regular Army, and had come home from 
France unwounded, with a heroic record. Moreover, 
there had been a long boy-and-girl love affair between 
him and Ahna Wooley, the daughter of the hardware 
merchant. Mr. Wooley, who was a native Lonj^ 
Islander, hard and wise, had been opposed to the en- 
gagement until, after the war, the return of Drum- 
mond as a hero made opposition impossible. It was 
at this point that O'Bannon had come to the rescue, 
securing the position of traffic policeman for the you. 
man. The marriage was to have taken place in June. 

Before Drummond died he recovered consciousness 
long enough to recognize the pale girl at his beside 
and to make an ante-mortem statement as to the cir- 
cumstances of the accident. 

123 



124 MANSLAUGHTEB 

Eleanor heard of the accident in the evening, but 
did not know of Dmmmond's death until early the 
following morning. She called up O'Bannon, but 
he had already left his house. At the office she was 
asked if Mr. Foster would do. Mr. Foster would not 
do. With her clear mind and recently acquired 
knowledge of criminal law, she knew the situation was 
serious. She called up Fanny Fiers and found she 
was spending the day in town. IToel came to the tele- 
phone. He was very casuaL 

"Yes, poor Lydia," he said ; "uncomfortable sort 
of thing to have happened to you.'* 

*TRather more than uncomfortable,'* answered 
Eleanor. *TDo you know if she's been arrested V^ 

Piers laughed over the telephone. Of course she 
hadn't been. Keally, his tone seemed to say, Eleanor 
allowed her socialistic ideas to run away with her 
judgment. Poor Lydia hadn't meant any harm — it 
was the sort of thing that might happen to anyone. 
Oh, they might try her — as a matter of form. But 
:wrhat could they do to her t 

"Well," said Eleanor, "people have been known to 
go to prison for killing someone on the highway." 

Piers agreed as if her point was irrelevant. 

"Oh, yes, some of those careless chauffeurs. But 
a thing like this is always arranged. You'll see. You 
couldn't get a grand jury to indict a girl like Lydia. 
It will be arranged." 

^'Arranged," thought Eleanor as she hung up the 



MANSLAUGHTER 125 

receiver, "only at the expense of Dan O'Bannon'a 
honor or career/' 

She did not want that^ and yet she did want to 
help Lydia. She felt deeply concerned for the girl, 
more aware than usual of her warm, honest affection 
for her. She often thought of Lydia as she had ap- 
peared on her first day at school. The head mistress had 
brought her into the study and introduced her to the 
teacher in charge. All the girls had looked up and 
stared at the small, black-eyed new pupil with the 
bobbed hair and slim legs in black silk stockings, one 
of which she was cleverly twisting about the other. 
She was shy and monosyllabic, utterly unused te 
children of her own age ; and yet even then she had 
shown a certain capacity for comradeship, for under 
the elbows of the two tall teachers she had directed a 
slow, shy smile at the girls as much as to say, 'Waiti 
till we get together ! We'll fix them !" 

She was very well turned out, for Miss Bennett had 
just taken charge, but not so well equipped mentally, 
the long succession of her governesses having each 
spent more time in destroying the teachings of her 
predecessors than in making progress on her own ac- 
count. Much to Lydia's chagrin, she was put in a 
class of children younger than she. 

This was shortly before Christmas. Before thd 
second term she had managed to get herself trans- 
ferred into a class of her contemporaries. She had 
never studied before^ because in old times it had 



126 MANSLAUGHTER 

seemed to her the highest achievement lay in thwart- 
ing her govemesfies. But the instant it became de- 
sirable to attain knowledge she found no difiGiculty 
in attaining it. It had amused her studying late into 
the night when Miss Bennett thought she was asleep. 

In the same way she had decided to make a friend 
of Eleanor, who was a class above her and promi- 
nent in school life. There had been nothing senti- 
mental about the friendship. She had admired 
Eleanor's clear mind and moral courage then, just 
as she admired them now. 

It was of that little girl twisting one leg about the 
other that Eleanor thought now with a warm affec- 
tion that the later Lydia had not destroyed. She 
ordered her car and drove into town to the' Thome 
house. At the door Morson betrayed just the proper 
solemnity — the proper additional solemnity — for 
he was never gay. 

Yes, Miss Thome was in, but he could not be sure 
that she could see Miss Bellington at the moment. 
Mr. Wiley was in the drawing-room. 

^^Mr. Wiley?" said Eleanor, trying to remember. 

"The lawyer, madam.'' 

Eleanor hesitated. 

"Tell her I'm here," she said, and presently Mor- 
son came back and conducted her to the drawing- 
room. 

Lydia's drawing-room was brilliant with vermilion 
lacquer, jade, rock crystal, a Chinese painting or two 



MANSLAUGHTER 127 

and huge cushioned armchairs and sofas. Here she 
and Miss Bennett and Mr. Wiley were sitting — at 
least Mr. Wiley and Miss Bennett were sitting, and 
Lydia was standing, playing with a jade dog from 
the mantelpiece, pressing its cold surface against her 
cheek. 

As Eleanor entered, Lydia, with hardly a sound, 
did a thing she had occasionally seen her do before — 
she suddenly seemed to radiate greeting and love and 
gratitude. Miss Bennett introduced Mr. Wiley. 

Wiley had established his position early in life — 
early for a lawyer ; so now at fifty-eight he had thirty 
years of crowded practice behind him. In the nine- 
ties, a young man of thirty, his slim frock-coated 
figure, his narrow, fine features and dark, heavy mus- 
tache were familiar in most important court cases, 
and in the published accounts of them his name 
always had a prominent place. His enemies at one 
time had been contemptuous of his legal profundity 
and had said that he was more of an actor than a 
lawyer; but if so juries seemed to be more swayed 
by art than law, for Wiley had a wonderful record 
of successes. He was a man of scrupulous financial 
integrity — universally desired as a trustee — an hon- 
orable gentleman, a leader at the bar. It was hard 
to see how Lydia could be in better hands. He might 
not have been willing to undertake her case but for 
the fact that he had been her father's lawyer and was 
her trustee. He had a thorough familiarity, attained 



12« MANSLAUGHTER 

thiDugh years of conflict over finances, with all the 
problems of his client's disposition* He knew, for 
instance, that she would be absolutely truthful with 
him, a knowledge a lawyer so rarely has in regard to 
his clients. He knew, too, that she might carry this 
quality into the witness chair and might ruin her own 
case with the jury. He was a man accustomed to 
being listened to, and he was being listened to now. 

Eleanor sat down, saying she was sorry if she inter- 
rupted them. She didn't Wiley drew her in and 
made her feel one of the conference. 

"I had really finished what I was saying," he 
added. 

"I only wanted to know if the situation were seri- 
ous," said Eleanor. 

"Serious, Miss Bellington ?" Wiley looked at he" 
seriously. "To kill a human being while violating 
the lawT 

"Mr. Wiley considers it entirely a question of how 
the case is managed," said Lydia. There was not a 
trace of amusement in her tone or her expression. 

"To be absolutely candid," Wiley continued, "an^ 
Lydia tells me she wants the facts, I should say that 
if juries were normal, impartial, unemotional people 
Lydia would be found guilty of manslaughter in the 
eecond degree — on her own story. Fortunately, how- 
jBver, the collective intelligence of a jury is low ; and 
skillfully managed, the case of a beautiful young 
orphan may be made very appealing, very pathetic.'* 



MANSLAUGHTER ISM 

"Pathos has never been mj strong point," observed 
Lydia. 

"The great danger is her own attitude/' said Miss 
Bennett to Eleanor. "She doesn't seem to care 
whether she's convicted or not." 

Lydia moved her shoulders with a gesture that 
confirmed Miss Bennett's impression, and then sud- 
denly turned. 

"I don't believe you want me for a few minutes^ 
Mr. Wiley. I want to speak to Eleanor." 

She dragged her friend away with her to her own 
little sitting room upstairs. Here her calm disap* 
peared. 

"Aren't lawyers terrible, Eleanor ? Here I am — 
I've killed a man! Why shouldn't I go to prison? 
I'm not quixotic. I didn't want to be convicted, but 
iWiley shocks me, assuming that I can't be because 
I'm a woman and rich and he can play on the jury.^* 

"I should not say that he assumed that you were 
safe, Lydia." 

"Oh, yes, he does ! Don't be like Benny. She sees 
me in stripes at once. What Wiley means is that aa 
long as I am fortunate enough to have the benefit of 
his services I'm perfectly safe, not because I did not 
mean to kill Drununond, but because he, Wiley, will 
make the jury cry over me. Isn't that disgusting!'^ 

"Yes, it is," said Eleanor. 

"Oh, Eleanor, you are such a comfort 1" said 
Lydia, and began to cry. Eleanor had never 



130 MANSLAUGHTEB 

her cry before* She did it very gently, without sobs, 
and after a few minutes controlled herself again, and 
tucked away her handkerchief and said, "Do you 
ihink everyone would hate to have a car that had 
killed someone I I shall never drive again, and yet 
I couldn't sell it — couldn't take money for it. Will 
you accept it, Eleanor ? You wouldnH have to drive 
the way I did, you know/' 

Eleanor, pleading the shortness of her eight, de- 
clined the car. 

"You ought to go back and talk to Mr. Wiley, my 
dear." 

Lydia shrugged her shoulders. 

"I don't care much what happens to me," she said. 

Eleanor hesitated. She saw suddenly that what she 
iwas about to say was the principal object of her visit. 

"Lydia, I hope that you vnll come out all right, 
but you don't know Dan O'Bannon as I do, and 



9> 



"You think he will want to convict me ?" 
"Not you personally, of course. But he believes 
in the law. He wants to believe in its honesty and 
equality. He suffered last month, I know, in convict- 
ing a delivery-wagon driver, and his offense wasn't 
half as flagrant as yours. Oh, Lydia, have some im- 
agination! Don't you see that his own honor and 
democracy will make him feel it more his duty to 
convict you than all the less conspicuous criminals 
put together ?" 



MANSLAUGHTER 131 

S. strange cHange had taken place in Lydia during 
this speech. At the beginning of it she had been 
shrunk into a comer of a deep chair; but as Eleanor 
Bpoke life seemed to be breathed into her, until she 
eat erect, grew tense, and finally rose to her feet. 

"You mean there would be publicity, political ad- 
vantage, in sending a person in my position to 
prison V^ 

"Don't be perverse, Lydia. I mean that, more 
than most men, he will see his duty is to treat you as 
he would any criminal. You make it difficult for me 
to tell you something that I must tell you. Mr. 
D'Bannon feels, I'm afraid, a certain amount of 
antagonism toward you." 

A staring, insolent silence was Lydia's answer. 

Eleanor went on : "Do you remember after dinner 
at the Piers' you told me about the policeman you 
had bribed ? You asked me not to tell, but I'm sorry 
— I can't tell you how sorry — that I did tell. I told 
Dan. I would give a good deal if I hadn't, but " 

"My dear," Lydia laughed, but without friend- 
liness, "don't distress yourself. What differ^ice doea 
it make ? I nearly told him myself." 

"It makes a great deal of difference. It made 
him furious against you. He felt you were debauchr 
ing a young man trying to do his duty." 

"What a prig you make tiiat man out, Eleanor I 
But what of it ?" 

"I got an impression, Lydia — I don't know 



132 MANSLAUGHTEB 

how — that it turned him against yon ; that he will 
be leaB inclined to be pitifuL'' 

"Pitiful !" cried Lydia. "Since when have I asked 
ODan O'Bannon for pity t Let him do his duty, and 
my lawyers will do theirs; and let me tell you,. 
Eleanor, you and he wiU be disappointed in the 
results/* 

Eleanor said firmly, *T. think you must take back: 
that 'you,' Lydia." 

Lydia shrugged her shoulders. 

'Well, you say your friend wants to convict m^ 
and you want your friend to succeed, I suppose. 
That is success for him, getting people to prison, isn't 
it?" She began this in one of her most irritating- 
tones ; and then she suddenly repented and, putting 
her hand on Eleanor's shoulder, she added, "Eleanor, 
I'm all on edge. Thank you a lot for coming. I 
think I will go back and tell what you've said to 
old Wiley." 

Eleanor waited to telephone to Fanny Piers and 
Mrs. Pulsifer, knowing it would be wise to create a 
little favorable public opinion. As she went down- 
stairs the drawing-room door opened and Miss Ben* 
nett came softly out, shutting the door carefully be- 
hind her. 

"Thank heaven for you, Eleanor !" she said. "Tow 
have certainly worked a miracle." Eleanor looked 
uncomprehending, and she went on: "At first she^ 
jras so naughty to poor Mr. Wiley — would hardljr 



MANSLAUGHTER 133 

diaeoss tlie case at all ; but now since you've talked 
to her she is quite different She has even consented 
to send for Governor Albee — the obvious thing, with 
his friendship and political power." 

Eleanor's shouders were rather high anyhow, and 
when she drew them together she looked like a wooden 
soldier. She did it now as she said with distaste, 
**But is this a question of politics ?" 

"My dear, you know the district attorney is a polit- 
ical officer, and they say this young man is extremely 
ambitious. Certainly he would listen — he'd have to 
— to a man at the head of the party like Albee. I 
fed much easier in my mind. The governor can do 
anything, and now that Lydia has come to her senses 
ehe is determined to go into court with the best case 
possible, and you know how clever she is. Thank 
you, Eleanor, for all you have done for us." 

Like many workers of miracles, Eleanor went away 
surprised at her own powers. The idea of O'Bannon 
being coerced or rewarded into letting Lydia off gave 
her exquisite pain. She felt like warning him to do 
his duty, even if it meant Lydia's being found guilty. 
Yet she sincerely wanted Lydia saved — meant to go 
as far as she could to save her. She knew with what 
a perfect surface of honesty such things could be 
done; how a district attorney, while from the pub- 
Kc's point of view prosecuting a case with the utmost 
Tigor, might leave open some wonderful technical 
asoape for the defense. It could be done without 



134 MANSLAUGHTER 

.O'Bannon losing an atom of public respect But 
she^ Eleanor, would know; would know as she saw 
him conducting the case; would know when a year 
or so later, after everyone else had forgotten, he 
would receive his reward — some political appoint- 
ment or perhaps a financial chairmanship. Albee 
had great powers in business as well as politics. In 
her own mind she formulated the words, "I have the 
utmost confidence in O'Bannon." But she knew, too, 
how all people of passionate, quick temperaments are 
sometimes swept by their own desires, and how easily 
most lawyers could find rational grounds for taking 
the position they desired to take. It would be so nat- 
ural for any man under the plea of pity for a young 
woman like Lydia to allow himself to be subdy cor- 
rupted into letting her off. 

Eleanor's own position was not simple. She faced 
it clearly. She was for Lydia, whatever happened, 
as far as her conduct went; but in spite of herself 
her sympathies swung to and fro. When women like 
Fanny Piers and May Swayne said, with a certain, 
relish they couldn't keep out of their tones and re- 
luctant dimples at the comers of their mouths, "Isn't 
this too dreadful about poor Lydia?" then she was 
:whole-heartedly Lydia's. But when she detected in 
all her friends — except Bobby, who was frankly 
frightened — the belief that they were beyond the 
law, that nothing could happen to any member of 
their protected group, then she felt she would enjo>^ 



MANSLAUGHTER 186 

Bothing so much as seeing one of them prove an ex- 
ception to the general inmiimity. 

The coroner held Lydia for the grand jury in ten 
thousand dollars' baih This had been considered a 
foregone conclusion and did not particularly distress 
or alarm Eleanor. What did alarm her was her ina- 
bility to get in touch with O'Bannon. In all the 
months of their quick, intimate friendship this had 
never happened before. Press of business had never 
kept him entirely away. Now she could not even 
get him to come to the telephone. 

She was not the only person who was attempting 
to see him on Lydia's behalf. Bobby Dorset had 
made several efforts, and finally caught him' between 
the courthouse and his office. Bobby took the tone 
that the whole thing was fantastic; that O'Bannon 
was too much of a gentleman to send any girl to prison, 
irritating the man he had come to placate by some- 
thing frivolous and unreal in his manner — the only 
manner Bobby knew. 

And then as Lydia's case grew darker Albee came. 
O'Bannon was in his study at home, the low-cellinged 
room opening off the dining room. It had a great 
flat baize-covered desk, and low open shelves running 
round the walls, containing not only law books, but 
novels and early favorites — Henty and Loma Doone 
and many records of travel and adventure. 

Here he was sitting, supposed to be at work on the 
Thome case, about nine o'clock in the evening. Cer- 



136 MANSLAUGHTER 

tainlj his mind was occupied with it and the papers 
were laid out before him. He was going over and 
over, the same treadmill that his mind had been 
chained to ever since he had stood by Drummond's 
bedside with Alma .Woolej clinging, weeping, to his 
hand. 

Lydia Thome had committed a crime, and his duigj 
!was to present the case against the criminal. Some- 
times of course a district attorney was justified in tak- 
ing into consideration extenuating circumstances which 
could not always be brought out in court. But in this 
case there were no extenuating circumstances. Every 
circumstance he knew was against her. Her char- 
acter was harsh and arrogant. She had already vio- 
lated the law in bribing Drummond. First she had 
corrupted the poor boy, and then she had killed him. 
She deserved punishment more than most of the 
criminals who came into his court, and his duty was 
to present the case against her. He repeated it over 
and over to himself. Why, he was half a crook to 
consider this case as different from any other case — 
and if she did get off she wouldn't be grateful. She'd 
just assume that there had not been and never could 
be any question of convicting a woman like herself. 
He remembered her bending to look at him under the 
candle shades of the Piers' dinner table and announc- 
ing her disbelief in the equal administration of the 
laws. But yet, if she should come to him — if she 
would ovlj come to him, pleading for herself 



MANSLAUGHTER 13T 

ehe had once for a few minutes pleaded for Evana 

• He could almost see her there in the circle of 

his reading light, close to him — could almost smell 
the perfume of violets. 

"I hope to God she doesn't come/' he said to him- 
self, and desired it more than anything in life. 

At that very moment the doorbell rang. O'Ban- 
non's heart began to beat till it hurt him. If she 
were there he must see her^ and if he saw her he 
must again take her in his arms, and if — it was his 
duty to present the case against her. 

There was a knock on his door^ and his mother 
entered ushering in Governor Albee. Great and wise 
men came from East and West to see her son, her 
manner seemed to say. 

"Well, O'Bannon," said the governor, **I haven't 
seen you since — let me see — the 1916 convention, 
wasn't it?" 

The yoimger man pulled himself together. He 
was not a politician for nothing, and he had control, 
almost automatically, of a simple, friendly manner. 

"But I've seen you, governor," he answered. "I 
went in the other day to hear your cross-examination; 
on that privileged-communication point. I learned 
a lot We're all infants compared with you when it 
comes to that sort of thing." 

"Oh" — Albee gave one of his straight-armed waves 
of the hand — "everyone telle me you have your own 
mothod of getting the facts. I hear very fine things 



138 MANSLAUGHTER 

of JOU) O'Bannon. There's an impression that 
cess Counly will soon be looking for another dis- 
trict attorney/' 

Mrs. O'Bannon stole reluctantly away, closing the 
door behind her. The two men went on flattering 
each other, as each might have flattered a woman. 
Both were now aware that a serious situation was 
before them. They began to talk of the great party 
to which they belonged. The governor mentioned 
his personal responsibility — by which he meant his 
personal power — as a national committeeman. He 
spoke of an interview with the leader of the party in 
New York — the purveyor of great positions. 

"He's going to put the chairmanship of this new 
commission up to me. It's not so much financially — • 
seventy-five hundred — but the opportunity, the rep- 
utation a fellow might make. It needs a big man, 
and yet a young one. I'm for putting in a young 
man." 

That was all. The governor began after that to 
speak of his coming campaign for the Senate, but 
O'Bannon knew now exactly why he had come. Ho 
had come to offer him a bribe. It was not the first 
time he had been offered a bribe. He remembered 
a family of Italians who had come to him frankly 
with all their savings in a sincere belief that that was 
the only way to save a son and brother. They had 
gone away utterly unable to understand why their 
offering had been rejected, but with a confused im- 



MANSLAUGHTER 139 

pression that district attorneys in America came too 
high for them. He had not felt any anger against 
their simple effort at corruption — only pity; but a 
sudden furious anger swept him against Albee, so 
smooth, so self-satisfied. TJnanalytic, like most hot- 
blooded people — who in the tumult of their emotions 
are too much occupied to analyze and when the tumult 
ceases are unable to believe it ever existed — O'Bannoc 
did not understand the sequence of his emotions. For 
an instant he was angry, and then he felt a sort of 
desperate relief. At least the question of his attitude 
in the case was settled. Now he must prosecute to 
the utmost of his ability. One couldn't let a sleek, 
crooked old politician go through the world thinking 
that he had bribed you — one couldn't be bribed. 

He leaned his brow on his hand, shielding his whole 
face from the light, while he drew patterns on the 
blotting paper with a dry pen. The governor broke 
off with an appearance of spontaneity. 

"But I mustn't run on like this about my own 
affairs,^' he said. "I came, as perhaps you guessed, 
about this unfortunate affair of poor Miss Thome. I 
don't know if you know her personally ^^ 

He paused. He really could not remember. He 
believed Lydia had mentioned having seen the man 
somewhere. 

"IVe met her once or twice," said O'Bannon. 

*^ell, if youVe seen her you know that she's a rare 
and beautiful creature ; but if you don't know her you 



140 MANSLAUGHTER 

idon't know how sensitive she is ; sheltered and proud; 
doesn't show her deep, human feelings/' 

A slight movement of the district attorney's hand 
brought his mouth and chin into the area of illumina- 
tion. Their expression was not agreeable. 

"No/' he said, "I must own I did not get all that.'' 

"This whole thing is almost killing her," Albee 
:went on, "Eeally I believe that if she has to go into 
pourt — well, of course she must go into court, poor 
fchild, and hear it all gone over and over before a jury. 
Imagine how anyone — you or I would feel if we had 
killed a man, and then add a young woman's natural 
sensitiveness and pity. Tou can guess what she is 
going through. I've sat with her for hours. It's piti- 
ful — simply pitiful. Anything you can do, O'Ban- 
non, that will make it easier for her I shall take as 
a personal favor to me, a favor I shall never forget, 
believe me." 

The governor smiled his human, all-embracing 
emile, almost like a priest. There was a moment's 
silence. Albee's experience was that there usually 
was a moment while the idea sank in. 

Then the younger man asked with great delibera- 
tion, "Just what is your interest in this case, 
Governor Albee ?" 

Perfectly calm himself, Albee noted with some 
amusement the strain in the other's tone. He had 
expected the question — a natural one. It was natural 
the fellow should wish to be assured that the favor hei 



MANSLAUGHTER 141 

yrSLS about to do was a real one, a substantial one, 
Bomething that would be remembered. He would be 
taldng a certain chance, considering the newspaper! 
interest and all the local resentment over the case. 
Reelection might be rendered impossible. Albee 
thought to himself that Lydia would forgive a slight 
exaggeration of the bond between ihem if that exag- 
geration served to set her free. 

"Well, that's rather an intimate question, Mister 
District Attorney," he said. "To most people I 
should answer that she is a lady whom I esteem and 
admire ; but to you — in strictest confidence — I don't 
mind saying that I have every hope and expectation of 
making her my wife.'' And he added less solemnly, 
"What are you young fellows thinking of to let an. 
old man like me get ahead of you, eh ?" Bending 
forward he slapped the other man on the shoul- 
der, 

O'Bannon stood up as if a mighty hand had reached 
from the ceiling and pulled him upright. The action 
was all that was left of the primitive impulse to wring 
Albee's neck. 

"There is nothing I can do to help Miss Thome," 
he said. "You know enough about criminal pro- 
Icedure to know that. The case against her is very 
etrong." 

"Oh, very strong — in the newspapers," said the 
governor with another of his waves of his hand. "But 
j|[Oii mustn't let your cases be tried in the newspapersb^ 




142 MANSLAUGHTER 

I always made it a rule never to let the newspaper^^ 
influence me in a case/' 

"I have a better rule than that,'' said the other. ''I 
don't let anything influence me except the facts in the 
case." He was still standing, and Albee now rose too. 

"I see," he said, not quite so suavely as before. 
^TTou mean you go ahead your own wajr and don't 
mind making enemies." 
. *^I sometimes like it," answered O'Bannon. 

"Making them is all right." Albee looked right at 
him. "Taking the consequences of doing so isn't 
always so enjoyable. Good night" 

When the sound of the governor's motor had died 
away O'Bannon went back to his desk. His mother 
had long ago gone upstairs, and the house was quiet. 
Disgust and anger .were like a poison in his veins. So 
that vile, sleek old man was to have her ? Love was 
out of the question ? She did not even have the excuse 
of needing money! What a loathsome bargain I 
What a loathsome woman I To think he had allowed 
himself to be stirred by her beauty? He wouldn't 
touch her with his little finger now if she were the last 
woman in the world. Albee? Good God! There 
must be thirty-five years between them. Someone 
ought to stop it. She would be better in prison than 
giving herself to an old man like that. She was no 
ignorant child. She knew what she was doing. If 
he were the girl's brother or father he'd rather see her 
^ead. 



MANSLAUGHTER 143 

It was after midnight when lie set to work on the 
j)apers in the case. He worked all night. The old 
servant bringing Mrs. O'Bannon her breakfast in the 
early morning reported Mr. Dan as being up and 
away. He had come into the kitchen at six for a cup 
of coffee, his face as white as that sheet and his eyes 
nearly out of his head. 

This was the afternoon that Eleanor selected to take 
the matter into her own hands and come to his office. 
She came late in the afternoon. It was after six. She 
saw his car standing in the street and she knew he was 
still there. She went in past the side entrance to Mr. 
Wooley's shop, up the worn wooden stairs, through 
the glass door with its gold letters, "Office of the Dis- 
trict Attorney of Princess County.'' The stenogra- 
phers and secretaries had gone. Their desks were 
empty, their typewriters hooded. O'Bannon was 
standing alone in the middle of the room with his 
hat and overcoat on, as if he had been caught by some 
disagreeable thought just in the moment of departure. 

Eleanor's step made no sound on the stairs. He 
looked up in surprise as she opened the door, and as 
their eyes met she knew clearly that he did not want 
to see her. There was something almost brutal in the 
.way that he looked at her and then looked away again, 
as if he hoped she might be gone when he looked back. 
If she had come on her own business she would have 
gone. As it was, she couldn't. She came in, and dos- 
ing the door behind her she leaned against the handle. 



I -t. 



144: MAirSLAUGHTER 

"I'm sorry to boflier yoti, Dan," she said, *T)ut I! 
must talk to you about Lydia Thome." 

"Miae Thome's friends are doing everything they 
can to prevent the preparation of a case against 
her. They take all my time in interviews," ho 
answered. 

"Who else has been here ?" asked Eleanor with a 
sinking heart. 

"Oh, Bobby Dorset has been here. That interview 
iras brief," 

"And Govemor Albee?" 

O'Bannon looked at her with eyes that suddenly 
iared up like torches, 

"Yes, the old fox," he said. 

There was a pause during which Eleanor did not 
6ay a word, but her whole being, body and mind, was 
a question ; and O'Bannon, though he had become this 
strange, hostile creature, was yet enough her old 
friend to answer it. 

"If you have any influence with Miss Thome tell 
her to keep politics out of it — to get a good lawyer 
and to prepare a good case." 

Eleanor saw that Albee's mission had failed. She 
would have rejoiced at this, except that the hostility 
of O'Bannon's manner hurt her beyond the power of 
rejoicing. She was not like Lydia — stimulated by 
omnity. She felt wounded and chilled by it. She 
told herself, as women always do in these circum- 
4rt8noes, that there was nothing personal about his 



MANSLAUGHTER 14» 

attitude, but there was something terribly per* 
sonal in her not being able to change his black mood. 

"She has a good lawyer — Wiley. .Who can be 
better than Wiley ?" she asked. 

"He's often successful, I believe/' 

He began snapping out the light over the desk — a 
hint not too subtle. Eleanor started twice to say that 
most people believed that no jury would convict a girl 
like Lydia, but every phrase she thought of sounded 
like a challenge. They went downstairs. Ordinarily 
he would have offered to drive her home, although her 
own car was waiting for her. Now he took off his 
soft hat and was actually turning away when she 
caught him by the sleeve. His arm remained limp, 
almost himianly sulky, in her grasp. 

"I've never known you like this before, Dan,'' she 
said. 

"You must do me the justice to say," he answered, 
*%at lately I have done my best to keep out of your 

Eleanor dropped his arm and he started to move 
away. 

"Tell me one thing," she said. **The grand jury 
will indict her ?" 

"It will." 

She nodded. 

"That is what Mr. Wiley thinks." 

"And he also thinks, I suppose," said O'Bannoi^. 
*'ihat no jury will convict her ?" 



146 MANSLAUGHTER 

"And what do you think V 

"I think," he answered, so slowly that each word 
fell clearly, "that a conviction can be had and that I 
shall get it" 

Eleanor did not answer. The chauffeur was hold- 
ing open the door of her car, and she walked forward 
and got into it. She had learned the thing she had 
come to learn — a knowledge that the stand he took 
was an honorable one. She was glad that his hands 
were clean, but in her left side her heart ached like 
a tooth. He seemed a stranger to her — unfriendly, 
remote, remote as a man struggling in a whirlpool 
would be remote from even the friendliest spectator 
on &e bank. 

A few days later the grand jury found a true bill 
against Lydia. That was no surprise even to her 
friends. Wiley and Albee had both prepared her for 
that. The crime for which she was indicted, however, 
came as a shock. It was manslaughter in the first 
degree. Albee was, or affected to be, pleasedo It 
proved they were bluffing, he said. 

"It may cost you a little more on Wiley's bill," he 
said. "It costs a little more, I suppose, to be acquitted 
of manslaughter than of criminal negligence; but on 
the other hand it may save you a thousand-dollar fine. 
A jury might conceivably find you guilty of a crime 
for which you could be fined, but not of one for which 
the only punishment is imprisonment." 

Bobby thought the indictment showed conclusively 



MANSLAUGHTER 147 

that there was some crooked work going on, and 
[wanted the district attorney's office investigated. Most 
of Lydia's friends began to feel that this was reallj; 
carrying the thing too far. 

Thus New York. 

In the neighborhood of Wide Plains it was gener- 
ally known that O'Bannon and Foster were working 
early and late, and that the district attorney's office 
;was out to get a conviction in the Thome case. 



CHAPTER EE 

«« XSAAC HEEEICK.'' 

I "Here/' 

"William P. McCaw — I beg jour pardoii — 
McCann/' 

'^ere.'' 

"Koyal B. Fisher. Mr. Fisher, you were not in 
court yesterday. Well, you did not answer the rolL 
Gentlemen, if you do not answer when your names 
are called I shall give your names to the court officer. 
Grover C. Wilbur." 

"Here." 

The county court room with its faded red carpet 
and shabby woodwork had the dignity of proportion 
which marks rooms built a hundred years ago under 
lihe solemn Georgian tradition. 

Miss Bennett and Eleanor, guided by Judge 

Homans* secretary, came in through a side door, and 

passing the large American flag which hung above the 

judge's empty chair, they sat down in some cross seats 

on the left. Beyond the railing the room was already 

well filled with the new panel of jurors, the witnesses, 

tiie reporters and many of Lydia's friends, who were 

already jostling for places. 

The clerk of the court, immediately in front of the 

148 



MANSLAUGHTER 149 

jjudge^ft bench, but on a lower level, having finished 
calling the roll, was busily writing, writing, his well- 
brushed red-and-silver head bent so low over his great 
Bheets that the small bare spot on top was presented to 
the court room. For one moment he and a tall attend- 
ant had become human and friendly over the fact that 
the counsel table was not on all fours, and the day 
before had rocked under the thundering fist of the 
lawyer in the last case. But as soon as it was stabil- 
ized with little wads of paper both men returned to 
their accustomed solemnity, the clerk to his lists and 
the attendant, standing erect at the railing, to viewing 
the unusual crowd and exclaiming at intervals *^Find 
seats — sit down — find seats,^' which was, of course, 
just what everybody was trying to do. 

Foster came in hurriedly with a stack of large 
manila envelopes in his hand. He bowed nervously 
to Miss Bennett and sat down just in front of her 
,with his eyes fi^xed on the door. 

The court stenographer came in and took his place, 
laid his neatly sharpened pencils beside his open book, 
yawned and threw his arm over the back of his chair. 
He seemed indifferent as to what story of human, 
frailty was by means of his incredible facility about 
to be transferred to the records 

Yet he was not wholly without human curiosity, 
for presently he leaned over to the clerk and whis- 
pered, "What did the jury find in that abduction 
OMeT 



160 MANSLAUGHTER 

"Acquitted.'' 

"WeU, weUP 

The two men exchanged, a glance that betrayed that 
in their opinion jurors and criminals were pretty- 
much on the same level. 

A faint stir in the court, an anticipatory cry from 
the attendant of "Order, order," and Lydia and Wiley 
came in and sat down side by side at the comer of the 
long table — now perfectly steady. Lydia looked pale 
and severe. She had devoted a great deal of thought 
to her dress, not through vanity, but because dress was 
an element in winning her case. She was dressed aa 
simply as possible, without being theatrically simple. 
She wore a dark serge and a black-winged hat. She 
nodded to Foster, smiled at Miss Bennett and 
Eleanor. She began looking coolly about her. She 
had never been in court, and the setting interested her. 
It was a good deal like a theater, she thought — the 
railed-off space represented the stage where all action 
jwas to take place, the judge's raised bench occupying 
the dominating position back center, the jury box on 
her right with its two tiers of seats, the witness chair 
on its high platform and between the judge and the 
jjury. Close to the railing and at right angles to the 
jjury box, the eight-foot-long counsel table, where she 
and Wiley had taken their places with their backs to 
flie spectators outside the railing, were so exactly like 
a theatrical audience. Then a gavel beat sharply. 
ily«ryone stood up almost before being directed to do 



MANSLAUGHTEE 161 

#0, and Judge Homans came into court. He came 
dowly through the side door, his hands folded in front 
of him^ his robes flowing about him, as a priest comes 
from the sacristy. 

The judge, like the clerk, immediately became 
absorbed in writing. Foster sprang up and stood at 
liis desk talking to him, but he never raised his head. 
Foster kept glancing over his shoulder at the door. 
Lydia knew for whom he was watching — like a puppy 
for its supper, she thought. 

A voice rang out : 

"The case of the People against Lydia Thome. 
Lydia Thome to the bar.'' 

To Lydia the words suggested an elaborate game. 
She glanced at Miss Bennett, suppressing a smile, and 
saw that her companion's nerves were shaken by the 
sinister sound of them. Wiley rose. 

"Eeady — for the defense," he said. 

Foster, with his eyes still on the door, murmured 
with less conviction, "Keady — for the people." 

The clerk, laying aside his pen, had begun to take 
the names of the jurors out of the box at his elbow, 

"Josiah Howell." 
. "Seat Number 1," echoed the attendant antiphon- 
ally. 

"Thomas Peck." 

"Seat Number 2." 

iWiley, bending to Lydia's ear, whispered, 'T! want 
jrou to challenge freely — anyone you feel might bo 



152 MANSLAUGHTER 



antagonistic I trust to your woman^s intuitioiL The 

jury is the important '' 

^ . She ceased to hear him, for she saw Foster's f acd 

light up and she knew that at last the district attorney 
was in court. She recognized his step behind her, 
and almost immediately his tall figure came within 
' range of her vision. He sat down on the left next to 
Foster, crossed his arms, W Ms eyes on each j^or 
:who entered the box. It was to Lydia like the rising 
of the curtain on a great play. 

"William McCann.'' 

''Seat Number 12.'' 

The jury was complete. 

O'Bannon unfolded his long person and rose. 
Crossing the space in front of Lydia, he came and 
stood in front of the jury, looking from one to another, 
asking routine questions, but with a grave attention 
that made them seem spontaneous. Did any of them 
know the defendant or her counsel ? Had any of them! 
ever been arrested for speeding ? Had anyone of them 
ever injured anyone with an automobile ? 

To Lydia his whole personality seemed different—* 
more aggressive, more hostile. When, in speaking, he 
put out his fist she noticed the powerful bulk of hisi 
hand, the strength of his wrist. She could not see 
his face, for he stood with shoulder turned to her, but 
she could see the upturned faces of the jurors. 

Number 10 was in the automobile business, and 
jras excused. Number 2 admitted a slight acquaint- 



MANSLAUGHTER 153 

ance with the defendant, though Lydia couldn't 
remember him and was inclined to think he was 
merely escaping duty. Number 5, in the midst of the 
interrogation, suddenly volunteered the information 
that he was conscientiously opposed to capital pun- 
ishment. 

At this the judge looked up from his writing and 
said loudly, "But this isn't a capital-punishment 
icase.'' 

*^o, no, I know,'' said Number 5 apologetically. 
^I just thought I'd mention it." 

"Don't mention anything that has no bearing on the 
case," said the judge, and went back to his writing. 

At noon, when the court adjourned, the jury waa 
liot yet satisfactory to the prosecution. 

Lydia, Miss Bennett and Wiley drove over to 
Eleanor's for luncheon. Of the three women Lydia 
57as the gayest 

"He really does — that man really does expect to 
put me behind bars," she said. 

"The prospect apparently puts you in the highest 
epirits," said Eleanor. 

Lydia laughed, showing her bright^ regular little 
teeth. 

**I do like a good fight," she answered. 

That was the way she thought of it — as a personal 
•truggle between the district attorney and herself. 
Bince that first interview Wiley had no indifference 
(b pomplain of. On the contrary, he complimented 



I** 



164 MANSLAUGHTER 

her on her grasp of the case — * she ought to have been 
a lawyer. She had put every fact at his disposal — 
every fact that had any bearing on the case. She did 
not consider the exact nature of her former acquaint- 
ance with O'Bannon among these; that is to say, she 
mentioned that she had once met him at the Piers' and 
played bridge with him. She added that Eleanor felt 
he had taken a dislike to her. iWiley said nothing, but 
imagined that she might have played queen to a coun- 
try attorney — irritating, of course. 

About everything else, however, she went into de- 
tails — especially about the bribing of Drummond, 
over which she apparently felt no shame at all. Both 
Albee and Wiley, who were often together in consulta- 
tion with her, were horrified — not so much at her hav- 
ing done it as at her feeling no remorse, Wiley spoke 
as her lawyer. Albee, more human, more amused, 
shook his head. 

"Eeally, my dear young lady, bribery of a police 
officer '' 

"Oh, come, governor,'^ said Lydia. "This from 
you !" 

"I donH know what you mean. I never offered a 
man a bribe in all my life,'' said the governor earn- 
estly. 

"And exactly what did you say to Mr. O'Bannon in 
your recent interview ?" 

Wiley and Albee protested, more as if she were 
breaking the rules of a game than as if she were aaj- 



MANSLAUGHTER 155 

ing anything contrary to fact.* Albee explained at 
some lengtli that when a man was behaving wrongly 
through self-interest — which was, of course, what the 
district attorney was doing— it was perfectly permis- 
Bible to show him that self-interest might lie along 
opposite lines. Lydia, unconvinced by this explana- 
tion, would do nothing but laugh annoyingly. At 
this both men turned on her, explaining that if the 
bracelet could be got in evidence, if it could be shown 
that she had bribed the man whom she later killed, the 
case would go against her. 

"Oh, but they can't get it in,'^ said Albee, "not 
unless you fall asleep, counselor, or the district attor- 
ney is an out-and-out crook.'^ 

Wiley, more cautious, wasn't so sure. If Lydia 
herself took the stand 

"Of course I shall testify in my own behalf,'^ said 
lydia. 

"Yes," said Albee. "Exhibit A — a beautiful 
woman. Verdict — not guilty." 

So the discussion always came back to the sympathy 
of the jury — the necessity of selecting the right twelve 
men. Nothing else was talked of during luncheon at 
Eleanor's that first day. Was Number 6 hostile ? Did 
all farmers own automobiles nowadays? Number 1 
[was susceptible. Miss Bennett felt sure. He hadn't 
taken his eyes off Lydia. Number 7, on the contrary, 
ji^as hypnotized, according to Lydia, by "that man." 

"Bj three o'clock the jury was declared satisfactoijr 



166 MANSLAUGHTER 

to the prosecution. It was Wiley's turn. His man- 
ner was very different from O'Bannon's — more con- 
ciliating. He seemed to woo the jury with what 
Lydia described in her own mind as a perfumed voice. 

Number 2, in answer to Wiley's questions, ad- 
mitted a prejudice against automobiles, since it was 
now impossible to drive his cows home along the high- 
road. He was excused. 

Number 7, who had once owned a flourishing poul- 
try farm, had been obliged to give it up. 

''On account of motors ?" 

**Yes, and because it didn't pay." 

Did he feel his prejudice was such as to prevent his 
^rendering an impartial verdict in this case ? 

Number 7 looked blank and sulky, like a little boy 
stumped in class, and at last said it wouldn't. 

"Excused," said Wiley. 

*'But I said it wouldn't," Number 7 protested. 

^'Excused," said Wiley, fluttering his hand. 

Lydia had tapped twice on the table — the agreed 
signal. 

By four o'clock the jury was satisfactory to both 
sides ; and then, just as Lydia's nerves were tightened 
for the beginning of the great game, the court ad- 
journed until ten o'clock the next morning. The 
judge, looking up from his writing, admonished the 
jury not to discuss the case with anyone, not even 
among themselves. The jurors produced unexpected 
hats and coats like a conjuring trick; The court 



MANSLAUGHTER 157 

attendant began shouting '^eep yonr seats until the: 
jury has passed out," and the whole picture of the 
court dissolved. 

Wiley was whispering to Lydia, "A very nice 
jury — a very intelligent, reasonable group of men/* 
He rubbed his hands. 

Lydia's eyes followed O'Bannon^s back as he left 
the court with Foster trotting by his side. 

"I wonder if the district attorney is equally pleased. 
:with them," she said. 

Bobby Dorset drove back vidth them and stayed to 
dinner. Miss Bennett, who had a headache from the^ 
hot air and the effort of concentrating her mind, 
would have been glad to forget the trial, but Lydia. 
and Bobby talked of nothing else. She kept a pad and- 
pencil at hand to note down points that occurred ta- 
her. Bobby, with a mind at once acute and trivial, 
had collected odd bits of information — that the judge- 
Was hostile, that the door man said the verdict woul<I 
be not guilty, and he had never been wrong in twenty- 
seven years. 

Proceedings began the next morning by O^Bannon's 
opening for the prosecution. Lydia saw a new! 
weapon directed against her that her advisers did not 
seem to appreciate — O'Bannon^s terrible sincerity. 
His voice had not an artificial note in it. Meaning 
iwhat he said, he was able to convince the jury. 

^'Gentlemen of the jury," he began, "the indictment. 
in this case is manslaughter in the first degree. That 



158 MANSLAUGHTER 

is homicide without intent to effect death by a person 
Committing or attempting to commit a misdemeanor. 
The People will show that on the eleventh day of 
March of this year the defendant, while operating an 
automobile on the highways of this county in a reck- 
less and lawless manner, killed John Drummond, a 
traffic policeman, who was attempting to arrest her. 
Drummond, whose ante-mortem statement will be put 
in evidence '* 

Suddenly Lydia's attention lapsed. This man who 
was trying to send her to prison had held her in his 
""" arms. She saw again the moon and the mist, and felt 
his firm hand on her shoulder. Memory seemed more 
Teal than this incredible reality. Then, just as steel 
doors shut on the red fire of a furnace, so her mind 
chut out this aspect of the situation, and she found she 
iwas listening — after how long a pause she did not 
know — to O'Bannon^s words. 

" at the entrance to the village the road 

Pivides, the right fork turning back at an angle some- 
tiling less than a right angle. Eound this corner the 
defendant attempted to go by a device known as skid- 
";/,  ;. ding a car ; that is to say, still going at a high rate of 
^ . , . speed, she turned her wheels sharply to the right and 
put on her brakes hard enough to lock the back 
iwheels.^' 

"Yes, my friend,'' thought Lydia, "that's the way 
it's done. I wonder how many times you've skidded 
your own car to know so much about it.'* 




T^' ' '• 



1 



MANSLAUGHTER 159 

"This procedure,'' O'Eannon's voice continued, 
'Vhich is always a somewhat recklees performance, 
was in this case criminaL With the officer known to 
be overlapping her car on the left, she might as well 
have picked up her car and struck him with it. Her 
car did so strike him, smashing his motorcycle to 
bits and causing the hideous injuries of which he died 
within a few hours." 

Lydia closed her eyes. She saw that mass of blood- 
stained khaki and steel lying in the road and heard 
her own footsteps beating on the macadam. 

"The People will prove that the defendant was com- 
mitting a misdemeanor at the time. By Section 1950 
of the Penal Law it is a misdemeanor to render the 
highways dangerous or to render a considerable num- 
ber of persons insecure in life. The defendant in 
approaching the village of Wide Plains along a high- 
way on which there were buildings and people at a 
rate of forty miles an hour was so endangering life. 
Gentlemen, there never was a simpler ease as to law; 
and fact than this one." 

Lydia glanced at Wiley tinder her lashes. It 
seemed to her that O'Bannon's manner was almost 
perfect. She believed he had already eaptured the 
jury, but she could read nothing of Wiley's opinicMi 
in his expression. He rose more leisurely, more con- 
versational in manner. The defense would show, he 
eaid — and his tone seemed to add "without the least 
{difficulty" — that the motorcycle of the unfortunate .j 



160 MANSLAUGHTER ^ • '^-' 

^oxmg policeman had skidded and struck the auto- 
mobile of the defendant, causing, to the deep chagrin 
of the defendant, the death of that gallant young hero. 
They would show that the defendant was not com- 
mitting a misdemeanor at the time, for to attain a 
speed of twenty-five or thirty miles on a lonely road 
:was not even violating the speed law, as everyone who 
owned a car knew very well. As for the indictment 
•pf manslaughter in the first degree, really — Wiley's 
manner seemed to say that he knew a joke was a joke, 
and that he had as much sense of humor as most men, 
Imt when it came to manslaughter in the first degree — 
^'a crime, gentlemen, for which a prison sentence of 
twenty years may be imposed — twenty years, gentle- 
men/' He had never in a long experience at the bar 
heard of a bill being found at once so spectacular and 
fio completely at variance with the law. The defense 
would show them that if they followed the recommen- 
dation of his learned young friend, the district attor- 
ney, to consider the facts and the law 

His manner to O'Bannon was more paternal than 
patronizing. He seemed to sketch him as an eager, 
omotional boy intoxicated by headlines in the New 
York papers. Wiley radiated wisdom, pity for hia 
client, grief for the loss of Drummond and an encour- 
aging hope that a young man like O'Bannon would 
learn enough in the course of a few years to prevent 
his making a humiliating sort of mistake like this 
Ugain. He did not say a word of this, but Lydia 



IfANSLAUGHTER 161 

oould see the atmosphere of his speech seeping into the 
jurors' minds. 

Yes, she thought, it was an able opening — not the 
sort of ability that she would have connected with 
legal talent in the days when she knew less of the law ; 
but it seemed to be the kind of magic that worked. 
She was pleased with her counsel, directed a flatter- 
ing look at him and began to assume the air he wanted 
her to assume — the dovelike. 

The prosecution began at once to call their wit- 
nesses — first the doctors and nurses from the hospital, 
establishing the cause of death. Then the exact time 
was established by the clock on the motorcycle — 3 :12, 
confirmed by the testimony of many witnesses. Then 
the ante-mortem statement was put in evidence. A 
long technical argument took place between the 
lawyers! over this. It occupied all the rest of the 
morning session. The statement was finally admitted, 
but the discussion had served to impress on the jury 
the fact that the testimony of a witness whose credi- 
bility cannot be judged of by personal inspection, and 
>vho is saved by death from the cross-examination of 
the lawyer of the other side, is evidence which the law; 
admits only under protest. 

Wiley scored his first tangible success in his cross- 
jBxamination of the two men who had come to Lydia'a 
assistance. On direct examination they had testified 
to the high rate of speed at which Lydia had been 
going. Wiley, when they were turned over to him> 



162 MANSLAUGHTER 

contrived to put them in a position where they were 
forced either to confess that they had no knowledge of 
high rates of speed or else that they themselves fre- 
quently broke the law. Wiley was polite, almost 
kind; but he made them look foolish, and the jury 
^enjoyed the spectacle. 

This success was overshadowed by a small reverse 
that followed it. The prosecution had a long line of 
iwitnesses who had passed or been passed by Lydia 
just before the accident. One of these was a young 
man who was a washer in a garage about a mile away 
from the fatal comer. He testified in direct exami* 
nation that Lydia was going forty-five miles an hour 
iwhen she passed the garage. 

Wiley stood up, severe and cold, his manner seem- 
ing to say, "of aU things in this world, I hate a liar 
Jmost !'' 

"And where were you at the time V^ 

"Standing outside the garage.'' 

"What were you doing there V^ 

"Nothing.'' 

"Nothing?" 

"Smoking a pipe." 

**At three o'clock in the afternoon — during work- 
ing hours?" .Wiley made it sound like a crime. 
"And during this little siesta, or holiday, you saw the 
defendant's car going at forty-five miles an hour — ia 
that the idea ?" 

"Yes, «ir." 



MANSLAUGHTER 163 

'*And will you tell the jury how it was you were 
able to judge so exactly of the speed of a car ap- 
proaching you head-on V^ 

The obvious answer was that he guessed at it, but 
the young man did not make it 

"I do it by means of telegraph poles and counting 
seconds." 

It then appeared that the young man was accus- 
tomed to timing automobile and motorcycle races. 

Lydia saw Foster faintly smile as he glanced at his 
chief. Evidently the defense had fallen into a neatly 
laid little trap. She glanced at Wiley and saw that 
he was pretending to be delighted. 

"Exactly, exactly!" he was saying, pointing an 
accusing finger at the witness; "You and Drummond 
psed to go to motorcycle races together." 

He did it very well, but it did not succeed. The 
jury were left with the impression that the People^s 
witness on speed was one to be believed. 



CHAPTER X! 

STRANGELY enough, the days of her trial were 
among the happiest and the most interesting 
that Lydia had ever known. They had a con- 
tinuity of interest that kept her cahn and equable. 
Usually when she woke in the softest of beds and 
Kfted her cheek from the smoothest of pillows she 
asked herself what she should do that day. Choice 
(was open to her — innumerable choices — all unsatis- 
factory, because her own satisfaction was the only ele- 
ment to be considered. 

But during her trial she did not ask this question. 
She had an occupation and an object for living, not 
Bo much to save herself as to humiliate O'Bannon. 
The steady, strong interest gave shape and pattern to 
her days, like the thread of a string of beads. 

As soon as each session was over she and Wiley, on 
the lawn of the courthouse or at her house if she could 
detain him, or she and Albee or Bobby or Miss Ben- 
nettj as the case might be, would go over each point 
made by the prosecution's witnesses or brought out bjj 
iWiley'a cross-examination of them. The district at- 
torney seemed to be reserving no surprises. He had 
a rtrong, straight case with Drmnmond's ante-mortem 

164 



MANSLAUGHTER 165 

statanent, and a great many witnesses as to Lydia's 
speed. The bracelet had not been admitted in evi- 
dence so far, nor had Drummond's statement referred 
to it, and Wiley grew more confident that it 
would not be allowed. The defense had felt some 
anxiety over the exactitude with which the hour of 
the accident had been established, but as Lydia did 
not honestly know the hour at which she had left 
Eleanor's nor had Eleanor or any of her servants been 
Bubpoenaed, there did not seem any danger from this 
point after all. 

Lydia, who was to be the first witness for the de- 
fense, had thought over every point, every implica- 
tion of her own testimony, until she felt sure that 
''that man" would not be able to catch her wrong in 
a single item. She did not dread the moment — she 
longed for it. Wiley had advised her of the danger 
of remembering too much — a candid "I'm afraid I 
idon't remember that" would often convince a jury 
better than a too exact memory. 

''And," Wiley added soothingly, "don't be fright- 
iened if the district attorney tries to browbeat you. 
The court will protect you, and if I seem to let it go 
on it will be because I see it's prejudicing the jury in 
your favor." 

Lydia's nostrils fluttered with a long indrawa 
irreath. 

''I don't think he will frighten me," she said. 

But most of all, Wiley advised her as to her bear- 



166 lCAHfiI«A.TJGHT£R 

iDg. She must be gentle, femmine, appealing, as if 
she 'would not voluntarily injure a fly. No matter 
what happened, she mustn't set her jaw and tap her 
foot and flash back eontemptuous answers. 

Lydia moved her head^ looking exactly as Wiley 
did not want her to look. 

"I cannot be appealing," she said. 

''Then the district attorney will win his case," said 
Wiley. 

There was a pause, and then Lydia said in her 
good-little-girl manner: 

'Til do my best" 

Everybody knew that her best would be good. 

The People were to close their case that morning. 
A witness as to Lydia's speed just before the accident 
was on the stand. He testified that, following her as 
fast as his car would go — he had no speedometer — » 
he had not been able to keep her in sight. His name 
was Yakob Ussolof, and he had great difficulty with 
the English language. His statements were, however, 
clear and damaging. 

The jury was almost purely Anglo-Saxon, and as 
Wiley rose to cross-examine the very effort he made 
to get the name right — "Mr. — er — Mr. — TJ — • 
Ussolof" — was an appeal to their Americanism. 

''Mr. TJasolof, you have driven an automobile for 
some years ?" 

"Yare, yaro," said Mr. Fssolof eagerly, "for ten 
year^ now.** 



MANSLAUGHTER 16T 

'^ow long liad you owned the cer jcm wore driv- 
ing on March eleventh V^ 

"Since faU now.'' 

"Ah, a new car. And what was it» jn%k» V* 

"Flivver.'' 

The magic word worked its accustomed miracle. 
Everyone smiled, and Wiley, seeing before him a jury 
of flivver owners, went on: 

"And do you mean to tell me, Mr. TJssolof, that in 
the speediest car huilt in America you could not keep 
a foreign-built car going at thirty miles an hour in 
eight ? Oh, Mr. TJssolof, you don't do us justice. We 
build better cars than that!" 

The jury smiled, the spectators laughed, the gavel 
fell for order, and Mr. Wiley sat down. He had told 
Lydia that a jury, like an audience, loves those who 
make them laugh, and he sat down with an air of suc- 
cess. But Lydia, watching them more closely, was 
not so sure. As O'Bannon rose she noted the extreme 
gravity of his manner, his look at the jury, which 
Beemed to say, "A man's life — a woman's liberty at 
stake, and you allow a mountebank to make you 
laugh !" It was only a look, but Lydia saw that they 
regained their seriousness like a lot of schoolboys 
;when the head master enters. 

"Call Alma Wooley," said O'Bannon. 

Alma Wooley, the last witness for the People, was 
the girl to whom Drummond had been engaged. A 
little figure in the deepest mourning mounted the 



168 MANSLAUGHTER 

»f and, so pale that she looked as if a strong ray would 
shine clear through her, and though her eyes were dry, 
her voice had the liquid sound that comes with much 
crying. Many of the juiy had known her when she 
iworked in her father's shop. She testified that her 
name was Alma Wooley, her age nineteen, that she 
lived with her father. 

"Miss Wooley,^' said O'Bannon, "you were sent for 
to go to the hospital on the eleventh of this March, 
were you not ?" 

An almost inaudible "Yes, sir,'' was the answer. 

'^You saw Drummond before he died ?" 

She bent her head. 

"How long were you with him ?" 

She just breathed the answer, "About an hour." 

Juror Number 6 spoke up and said that he could 
not hear. The judge in a loud roar — offered as an 
example — said, "You must speak louder. You must 
epeak so that the last juror can hear you. "No, don't 
look at me. Look at the jury." 

Thus admonished. Miss Wooley raised her faint, 
liquid voice and testified that she had been present 
while Drummond was making his statement 

"Tell the jury, what took place." 

"I said '' 

Her voice sank out of hearing. Wiley sprang upl 

"Your Honor, I must protest. I cannot hear the 
witness. It is impossible for me to protect my client's 
interests if I cannot hear." 



MANSLAUGHTER 168 

Tlie Btenographer was directed to read Iiifl notei 
aloud, and lie read rapidlj and without the least ex- 
pression : 

'^Question: 'Tell the jury what took place.' 
Answer: 'I said, "Oh, Jack, darling, what did they 
do to you ?" And he said, "It was her, dear. She got 
me after all/' ' '' 

Wiley was on his feet again, protesting in a voice 
that drowned all other sounds. A bitter argument 
between the lawyers took place. They argued with 
each other, they went and breathed their arguments 
into the ear of the judge. In the end Miss Wooley's 
testimony was not allowed to contain anything in 
reference to any previous meeting between Drum- 
mond and Lydia, but was limited to a bare confirma- 
tion of the details of Drummond's own statement. 
Technically the defense had won its point, but tho 
emotional impression the girl had left was not easily 
effaced, nor the suspicion that the defense had some- 
thing to conceal. Wiley did not cross-examine, know- 
ing that the sooner the pathetic little figure left the 
stand the better. But he managed to convey that it 
was his sympathy with the sufferer that made him 
waive cross-examination. 

The People's case rested. 

Lydia was called. As she rose and walked behind 
the jury box toward the waiting Bible she realized 
exactly why it was that O'Bannon had put Alma on. 
the stand the last of all his witnesses. It was to 



170 ILOrSLAUGHTER 

jeoimteract with, tragedy any appeal that youtli and 
>realtli and beauty might make to the emotions of the 
jury. Such a trick, it seemed to her, deserved a 
counter trick, and reconciled her to falsehood, even as 
she was swearing that her testimony would be the 
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so 
help her God. 

Surely it was persecution for the law to stoop to 
such methods. She felt as hard as steel. Women do 
not get fair play, she thought. Here she was, wanting 
to fight like a tigress, and her only chance of winning 
was to appear as gentle and innocuous as the dove. 
She testified that her name was Lydia Janetta 
Thome, her age twenty-four, her residence New York. 

"Miss Thome,^' said Wiley, very businesslike in 
manner, "for how many years have you driven a 
car r 

"For eight years.'' 

"As often as three or four times a week ?" 

'TMuch oftener — constantly — every day." 

"Have you ever been arrested for speeding V^ 

"Only onco — about seven years ago in New Jer- 
Bey.'' 

"Were you fined or imprisoned ?" 

"No, the case was dismissed." 

"Have you ever, before March eleventh, had an 
accident in which you injured yourself or anyone 
rise?" 

"No.'« 



MANSLAUGHTER ITl 

^'Now tell the jury as nearly as you can remember 
Ijust what took place from the time you left your 
house on the morning of March eleventh until thei 
accident that afternoon/' 

Lydia turned to the jury — not doyelike, but with a 
modified beam of candid friendliness that was very 
winning. She described her day. She had left her 
house about half past eleven and had run down to 
Miss Bellington's, a distance of thirty miles, in an. 
hour and a half. She had expected to spend the after- 
noon there, but finding that her friend had an engage- 
ment she had left earlier than she expected. No, she 
had no motive whatsoever for getting to town quickly. 
On the contrary, she had extra time on her hands. 
No, she had not noticed the hour at which she left 
Miss Bellington's, but it was soon after luncheon; 
about twenty-five minutes before three, she should 
imagine. 

Was she conscious of driving fast at any time ? 

Yes, just after leaving Miss Bellington's. There 
was a good piece of road and no traffic She had run 
very fast — probably thirty-five miles an hour. 

Did she call that fast ? 

Yes, she did. She achieved a very-good-little^rl 
manner as she said this. 

For how long had she maintained thig high rate of 
speed? 

She was afraid she couldn't remember exactly, but 
for two or three milee. On approaohing the villi^ o£ 




178 MANSLAUGHTER 

iWide Plains «lie liad slowed down to her regular rate 
of twenty-five miles an hour — slower as she actually 
entered the village. She could not say how long 
Drummond had been following her — she had not 
noticed him. She had seen him as she was entering 
the village — saw him reflected in her mirror. It was 
difficult to judge distances exactly from such a reflec- 
tion. She had' not been noticing him just at the 
moment of the accident. Yes, her decision to take the 
right-hand turn had been a sudden one. She had felt 
the impact. She believed that the policeman ran into 
her. She was on her own side of the road and turning 
to the right. 

Why did she take the right-hand road, which was 
longer than the left ? 

Because it was more agreeable, and as she was in 
no hurry to get home she did not mind the extra dis- 
tance. 

After the accident she had remained and rendered 
every assistance in her power, going to the hospital 
and remaining there until the preliminary report of 
Drummond's condition. She had left her address 
and telephone number, so that the hospital could tele- 
phone her when the X-ray examination was finished. 

Her friends drew a sigh of relief when her direct 
testimony was over. It was true, she was not an ap- 
pealing figure like Alma Wooley ; but she was clear, 
audible, direct, and her straight glance under her dark 
level brows was convincingly honest. 



MANSLAUGHTER 173 

As she finislied her direct testimony she looked 
idown at her hands dasped in her lap. The important 
moment had come. She heard Wiley's smooth voice 
eaying "Your witness" as if he were making the 
People a magnificent present As she became aware 
that O'Bannon was standing up, looking at her, she 
raised her eyes as far as the top button of his waist- 
coat, and then slowly lifting both head and eyes to- 
gether she stared him straight in the face. 

He held her eyes for several seconds, trying, she 
thought, in the silence to take possession of her mind 
as he had taken possession of the jury's. 

"Not so easy, my friend,'' she said to herself, and 
just as she said it she heard his voice saying coolly^ 
'Took at the jury, please, not at me." 

Her eyes, as she turned them in the desired direc- 
tion, had a flash in them. 

"Miss Thorne, at what hour did you leave Mis9 
Bellington's ?" 

"I have no way of fixing it precisely; — about 
2:35." 

"You are quite sure it was not later ?" 

"I cannot be sure within four or five minutes.'' 

"What is the distance from Miss Bellington's to the 
scene of the accident ?" 

"About fifteen miles, I should think.'' 

"Your calculation is that as the accident took place 
at 3 :12 and you left at twenty-five minutes to three 
iyou drove fifteen miles in thirty-seven minutes — that 



174: ICANSLAUGHTER 

is to sajy at the rate of twenty-four miles an houi^ T» 
that right ?" 

"Yes,'' 

**And you nerer ran faster than thirty-five milee 
en hour V^ 

"Never/' 

"Don't look at me. Look at the jury, please." 

She found it hard to be dovelike under this repeated 
admonition. "As if/' she thought, "I couldn't keep 
my eyes off him, whereas, of course, it's human 
nature to look at the person who's speaking to you." 

"You say," he went on, "that you had expected to 
fitay longer at Misa Bellington's than you actually 
did." 

"Yes." 

*^And what made you change your plans I" 

*^I found she had an engagement" 

*^Did she mention it on your arrival ?" 

'<No." 

''When did she mention it ?" 

"After luncheon." 

^Was she called to the telephone during your 
yisit?" 

"No." 

"Are you sure of that ?" 

There was a pause. The gates of Lydia's memory 
liad suddenly opened. The telephone call, which had 
made no impression at the time because she had not 
taken in that it was from O'Bannon, suddenly came 




MANSLAUGHTEE 1T< 

\suok to her. She tried hastily to see its bearing on Ler 
tase^ hut he gave her bo time. 

"Answer my question, please. "Will you swear 
•there was no telephone call to your knowledge V^ 

**No, I eannof 

**In fact there was a telephone call f ^* 

«Yes.^' 

^It was during that telephone call that the engage^ 
ment was made I" 

"I cannot say — I do not know.*' 

'^ow long did you stay after that telephone f* 

**! left at once.'' 

"You put on your hat V^ 

'Tea.'' 

"And your veil V 

"Yes." 

"And a coat i'* 

"Yes." 

It was impossible to be dovdike under this interro- 
gation. The jury were allowing themselves to 
smile. 

"Had your car been left standing at the door ?" 

"No." She felt that her jaw was beginning to set, 
and she kept her foot quiet only with an effort 

"You had to wait while it was sent for i" 

"Yes." 

"In other words, Miss Thome, you must have 
yaited not less than five minutes after the telephone 
isall came !" 



176 MANSLAUGHTER 

'Trobably not/' 

*' Answer yes or no, please/' 

"No." She flung it at him. 

"Then if that telephone came at thirteen minutes 
before three you must have left not earlier than eight 
minutes to three, and the accident took place at 3 :12, 
you ran the distance — it is actually thirteen miles 
and a half — in twenty minutes; that is, at the rate 
of forty miles an hour/' 

Wiley protested that there was nothing in evidence 
to show that the telephone call had been made at thir- 
teen minutes before three, and O'Bannon replied that 
ynih the consent of the court he would put the records 
of the telephone company in evidence to prove the 
exact hour. This point settled, a pause followed. 
Lydia half rose, supposing the ordeal over, but 
O'Bannon stopped her. 

"One moment,'' he said. "You say you have not 
been arrested for exceeding the speed law for several 
years. Have you ever been stopped by a police- 
man ?" 

Wiley was up in protest at once. 

"I object, Your Honor, on the ground of irrele- 
vancy." 

The judge said to O'Bannon, *^What is the purpose 
of the question?" 

"Credibility, Your Honor. I wish to show that the 
defendant is not a competent witness as to her own 
q>eed." 




MANSLAUGHTER 17T 

The judge locked his fingers together, with his 
elbows on the arms of his chair, and took a ruminative 
half spin. 

"The fact that she was once stopped by the police 
;will not determine that. She might have been vio- 
lating some other ordinance." 

"I will show, if Your Honor permits it, that it was 
for speeding that she was stopped.'' 

Eventually the question was admitted; and Lydia, 
testifying more and more reluctantly, more and more 
aware that the impression she was making was bad, 
was forced to testify that in the autumn Drummond 
himself had stopped her. Asked what he had said to 
her, she answered scornfully that she didn't remem- 
ber. 

"Did he say : 'What do you think this is — a race 
track?'" 

*^I don't remember." 

'^Did he warn you that if you continued to drive 
so fast he would arrest you ?" 

"No." 

If hate could kill, the district attorney would have 
been struck down by her glance. 

"You don't remember any of the conversation that 
took place between you ?" 

"No." 

"And you cannot explain why a traffic officer 
stopped you and let you go without even a warning !" 

"No." 



178 MA3TBLATIGHTEB 

"Would it rcfresli jojxr memory, Miss Thome, to 
look at this bracelet which I hold in my hand ?" 

"I protest, Your Honor!" shouted Wiley, but a 
second too late. Lydia had seen the bracelet and 
shrunk from it — with a quick gesture of repugnance. 

The line of inquiry was not permitted, the bracelet 
W'as not put in evidence, the question was ordered 
stricken from the records ; but the total effect of her 
testimony was to leave in the minds of the jurors the 
impression that she was perfectly capable of the con- 
duct which the prosecution attributed to her. Wiley 
detained her a few moments for redirect examinatioa 
in the hope of regaining the dove, but in vain. 

Miss Bennett was put on the stand to testify to 
Lydia^s habitual prudence as a driver; Governor 
lAlbee testified to her excellent record; half a dozen 
other friends were persuasive, but could not undo the 
harm she had done her own case. 

The district attorney put the telephone-company 
records in evidence, showing that only one call had 
been made to the Bellington house between two and 
three o'clock March eleventh, and that it had been 
made at thirteen minutes before threa 



CHAPTER XI 

LTDIA, with the wisdom that comes specially 
to the courageous, knew that her trial had 
gone against her as she left the stand. Miss 
Bennett was hopeful as they drove home. Bobby 
actually congratulated her on the clearness and 
;if eight of what she had said. 

Albee, whose own investigation had closed bril- 
liantly the day before, came that evening to say good- 
by to her. He was called back to his native state on 
business and was leaving on a midnight train. 

Since the accident Lydia had been seeing Albee 
<3very day — had used him and consulted him, and yet 
had almost forgotten his existence. Now as she 
.waited for his appearance it came to her with a shock 
of surprise that she had once come very near to en- 
gaging herself to him ; that in parting like this for a 
few weeks he might make the assumption that sha 
intended to be his wife. She thought she could make 
her trial a good excuse for refusing to consider sudi 
a proposal. That would get rid of him without hurt- 
ing his feelings. She thought of the phrase, "A 
woman situated as I am loannot enter into an engage- 
ment.'' The mere idsa of such a marriage was now 

179 




180 MANSLAUGHTER 

intensely repugnant to her. How could flhe iave con- 
templated it? 

He entered, leonine yet neat in his double-breasted 
blue serge with a pearl in his black tie. He took her 
hand and beamed down upon her as if many things 
were in his heart that he would not trouble her with 
at this crisis by uttering. 

*^Ah, my dear/^ he said, "I wish I might be here 
to-morrow to see your triumph, but I'll be back in a 
month or so, and then — meantime I leave you in good 
hands. Wiley is capital. His summing up to-mor- 
row will be a masterpiece* And remember, if by any 
chance — juries are chancy, you know — they do 
bring in an adverse verdict, on appeal you're safe as a 
church." He raised a cold, rigid little hand to his 
lips. 

With her perfect clear-sightedness she saw he was 
deserting her and was glad to get him out of her way. 
She had not even an impulse to punish him for going. 

The next morning it was raining torrents. It 
seemed as if the globe itself were spinning in rain 
rather than ether. Rain beat on the streets of New 
York so that the asphalt ran from curb to curb in 
black brooks ; rain swept across the open spaces of the 
country, and as they ran through the storm water 
gpouted in long streams from the wheels of the car. 
In the court room rain ran down the windows on each 
eide of the American flag in liquid patterns. The 
court room itself had a different air. The electric 



MANSLATJGHTEE 181 

lights were on, the air smelled of mud and rubber 
icoats, and Judge Homans, who suffered from rheuma- 
tism, was stiff and grim. 

A blow awaited Lydia at the outset. She had not 
understood that the defense summed up first — that the 
prosecution had the last word with the jury. "What 
xnight not "that man'^ do with the jury by means of his 
hypnotic sincerity? She dreaded Wiley's summing 
tup, too, fearing it would be oratorical — all the more 
because he kept disclaiming any such intention. 

"The day has gone by for eloquence," he kept say- 
ing. "One doesn't attempt nowadays to be a Daniel 
Webster or a Eufus Choate. But of course it is nec- 
essary to touch the hearts of the jury." 

She thought that O'Bannon's appeal was to their 
heads, and yet Wiley might be right. People were 
fiuch geese they might prefer Wiley's method to 
O'Bannon's. 

As soon as court opened Wiley began his summing 
up, and even his client approved of his simple, leisr 
urely manner. He was very clear and effective with 
the merely legal points. The crime of manslaughter 
in the first degree — a crime for which a sentencer of 
twenty years might be imposed — had not been proved. 
JTor was there credible evidence of criminal negli- 
gence, without which a verdict of manslaughter in the 
Becond degree could not be found. As he reviewed 
the facts he contrived to present a picture of Lydia's 
jrouthfulness, her motherlessness, of Thome's earljr 



18S ICAKSLAUGHTEB 

beginnings as & worldngman, of Iiis death leavin|f 
Ljdia an orphan. Ho made her beauty and wealth 
eeem a disadvantage — a terrible temptation to an am- 
Jbitioua young prosecutor with an eye to newspaper 
headlines. He made it appear as if juries always 
convicted young ladies of social position, but that this 
particular jury by a triumph of fair-mindedness 
[were going to be able to overcome this prejudice. One 
juror who had wept over Alma Wooley now; shed an 
impartial tear for Lydia. 

"Gentlemen of the jury," Wiley ended, "I ask you 
to consider this case on the facts and the facts alone — 
not to be led away by the emotional appeals of an 
ambitious and learned young prosecutor who has the 
ruthlessness that so often goes with young ambition ; 
not to eonvict an innocent girl whose only crime seems 
to be that die is the custodian of wealth that her 
father, an American workingman, won from the con- 
ditions of American industry. If you consider the 
evidence alone you will find that no crime has been 
committed. I ask you, gentlemen, for a verdict of 
not guilty." 

Lydia, with her eyes slanted down to the red carpet 
at a spot a few feet from O'Bannon's chair, saw that 
Miss Bennett turned joyfully to Eleanor, that Bobby; 
was trying to catch her eye for a congratulatory nod ; 
but she did not move a muscle until O'Bannon rose 
and crossed over to the jury. Her eyes followed him. 
Then she remembered to turn and give her own coun- 



MANSLAUGHTER 183 

Bel a mechanical smfle — a finile luch as a nurse gives 
a clever child who has just built a fort on the beaek 
jrhich the next wave is certain to sweep away, 

"Gendemen of the jury," said O'Bannon — and ha 
bit off his words sharply; indeed, he and Wiley 
seemed to have changed roles. He who had been so 
Qool through the trial now showed feeling, a sort of 
quiet passion — "this is not a personal contest between 
ihe distinguished counsel for the defense and myself. 
Neither my youth nor my ambition nor my alleged 
TOthlessness are in question. The only question is, 
does the evidence show beyond a reasonable doubt 
that the defendant committed the crime for which she 
has been indicted V* 

Then without an extra phrase, almost without an 
adjective, he went on quickly piling up the evidence 
against her until it reached its climax in the proof of 
the shortness of time that had elapsed between her 
leaving Eleanor^s and the accident 

"A particularly serious responsibility rests upon 
you, gentlemen, in this case. The counsel for the 
defense seems to assume that the rich fare less well 
in our courts of law than the poor. That has not been 
my experience. I should be glad as a believer in 
democracy if I could believe that justice is more 
available to the poor than to the rich, but I cannot. 
Last month in this very court a boy, younger than the 
defendant, who earned his living as a driver of a de- 
Uveiy wagon, was sentenced to ihree years in prUa 



184 MANSLAUGHTER 

for a lesser crime, and on evidence not one-tenth aa 
convincing as the evidence now before you. A great 
many of us felt sorry for that boy, too, but we felt 
that essential justice was done. If through sentiment 
or pity essential justice cannot be done in this case, if 
eex, wealth or conspicuous position is a guarantee of 
immunity, a blow will be dealt to the respect for law. 
in this country for which you gentlemen must take the 
responsibility. If you find by the evidence that the 
defendant has committed the crime for which she is 
indicted I ask you to face that fact with courage and 
honesty, and to bring in a verdict of guilty." 

There was a gentle stir in the court. The atten- 
dant announced that anyone who wished to leave the 
court must do so inmiediately. No one would be al- 
lowed to move while the judge was charging. No one 
moved. The doors were closed, the attendants lean- 
ing against them. 

Wiley bent over and wispered, ''That sort of class 
appeal doesn't succeed nowadays. Give yourself no 
concern.^' 

Concern was the Tast emotion Lydia felt, or rather 
she felt no emotion at all. Her interest had suddenly 
collapsed, the game was over. She was aware that thef 
air of the court room was close and that she felt in- 
expressibly tired, especially in her wrists. 

The judge wheeled toward the jury and drew in: 
his chin until it seemed to rest upon his spinal 



MANSLAUGHTEB 185 

''Gentlemen of tlie jury," lie said, ''we have now 
readied that stage in this trial when it is my duty to 
present the matter for your deliberation. You kaow 
that the law makes a distinction between the duty of 
the court and the duty of the jury. You are the judge 
and the only judge of the facts, but you must accept 
the law from the court. You must not consider 
whether or not you approve of the law; whether you 
could or could not make a better law." 

Lydia suppressed a yawn. 

"The tiresome old man," she thought. "He act- 
ually seems to enjoy saying all that." 

His Honor went on defining a reasonable doubt : 

"It is not a whim or a speculation or a surmise. 
It is a doubt founded on reason — on a reason which 
may be stated." 

Lydia thought, "Imagine drawing a salary for tell- 
ing people that a reasonable doubt is a doubt founded 
on reason." She had not imagined that she would be 
l)ored at any moment of her own trial, but she was — 
bored beyond belief. 

'^I must call your attention to Sectid^ ^^0 of the 
Penal Law, which says that whenever a crime is dis- 
tinguished into degrees, the jury, if they convict^ 
must find the degree of the crime of which the pris- 
oner is guilty. Manslaughter is a crime distinguished 
into degrees — namely, the first and the second 
degree." 

Lydia thought that if by thia time the jury did not 



186 MANSLAUGHTER 

know the distinction between the two they mnst 
be half-witted, but His Honor went on to define 
them: 

"In the first degree, when committed without de- 
sign to effect death by a person conmiitting or at- 
tempting to commit a misdemeanor." 

She thought that she knew that phrase now, as 
when she was a child she had known some of the rules 
of Latin grammar — verbs conjugated with ad, ante, 
can, in, inter — what did they do ? How funny that 
she couldn't remember. Her eyes had again fixed 
themselves on the spot on the carpet so near O'Ban- 
non's feet that she was aware of any movement on 
his part, and yet she was not looking at him. A fly 
came limply crawling into her vision, and her eyes 
followed it as it lit on O'Bannon's boot. She glanced 
up to where his hand was resting on his knee, and 
then wrenched her eyes away — back to the floor 
Again* 

"If you find that the defendant is not guilty of 
manslaughter in the first degree you must then con- 
sider whether or not she is guilty of manslaughter in 
the second degree — that is, whether she occasioned the 
death of Drummond by an act of culpable negligence. 
Culpable negligence has been defined by Recorder 
Bmyth in the case of — in the cajBe of the People 
against Bedenseick as the omission to do something 
3irhich a reasonable and prudent man would do, or the 
i3aing of fomethin^ whieh such a man would not do 



MANSLAUGHTER 187 

under the circmnstaiices of each particular case. Or, 
what is the same thing ^^ 

How incredibly tiresome ! She glanced at the jury. 
They were actually listening, drinking in the judge's 
words. All of a sudden she knew by his tone that he 
was coming to an end. 

"If you find that a killing has taken place, but that 
it is not manslaughter in either degree, then it is 
your duty to acquit. If on the other hand you find the 
defendant guilty in either degree you must not con- 
sider the penalty which may be imposed. That is the 
province of the court; yours is to consider the facts. 
Such, gentlemen, is the law. The evidence is before 
you. You are at liberty to believe or to disbelieve the 
testimony of any witness in part or as a whole, ac- 
cording to your common sense. Weigh the testimony, 
giving each fact its due proportion; and then, 
according to your best judgment, render your 
verdict." 

His Honor was silent. There were a few requests 
to charge from both sides, and the jury filed solemnly 
out. Almost without a pause the next case was called, 
the attendant's voice ringing out as before — "The 
pase of the People against ^^ 

Lydia felt disinclined to move, as if even her bones 
iwere made of some soft dissoluble material. Then 
fihe saw that she had no choice. The next prisoner 
was waiting for her place — an unshaven, hollow-eyed 
Italian^ with a etout, gray-clad lawyer who looked j 



188 l£AlTSi:i.naHTEIl 

like Caruso af his side. 'As aha left the court she 
jeould hear the derk calliBg the new jiu^* 

'^William Eoberts-'* 

"Seat Number One.** 

Judge Homans flattered himflelf particular!/ on the 
I»leri1z ffith which his g<>5rt moT-d. 



CHAPTER Xn 

SEVERAL of the New York papers the iiextl 
morning carried editorials commending the ver- 
. 3ict. Lydia sitting up in bed with a breakfast 
tray on her knee^ read them coolly through. 

"The safety of the highways'' — "the irresponsi- 
bility of the younger generation, particularly among 
those of great wealth" — "pity must not degenerate 
into sentimentality,, — "the equal administration of 
our laws ^^ 

So the public was pleased with the verdict, was it ? 
It little knew. She herself was filled with bitterness. 
The moment of the delivery of the verdict had been 
terrible to her. 

She had not minded the hours of waiting. She had 

felt deadened, without special interest in what the 

jury decided. But this had changed the moment 

word came that the jury had reached a verdict. There 

was a terrible interval while the familiar roll of their 

names was called for the last time. Then she was 

told to stand up and face them, or rather to face the 

foreman, Josiah Howell, a bearded man with a lined 

brown face. He looked almost tremulously grave. 

Lydia set her jaw, looking at him and thinking, 

189 



190 MANSLAUGHTER 

"What business have you interfering in my fate?^' 
But he was not the figure she was most aware of. It 
was the district attorney, whose excitement she knew 
was as great as her own. 

"How say you?" said a voice. "Guilty or not 

guilty r 

"Guilly of manslaughter in the second degree/' 
answered the foreman. 

Lydia knew every eye in the court room was turned 
on her. She had heard of defendants who fainted on 
hearing an adverse verdict — keeled over like dead 
people. But one does not faint from anger, and 
anger was Lydia's emotion — anger that "that man'' 
had actually obtained the verdict he wanted. Her 
breath came fast and her nostrils dilated. How sick- 
ening that she had nothing to do but stand there and 
let him triumph 1 No subsequent reversal would 
take away this moment from him. 

The jury was thanked and dismissed. Wiley was 
busy putting in pleas that would enable her to re- 
main at liberty during the appeal of her case. She 
stood alone, still now as a statue. She was thinking 
\ that some day the world should know by what meth- 
i ods that verdict had been obtained. 

She had behaved well during her trial ; had lived 
a life of retirement, seeing no one but Wiley and her 
immediate friends. But there was no further reason 
for playing a part On the contrary she felt it would 
relieve her spirit to show the world — and O'Bannom 



MANSLAUGHTER 191 

— that she was not beaten yet She did not intend to 
look upon herself as a criminal because he had in- 
duced a jury to convict her. 

She bought herself some new clothes and went out 
every night, dancing till dawn and sleeping till noon. 
She began a new flirtation, this time with a good-look- 
ing insolent young English actor, Ludovic Blythe, 
hardly twenty-one, with a strange combination of 
wickedness and na'ivete that some English boys 
possess. Her friends disapproved of him heartily. 

At his suggestion she engaged a passage for Eng- 
land for early July. Wiley warned her that it was 
unlikely that the decision in her case would be handed 
down as soon as that, and if it were not she could not 
leave the country. 

"There's no harm in engaging a cabin, is there ?'' 
she answered. 

Her plan was to take in the end of the London sea- 
son, with a few house parties in the English country, 
to spend September in Venice, two weeks in Paris 
buying clothes, and to come home in October. 

"To Long Island V^ Miss Bennett asked. 

"Of course. Where else ?" answered Lydia. *T5oi 
you think I shall allow myself to be driven out of my 
own home ?" 

But July came without the decision, and Lydia 
was obliged to cancel her passage. She was annoyed- 

'Those lazy old judges,'' she said, *Tiave actually 
adjourned for two months^ and now I can't get off 



i»3 MANSLAUGHTER 

;Dntil September/' Her tone indicated that she waa 
doing a good deal for the law of her countiyi chang- 
ing her plans like this. 

O'Bannon, she heard, was taking a holiday too — 
going to Wyoming for a month. She thought that 
she would like to see something of the West, but in- 
stead she took a house at Newport for August — a 
fevered month. Blythe came to spend Sunday with 
her and stayed two weeks, fell in love with May 
Swayne^ attempted to use his position as a guest of 
Lydia's to make himself appear a more desirable 
suitor in the eyes of the Swayne family — a solid old- 
fashioned fortune — and was turned out by Lydia 
after a scene of unusual violence, 

A feud followed in which many people took — and 
changed — sides. Lydia fought gayly, briskly in the 
open. Her object was not Blythe's death, but his 
social extinction, and her method was not cold steel 
but ridicule. The war was won when May was made 
to see him as an impossible figure, comic, on the make 
— as perhaps he was, but no more so than when Lydia 
heiself had received him. After this, though he lin« 
gered on a few days at a hotel, his ultimate disappear- 
ance was certain. Lydia and May remained friends 
tiiroughout — as much friends as they had ever been. 
Bince the day of their first meeting the two women: 
had never permitted any man to be a friend of both of 
them. 

Albee came and spent a brief twenty-four houn 



IfANSLAUGHTEE 19? 

!with her between a midnight train and Sunday boat. 
He was in the midst of a campaign as United Statoi 
senator from his own state — certain of election. 
Lydia was Hnd and patient with him, but franUj^ 
bored. 

"There's more stuff in Bobby/' she confided to 
Benny, "who doesn't expect you to tremble at his nod. 
I hate fake strong men. I always feel tempted to 
call their bluff. It's a hard role they want to play. 
If they don't break you, you despise them. If thej; 
do — why, you're broken, no good to anyone." 

She asked Eleanor to come and spend August with: 
her, but Eleanor refused, saying, what was true 
enough, that she couldn't bear Newport. She could 
bear even less constant association with Lydia at this 
moment. Lydia's one preoccupation when they were 
together was to destroy Eleanor's friendship for 
O'Bannon. Often in old times Eleanor had laughed 
at the steady persistence that Lydia put into this sort 
of campaign of hate, but she could not laugh now, for 
as a matter of fact her friendship with O'Bannon 
iwas already destroyed. She hardly saw him, and if 
Bhe did there was a veil between them. He was kind, 
he was open with her, he was everything except in- 
terested. 

Eleanor loved O'Bannon, but with so intellectual 
a process that she was not far wrong in considering 
it was a friendship. She would have married him if 
he had asked her, but she would have done so prinei** 



194 MANSLAUGHTER 

pally to insure herself of his company. If anyone 
could have guaranteed that they would continue all 
their lives to live within a few yards of each other 
she would have been content — content even with the 
knowledge that every now and then some other less 
reasonable woman would come and sweep him away 
from her. She knew he was of a temperament sus- 
ceptible to terrible gusts of emotion, but she consid- 
iered that that was her hold upon him — she was so 
safe. 

The remoteness that came to their relation now 
indicated another woman, and yet she knew his 
everyday life well enough to know that he was 
seeing no one except herself and Alma Wooley; 
and though there was some gossip about his attention 
to the girl, Eleanor felt she understood the reason for 
it. Alma made him feel emotionally what he knew 
rationally — that his prosecution of Lydia had been 
merely an act of justice. Alma thought him the 
greatest of men and was tremulously grateful to him 
for establishing her dead lover as, a hero — a man 
killed in the performance of his duty. To her imag- 
ination Lydia was an unbelievable horror, like a 
wicked princess in a fairy tale. Eleanor wondered if 
she did not seem somewhat the same to O'Bannon. 
He never mentioned her name when she, Eleanor, 
spoke of her. It was like dropping a stone into a 
bottomless well. She listened and listened, and noth- 
ing eame back from O'Bannon's abysmal silence. 



MANSLAUGHTEE 195 

He spoke of her only once, and that was when lie camel 
to say good-by to Eleanor the day he started for Wy- 
oming, He was eager to get away — into those moun- 
tains, to sleep under the stars and forget everything 
and everybody in the East. 

"Mercy," Eleanor thought, 'Tiow ruthless men are I 
I wouldn't let any friend of mine see I was glad to 
leave him, even if I were/' 

"It's a rotten job — mine,'' he said. "I'm always 
Bending people to prison who are either so abnormal 
they don't seem human or else so human they seem 
just like myself." 

Presently Eleanor mentioned that Lydia had asked 
!her to go to Newport for a month. O'Bannon turned 
On her sharply. 

"And are you going?" 

She said no, but it did not save her from his con- 
tempt. 

"I don't see how you can be a friend of that 
yoman'% Eleanor," he said. 

"Lydia has the most attaching qualities when you 
know her, Dan." 

"Attaching !" he broke out with a suppressed irri- 
tation she had never seen — a strange hate of her, 
Eleanor, for saying such a thing, "Arrogant, inflex- 
ible, using all her gifts — her brains and her 
incredible beauty — just to advance her own selfish 
endsl" 

An impulse based partly on pure loyalty but partly 



196 MAlfSLAUGHTEE 

bn the idea that she could improve her position hj[ 
showing her friend was mot quite a monster made har 
lanswer, "Ton wouldnH believe, Dan, how if sh« 
really cares for you she can be tender almost cling- 

"For )God's sake don't let's talk of her!" said 
D'Bannon, and it was on this note that they parted. 

He wrote to her only once, though his letters to his 
inother were always at her disposal. She saw a great 
Ideal of the old lady, who developed a mild pleurisy; 
as soon as her son's back was turned and didn't want 
Dan told of it. Eleanor spent most of that hot 
'August taking care of her. 

"I want him to have an uninterrupted holiday,'* 
eaid Mrs. O'Bannon firmly. "He hasn't been welL 
He dosen't sleep as he ought to, and he's cross, and 
you know it's not like Dan to be cross." 

On the last day of August he was back, lean and 
Bunbumed, announcing himself to be in excellent 
(condition. His first question was about the Thome 
lease. 

"Are you anxious about it ?" said his mother. 

"Not a bit. They can't reverse us," he answered. 

'After Labor Day Lydia moved back to her Long 
Island house, and she was there when the decsion in; 
her case was handed down. The verdict of the lower 
court was sustained. It was a great blow to her— • 
perhaps the first real blow she had ever received. She 
had BO firmly ma3e up her mind that the former ver- 



MANSLAUGHTER 19T 

^Uct Iiad been the result of undue influenoe of the dia- 
trict attorney that she had thought it impossible that 
the higher court would uphold it. Another triumph, 
for "that man I^' The idea of punishment was horri- 
ble to her — to be fined as a criminal. She still did 
not oonceiye it a possibility that she could be sent to 
prison. 

"I can think of lots of ways in which I'd rather 
gpend a thousand dollars," was her only comment 

But day and night she thought of the scene in 
court when she must present herself for sentence. In 
secret her courage failed her. It would be the visible 
symbol of O'Bannon's triumph over her. Tet her 
ynll threw itself in vain against the necessity. Noth- 
ing but death could save her. It would be short any- 
how. She knew how it would be. She and Wiley 
would appear in the midst of some other wretch's 
trial. There would be whisperings about the judge's 
(desk, and O'Bannon would be there — not looking at 
her, but triumphing in his black heart, and the judge 
would say "A thousand-dollar fine,'' or — no, nothing 
BO succinct. He would find it an opportunity to talk 
about her and her case first. And then she would 
pay the money and leave court, a convicted crim- 
tnaL 

Aii9 ^2i»^ the aeoQiid stage would b^gioi. It wovld 
lorn her tuxiu Sha would giv« her life to getting ^eoi 
lirfth O'Eannon. She who had always needed a purpose 
^— a strii^ an which to thread her life — had found 



198 MANSLAUGHTER 

St in hate. Most people found it in love, but for her 
part fihe enjoyed hate.. It was exciting and active, 
and, oh, what a climax it promised! Yes, like the 
adventuress in the melodrama, she would go to him 
herself and say: **I've waited ten years to ruin you, 
land now I've done it. Have you been wondering all 
these years what was against you — what held you 
back and poisoned everything you touched ? It was 

ir 

Other people, she knew, thought such things and 
never put them in action. But she had no reason to 
distrust the power of her own will, and never had she 
willed anything as she willed this. She began to ar- 
range it. There were three ways in which you could 
hurt a man — through his love, through his ambitions 
and through his finances. A crooked politician like 
G'Bannon might suffer most by being ruined politi- 
cally. She must always keep some hold on Albee for 
that. Money probably wouldn't greatly matter to 
O'Bannon. But love — he was an emotional creature. 
Women, she felt sure, played a tremendous role in 
his life. And he was attractive to them — accustomed 
to success probably. Oh, to think that she had been 
for a few seconds acquiescent in his arms ! And yet 
that meant that she had power over him. She knew 
fihe had power. Should that be her method — to make 
jhim think that she had seen him not as an enemy but 
as a hero, a crusader, a master, that she was an ador- 
ing victim ? Oh, how easily she could make love to 



MANSLAITGHTEE 199 

Bm, and how successf uUy ! She could imagine going 
down on her knees to him, winding herself about him, 
only she must have the climax ready so that at the 
eame second she would destroy both his love and 
(career. She must wait, and it would be hard to wait ; 
but she must wait until she and Albee had dug a deep 
pit. Then she would call him to her and he would 
have to come. It was by thinking these thoughts that 
ehe managed to come into court calm and cold as 
Bteel. 

"What have you now to say why the judgment of 
the court should not be pronounced upon you ?'' 

The judge beckoned her and Wiley to his desk. 
O'Bannon was already there, standing so close that 
her arm would have touched his if she had not shrunk 
away. She trembled with hate. It was horrible to be 
80 near him. She heard his own breath unsteadily 
drawn. Across the space that parted them waves of 
Bome tangible emotion leaped to and fro. She looked 
up at him and found that he, with clenched hands and 
drawn brows, was looking at her. So they remained- 

"Your Honor," said Wiley in his smooth tones, 
*^I would like to ask that a fine rather than a prison 
sentence be imposed on this prisoner, not only on ac- 
count of her youth and previous good record, but be- 
jcause to a woman of her sheltered upbringing a prison 
sentence is a more severe punishment than the law; 
jBontemplated." 

"I entirely disagree with you, counselor,^' said the 



200 jyCAlJ^SEAUQHTER 

judge in a loud ringing tona 'The feature that 
makes the court bo reluctant ordinarily to impose 
prison sentences is the subsequent difficulty in earning 
a living. That consideration is entirely absent in the 
present case. On the other hand, to impose a fine 
would be palpably ridiculous, constituting for this 
defendant no punishment whatsoever. I sentence this 
prisoner^' — the judge paused and drew in his chin — 
'*to not less than three nor more than seven years in 
state's prison. 

She heard Wiley passionately pleading with Judge 
Homans. A blue-coated figure was now standing be- 
feide her. It was still incredible. 

**This is your doing," she heard her own voice say- 
ing very softly to O'Bannon. 

To her surprise she saw that emotion, what emotion 
she did not know, made it impossible for him to 
answer. His eyes stared at her out of a face whiter 
than her own. It was his emotion that communicated 
her own situation to her. His hand on the 
5desk was shaking. She knew he could not have 
done what she proceeded to do. She turned and 
walked with the policeman to the iron-latticed pas- 
sageway that led to jail. 

As the door clanged behind her O'Bannon turned 
and walked out of court, and getting into his car drove 
away westward. At two in the morning Eleanor was 
waked by a telephone from Mrs. O'Bannon. Dan had 
%ot come home. She was afraid something had hap>* 



MANSLAUGHTER 201 

pened to him, A man in his position had many ene* 
mies. Did Eleanor think that some friend or loyer 
of that Thome girl 

Oh^ no, Eleanor was snre not I 

The next morning — for a small town holds few 
secrets — she knew that O'Bannon had returned at six 
o'clock, drunk. 

**0h, dear heaven/' thought Eleanor, "must he re- 
IrmTel that xoad t* 



CHAPTER Xm 

LTDIA and her guard arrived at the prison 
eariy in the evening. She had been travelling 
all through the hot, bright September day. ^ 
3For the first hour she had been only aware of the prox- 
imity of the guard, of the crowded car, the mingled 
smell of oranges and coal smoke, the newspaper on the 
floor, trodden by every foot, containing probably an 
account of her departure for her long imprisonment 
Then, her eyes wandering to the river, she suddenly 
•remembered that it would be years before she saw 
mountains and flowing water again. Perhaps she 
^ould never see them again. 

During the previous winter she had gone with 
Benny and Mrs. Galton to visit a prison in a neigh- 
boring state — a man's prison. It was considered an 
•unfortunate example. Scenes from that visit came 
back to her in a series of pictures. A giant negro 
highwayman weaving at an immense loom with a 
leavy, hopeless regularity. Black, airless punish- 
ment cells — ^^never used nowadays,'' the warden had 
Raid lightly, and had been corrected by a low murmur 
from the keeper; two of them were in use at the 
inoment. The tiers of ordinary cells, not so very 

202 



MANSLAUGHTER 203 

much better, with, their barred loopholes. And the 
smells — the terrible prison smells. At their best, dis- 
infectant and stale soap; at worst — Lydia never 
knew that it was possible to remember a smell as she 
now remembered that one. But most of all she re- 
membered the chalky pallor of some of the prisoners, 
some obviously tubercular, others twitching with 
nervous affections. She doubted coolly if many peo- 
ple were strong enough to go through years of that 
sort of thing. 

So she would look at the river as if die might never 
see it again. 

They were already in the Highlands, and the hills 
on the eastern side — her side of the river — were 
throwing a morning shadow on the water, while 
across the way the white marble buildings at West 
Point shone in the sunlight. Storm King with its 
abrupt bulk interposed itself between the two sections 
of new road — the road which Lydia had so much de- 
sired to see finished. She and Bobby had had a plan 
to motor along it to the Emmonses some day — New- 
burgh. There was a hotel there where she had 
stopped once for luncheon on her way to Tuxedo from 
somewhere or other. Then presently the bridge at 
Poughkeepsie, and then the station at which she had 
got out when she had spent Sunday with the Emmonses, 
the day Evans had been arrested and had confessed 

to that man There was the very pillar she had 

ipraildd beside while the chauffeur looked up her bags. 




204 MANSLAUGHTEE 

Now the river began to narrow, there were marshy 
islands in it, and huge shaky ice houses along the 
brink. It all unrolled before her like a picture that 
ehe was never going to see again. Then Albany, set 
on its hills, and the train, turning sharply, rumbled 
over the bridge into the blackened station. Almost 
everybody in the car got out here, for the train stopped 
some time ; but she and her guard remained sitting 
silently side by side. Then presently they were go- 
ing on again, through the beautiful wide fertile valley 

of the Mohawk They were getting near, very 

near. She felt not frightened but physically sick. 
She wondered if her hair would be cut short. Of 
course it would. It seemed to her like an indignity 
committed by O'Bannon's own hand. 

It was dark when they reached the station, so dark 
that she could not get a definite idea of anything but 
the great wall of the prison, and the clang of the un- 
barring of the great gate. Later she came to know 
the doorway with its incongruous beauty — the white 
door with its fanlight and side windows, and two low 
stairways curving up to it, and, above, the ironwork 
porch, supported on square ironwork columns of a 
-' leaf pattern, suggestive somehow of an old wistaria 
vine. But now she knew nothing between the gate 
and the opening of the front door. 

She entered what might have been the wide hall of 
an old-fashioned and extraordinarily bare country 
liouM. A wide stairway rose straight before her, and 



MANSLAUGHTEE 205 

iwide, old-f aahioned doors opened formally to left and 
right. 

She was taken into the room at the right — ^the 
matron's roonu While her name and age and crime 
were being registered she stood staring straight before 
her where bookshelves ran to the ceiling. She could 
recognise familiar bindings — the works of Marion 
Crawford and Mrs. Humphry Ward. 

Calm brown-eyed women seemed to surround her, 
but she would not even look at ttem. Their imper- 
sonal kindness seemed to be founded on the insulting 
knowledge of her utter helplessness. They chatted a 
little with the guard who had brought her. Was the 
train late ? Well, not as bad as last time. 

She wondered how soon they would cut her hair. 

After a little while she was taken through a long 
•corridor directly to a spacious bathroom. Her clothes, 
wrapped in a sheet, were borne away. At this Lydia 
gave a short laugh. It pleased her as a sign that the 
routine in her case was palpably ridiculous — to take 
away her things as if they were infected. She was 
given a bath, a nightgown of most unfriendly texture 
:was handed to her, and presently she was locked in her 
cell — still in possession of her hair. 

She felt like an animai in a trap — could imagine 
herseK running along the floor smelling at cracks for 
Bome hope of escape, with that strange head motion, 
Tip and down, up and down, of a newly caged 

ATllTYIfl l, 




206 MANSLAUQHTEE 

More even than the locks and bolts, she minded the 
open grille in the door, like an eye through which she 
might at any moment of the day or night be spied 
upon. At every footstep she prepared herself to meet 
with a defiant stare the eyes of an inspector. The cell 
was hardly a cell, but a room larger than most hall 
bedrooms. The bed had a white cover ; so had the 
table ; and the window, though barred, was large. But 
this made no impression on Lydia. She was con- 
scious of being locked in. Only her pride and her 
hard common sense kept her from beating at the door 
with her bare hands and making one of those scream- 
ing outbreaks so familiar to prison officials. 

She who had never been coerced was now to be 
coerced in every action, surrounded everywhere by 
symbols of coercion. She who had been so intense an 
individualist that she had discarded a French model 
if she saw other women wearing it was now to wear 
a striped gingham dress of universal pattern. She 
whose competent white hands had never done a piece 
of useful work was sentenced to not less than three or 
more than seven years of hard labor. What would 
that be — hard labor ? The vison of that giant negro 
working hopelessly at his loom was before her all 
night long. 

All night long she wandered up and down her cell, 
now and then laying her hand on the door to assure 
herself of the incredible fact that it was locked. Only 
for a few minutes at dawn she fell asleep, forgetting 



MANSEAtTGHTER 207 

the catastroplie, the malignant fate that had overtaken 
her, and woke imagining herself at home. 

When her cell door was unlocked she stepped 
out into the same corridor along which she had passed 
the night before. She found it a blaze of sunlight. 
Great patches of sunlight fell in barred patterns on 
the boards of the floor, scrubbed as white as the deck 
of a man-of-war. Remembering tibe gloomy granite 
loopholes of her imagination, this sun seemed inso- 
lently bright 

The law compels every prisoner, unless specially 
exempted, to spend an hour a day in school. Lydia's 
examination was satisfactory enough to exempt her, 
but she was set to work in the schoolroom, giving out 
books, helping with papers, erasing the blackboards, 
collecting the chalk and erasers. In this way the 
iwhole population of the prison — about seventy-five 
"women — passed before her in the different grades. 
She might have found interest and opportunity, but 
she was in no humor to be cooperative. 

She sat there despising them all, feeling her own es- 
sential difference — from the bright-eyed Italian girl 
ivho had known no English eighteen months before 
and was now so industrious a student, to the large, 
calm, unbelievably good-tempered teacher. The at- 
mosphere of the room was not that of a prison school 
but of a kindergarten. That was what annoyed 
Lydia — that these women seemed to like to learn. 
The;^ q)elled with enthusiasm — these grown women. 



U. 



208 MANSLAUGHTER 

Up and down pages they went, spelling "passenger'' 
and "transfer'' and "station" — it was evidently a 
lesson about a trolley car. Was she, Lydia Thornei, 
expected to join joyfully in some such child-like disci- 
pline? In mental arithmetic the competition grew 
keener. Muriel, a soft-voiced colored girl, made eight 
and seven amount to thirteen. The class laughed 
gayly. Lydia covered her face with her hands. 

"Oh," she thought, ^Tie might better have killed me 
than this !" 

It seemed to her that this terrible impersonal rou- 
tine was turning on her like a great wheel and grind- 
ing her into the earth. What incredible perversity it 
♦was that no one — no prisoner, no guard, not even the 
clear-eyed matron — would see the obvious fact that 
she was not a criminal as these others were. 

Had O'Bannon's power reached even into the iso- 
lation of prison and dictated that she should be treated 
like everyone else — she who was so different from 
these uneducated, emotional, unstable beings about 
her? 

It was her former maid, Evans, who destroyed this 
illusion. The different wards of the prison ate sepa- 
rately ; and as Evans was not in her ward they did not 
meet during the day. They met in the hour after tea, 
before the prisoners were locked in their cells for the 
night; an hour when in the large hall they were 
allowed to read and talk and sew and tat — tatting 
Ifras yeiy popular just then. 



s' 



MANSLAUGHTEE 209 

Lydia had sunk into a rocking-chair. She could 
not fix her mind on a book, and she did not know how 
to sew or tat, and talk for talk's sake had never been 
oae of her amusements. She was thinking "One day 
has gone by out of perhaps seven years. In seven 
years I shall be thirty-three,'^ when she felt some one 
approaching her, and looking up she saw it was 
Evans. 

Evans, in a striped cotton, did not look so different 
from the lady's maid of the old days, except, as Lydia 
noticed with vague surprise, she had put on weight. 
She came with the hurried walk that made her skirts 
flip out at her heels — the same walk with which she 
used to come when she was late to dress Lydia for 
dinner. She almost expected to hear the familiar, 
"What will you wear, miss?" A dozen memories 
flashed into her mind — Evans polishing her jewels in 
the sunlight, Evans locked in the disordered bedroom 
refusing her confidence to everyone, and. then collaps- 
ing and confessing to "that man." 

She looked away from the approaching figure, hop- 
ing the girl would take the hint ; but no, Evans was 
drawing up a chair with something of the manner of 
a hostess to a new arrival. 

"Oh, Evans 1" was Lydia's greeting, very much in 
her old manner. 

"You'd better call me Louisa here — I mean, it's 
first names we use," said Evans. 

The fact had already been called to her former em- 



210 MANSLATJGHTEK 

ployer^s attention by Muriel, who had done nothing 
but call her Lydia in a futile effort to be friendly. 
She steeled herself to hear it from Evans, who, how- 
ever, managed to avoid it She gossiped of the prison 
news, and tried to cheer and help this newcomer with 
whatever wisdom she had acquired. Lydia neither 
moved nor answered nor again looked up. 

"As the matron says,^' Evans ran on, "the worst ia 
over when you get here. It's the trial and the sen- 
tence and the journey that's worst. After a week or 
so you'll begin to get used to it.'^ 

Lydia's nostrils trembled. 

"I shall never get used to it,'' she said. "I don't 
belong here. What I did was no crime." 

There was a short pause. Lydia waited for Evans' 
cordial agreement to what seemed a self-evident asser- 
tion. None came. Instead she said gently, as she 
might have explained to a child, "Oh, miss, they 
all think that r 

"Think what?" 

"That what they did was no real harm — that they 
were unjustly condemned. There isn't one here who 
won't tell you that. The worse they are the more they 
think it." 

Lydia had looked up from her contemplation of the 
gray rag rug. No sermon could have stopped her as 
short as that — the idea that she was exactly like all 
the other inmates. She protested, more to herself than 
to Evans. 



MANSLAUGHTEE 211 

"But it is different ! What I did was an accident, 
not a deliberate crime." 

Evans smiled her old, rare, gentle smile. 

"But the law says it was a crime." 

Horrible I Horrible but true ! Lydia was to find 
that every woman there felt exactly as she did; that 
she was a special case; that she had done nothing 
wrong; that her conviction had been brought about 
by an incompetent lawyer, a vindictive district attor- 
ney, a bribed jury, a perjured witness. The first 
thing each of them wanted to explain was that she — 
like Lydia — was a special case. 

The innocent-looking little girl who had committed 
bigamy. "Isn^t it to laugh ?" said she. "Gee, when 
you think what men do to us ! And I get five years 
for not knowing he was dead ! And what harm did 
I do him anyway ?" 

And the gaunt elderly stenographer who had run 
en illicit mail-order business for her employers. 
One of them had evidently occupied her whole 
horizon, taking the place of all law, moral and 
judicial. 

"He »aid it was positively legal," she kept repeat- 
ing, believing evidently that the judge and jury had 
been pitifully misinformed. 

And there was the stout middle-aged woman with 
Bandy hair and a bland competent manner — she was 
competent She had made a specialty of real-estate 
frauds. 



212 MANSLAUGHTEE 

'TE was entirely within the law," she said, as one 
hardly interested to argue the matter. 

And there were gay young mulatto girls and bright- 
eyed Italians, who all said the same thing — "every- 
one does it ; only the other girl squealed on me" — and 
there were the egotists, who were never going to get 
into this mess again. Some girls had to steal for a liv- 
ing; they had brains enough to go straight Even 
the woman who had attempted to kill her husband felt 
she had been absolutely within her rights and after 
hearing her story Lydia was inclined to agree with 
her. 

Only Evans seemed to feel that her sentence had 
been just. 

"No, it wasn't right what I did," she said, and she 
stood out like a star, superior to her surroundings. 
She only was learning and growing in the terrible 
routine. It soon began to seem to Lydia that this 
little fool of a maid of hers was a great person. Why ? 

Locked in her cell from dark to daylight, Lydia 
spent much of the time in thinking. Like a great 
many people in this world, she had never thought be- 
fore. She had particularly arranged her life so she 
should not think. Most people who think they think 
really dream. Lydia was no dreamer. She lacked 
the romantic imagination that makes dreams magical. 
Clear-sighted and pessimistic when she looked at life^ 
the reality had seemed hideous, and she looked away 
as quickly as possible, looked back to the material 



MANSLAUGHTER 213 

Beauty witli which she had surrounded herself and the 
pleasant activities always within reach. Now, cut off 
from pleasure and beauty, it seemed to her for the 
first time as if there were a real adventure in having 
the courage to examine the whole scheme of life. Its 
pattern could hardly be more hideous than that of 
every day. 

What was she ? What reason had she for living ? 
JVhat use could life be put to ? What was the truth ? 

A verse she could not place kept running through 
her head: 

Quand j'ai connu la Veriie, 
J'ai cm que c'etait une amie; 

Quand je Vai comprise et sentie, 
J' en etais deja degoute. 

Et pourtant elle est etemelle, 
Et ceux qui se sont passes d'elle 
Ici-bas ont tout ignore. 

She had been deliberately ignorant of much of 
life — of everything. 

She went through a period of despair, all the worse 
because, like a face in a nightmare, it was featureless. 
It was despair, not over the fact that she was in prison; 
but over the whole scheme of the universe, the futile 
hordes of human beings living and hoping and failing 
and passing away. 

Despair paralyzed her bodily activities. Her 



214: MANSLAUGHTEE 

mind, even her giant will, failed her. She could 
neither sleep nor eat, and after a week of it was taken 
to the hospital. The rumor tan through the prison 
that she was going mad — that was the way it always 
began. She lay in the hospital two days, hardly mov- 
ing. Her face seemed to have shrunk and her eyes to 
have grown large and fiery. The doctor came and 
talked to her. She would, not answer him ; she would 
not meet his gaze; she would do nothing but draw 
long unnatural breaths like sighs. 

In the room next to her there was a mother with a 
six-months-old baby. Lydia at the best of times had 
never been much interested in babies, though all young 
animals made a certain appeal to her. Her friends^ 
babies, swaddled and guarded by nurses, lacked the 
spontaneous charm of a kitten or a puppy. This 
baby, however — Joseph his name was, and he was 
always so referred to — was different. He spent a 
great deal of time alone, sitting erect in his white iron 
crib. In spite of the conditions of his birth, he was 
calm, pink-cheeked and healthy. The first day that 
Lydia was up she glanced at him as she passed the 
idoor. He gave her somehow the impression of lead- 
ing a life apart. At first she only used to stare at 
him from the doorway; then she ventured in, leaned 
On the crib, offered him a finger to which he clung, 
invented a game of clapping of hands, and was re- 
warded by a toothless smile and a long complicated 
gurgle of delight. 



MANSLAUGHTEE 215 

The sound was too nnich for Lydia — the idea that 
the baby was glad to be starting out on the tortured 
adventure of living. She went back to her own room 
in tears, weeping not for her own griefs but because 
all human beings were so infinitely pathetic. 

The next day, Anna, the mother, came in while she 
>7as bending over the crib. Lydia knew her story, 
the common one — the story of a respectable, sheltered 
girl falling suddenly, wildly in love with a handsome 
boy, and finding, when after a few months he wearied 
of her, that she had never been his wife — that he was 
already married. 

Lydia looked at the neat, blond, spectacled woman 
beside her. It was hard to imagine her murdering 
anyone. She seemed gentle, vague, perhaps a little de- 
fective. Later in their acquaintance she told Lydia 
how she had done it She had not minded his perfidy 
so much, until he told her that she had known all 
along they weren't married — that she'd done it with 
her eyes open — that she had been **out for a good 
time.'' He was a paperhanger among other things, 
and a great pair of shears had been lying on the table. 
The first thing she knew they were buried in his side. 

Lydia could not resist asking her whether she re- 
gretted what she had done. 

The girl considered. "I think it was right for him 
to die," she said, but she was sorry about Joseph. In 
a little while the baby would be taken from her and 
put into a state institution. She was maternal — 



I 



?16 MANSLAUGHTER 

primitively maternal — and her real punishment waa 
not imprisonment but separation from her child. 
Lydia saw this without entirely understanding it 

The girl had said to her: "I suppose you can't 
imagine killing anyone V* 

Lydia assured her that she could — oh, very easily. 
She went back to her room thinking that she was more 
a murderess at heart than this girl, who was non^ 
nothing but a mother. 

When she came out of the hospital she was not put 
back at the schoolroom work but was sent to the 
kitchen. This was an immense tiled room which 
gave the impression to those who first entered it of 
being entirely empty. Then the eye fell on a row of 
copper containers — three of them as tall as she — one 
for tea, one for coffee, one for hot water, and three 
smaller pots, round like witches' caldrons, for the 
cooking of cereals and meats and potatoes. The bak- 
ing was done in an adjacent alcove. There Lydia was 
put to work. Gradually the process began to interest 
her — the mixing of the dough and the baking of 
dozens of loaves at a time in a great oven with rotating 
shelves in it. The oven, like all ovens, had ita 
caprices, dependent upon the amount of heat being 
:used by the rest of the institution. Lydia set herself 
to master the subject. A certain strain of practical 
competence in her had never before had its express 



CHAPTEE XTT; 

AS LTDIA began to emerge from her depres* 
fiion she clung to Evans, who had first made 
her see that she could not think anything 
human alien to herself. The disciplined little Eng- 
lishwoman, sincere and without self-pity, seemed the 
purveyor of wisdom. She saw her own mistakes 
dearly. William — William was the pale young foot- 
man, about whom they talked a good deal — had urged 
her for a long time to pick up a ten-dollar bill now and 
then or a forgotten bit of jewelry. She had never felt 
any temptation to do so until Lydia had been so in- 
different about the loss of the bracelet. What was the 
toe of caring so much about the safety of the jewels 
if the owner cared so little ? 

"Oh, that bracelet !" murmured Lydia, remember- 
ing how she had last seen it in O'Bannon^s hand in 
(Dourt. For a moment she did not follow what Evans 
>vas saying, and came back in the mi^ of a sentence. 

" and made me see that because you were 

:wrong that did not make m^ right Then I got ready 

to oonfesfi. Kb made me see that the real harm was 

idoBe and over when I took a thing that wasn't mine, 

jind ihttt tfie anlj way to get back waa to obey the law 

217 



218 MANSLAUGHTEE 

and go to prison and get througli with it as quick as 
I could. I owe a lot to Lim, Lydia — not that lio 
preached at me, but his eyes looked right into me." 

*^0f whom are you speaking?'^ Lydia asked' 
gharply. 

*'0f Mr. O'Bannon/' answered Evans, and a rev- 
erent tone came into her voice. 

This was too much for Lydia. She broke out, 
assuring Evans that she had been quite right to take 
the jewels. She, Lydia, now knew what a thoughtless, 
inconsiderate employer she had always been. But as 
for "that man/' Evans must see that he had only 
tricked her into confessing in order to save himself 
trouble. It was a feather in his cap — to get a confes- 
sion. He had not thought about saving her soul. 
Lydia stamped her foot in the old way but without 
creating any impression on the bewitched girl, who 
insisted on being grateful to the man who had im- 
prisoned her. 

"Is that what he is looking for from me ?" thought 
Lydia. 

Long, long winter nights in prison are excellent 
periods for thinking out a revenge. She saw it would 
not be easy to revenge herself on O'Bannon. If it 
were Albee it would be simple enough — she would 
make him publicly ridiculous. To wound that sensi- 
tive egotism would be to slay the inner man. If it 
were Bobby — poor dear Bobby — she would destroy 
his self-confidence and starve him to death through his 



MANSLAUQHTEE 219 

own belief that lie was worthless. But what could she 
do to O'Bannon but kill him — or make him love her ? 
Perhaps threaten to kill him. She tried to think o£ 
him on his knees, pleading for his life. But no, she 
couldn't give the vision reality. He wouldn't go down 
on his knees ; he wouldn't plead ; he'd stand up to her 
in defiance and she would be forced to shoot to prove 
that she had meant what she said. 

She had been in prison about three months when 
one morning word came to the kitchen that she wa» 
granted in the reception room. This meant a visitor. 
It was not Miss Bennett's day. It must be a specialljj 
privileged visitor. Her guest was Albee. 

Prisoners whose conduct was good enough to keep 
them in the first grade were allowed to see visitors 
once a week. Miss Bennett came regularly, and 
Eleanor had come more than once. Lydia was very 
eager to see these two, but was not eager to see anyone 
else. There was always a terrible moment of shyne39 
with newcomers — an awkward ugly moment. She 
did not wish to see anyone who did not love her in a 
simple human way that swept away restraint. 

She did not want to see Albee, and she was equally 
sure he did not want to see her but had been driven 
by the politician's fear of leaving behind him in his 
ieourse onward and upward any smoldering fires of 
hatred which a little easy kindness might quench. As a 
matter of f act^ she did not hate Albee — nor like him. 
She simply reeognized him as a useful person whom 



220 MANSLAUGHTEE 

all her life she would go on tising. This coining inter- 
view must serve to attach him to her, so that if in the 
future she needed a powerful politician to help her 
destroy O'Bannon she would have one ready to her 
hand. She knew exactly and instinctively how to 
manage Albee — not by being appealing and friendly. 
If she were nice to him he would go away feeling that 
that chapter in his life was satisfactorily closed. But 
if she were hostile, if she made him uncomfortable, he 
would work to win back her friendship. Prisoner as 
she was, she would be his master. She arranged her- 
self, expression and spirit alike, to meet him sternly. 

She did not stop to consider the impression she 
might make on her visitor — in her striped dress and 
her prison shoes. It was never Lydia's habit to think 
first of the impression she was making. 

She was brought to the matron^s room, and then 
Crossing the hall she entered the bare reception room, 
with its chill, white mantelpiece, the fireplace blocked 
by a sheet of metal, its empty center table and stiff 
straight-backed chairs. She entered without any an- 
ticipation of what was in store for her, and saw a tall 
figure just turning from the window. It was O'Ban- 
non. She had just a blurred vision of his gray eyes 
and the hollows in his cheeks. Then her wrists and 
knees seemed to melt, her heart turned over within, 
her; everything grew yellow, green and black, and 
she fainted — falling gently full length at the feet of 
the district attorney. 



MANSLAUGHTER 221 

When she came to she was in her own cell. She 
turned her head slowly to right and left. 

"Where is that man ?" she said. She was told hcj 
had gone. 

Of course he had gone — gone without waiting for 
her recovery, without speaking to anyone else. There 
;was the proof that he was vindictive ; that he had «ome 
to humiliate her, to feast his eyes on her distress. He 
had hardly dared hope that she would faint at his 
feet. There was real cruelty for you, she thought — 
to ruin a woman's life and then to come and enjoy the 
spectacle. What a story for him to go home with, to 
remember and smile over, to tell, perhaps, to his 
mother or Eleanor ! 

"The poor girl !'' he might say with tones of false 
pity in his voice. "At the mere sight of me she 
fainted dead away and lay at my feet in her prison 
dress, her hands coarsened by hard work ^^ 

This last proof of her utter def enselessness infuri- 
ated her. She was justified in her revenge, whatever 
it might be. The thought of it ran through all her 
dreams like a secret romance. 

It began to take shape in her mind as political ruin. 
She knew from Eleanor that he had ambitions. He 
had taken the district attorneyship with the in+^jition 
of making it lead to higher political office. She had 
fancies of defeating him in a campaign, using all the 
tragedy of her own experience to rouse the emotions 
/ of audiences. Easier to destroy him within his own 



222 MANSLAUGHTER 

party by Albee's help — easier, but not so spectacular. 
He might not know who had done it unless she went 
to him and explained. Over that interview her mind 
often lingered. 

As her ideas of retribution took shape she became 
happier in her daily life, as if the thought of O'Ban- 
non sucked up all the poison in her nature and left 
her other relations sweeter. 

If Lydia had but known it, her revenge was com- 
plete when she fell at his feet. The months she had 
spent in prison had been paradise compared to the 
months he had spent at large. The verdict in the case 
had hardly been rendered before he had begun to be 
tortured by doubts as to his own motives. It was na 
help to him that his reason offered him a perfect de- 
fense. The girl was a criminal — reckless, irrespon- 
Bible and untruthful, more deserving of punishment 
than most of the defendants who came into court, li 
there were any personal animus in his prosecution 
there was an excuse for it in the fact that Albee had 
certainly come to him with the intention of exerting 
dishonorable pressure in her behalf. Everyone he 
saw — his mother, Eleanor, Foster, Judge Homan — 
all believed that he had followed the path of duly in 
epite of many shining temptations to be weakly piti- 
ful. But he himseK knew — and gradually came to 
admit — that he had done what he passionately 
desired to do. Even he could not look deeply enough 
into his ovni heart to understand his motives, but ho 



MANSLAUGHTER 28S 

began to he aware of a secret growing remorse poison- 
ing his inner life. 

The thought of her in prison was never out of his 
mind, and it was a nightmare prison he thought of. 
In the first warm September days he imagined the 
leaden, airless heat of cells. When October turned 
suddenly cold and windy he remembered how she was 
accustomed to playing golf on the windy links and 
how he had once seen her cLriving from a tee near the 
roadside with her skirts wrapped about her by her 
vigorous swing. He gave up playing bridge — the 
memories were too poignant And after Eleanor had 
once mentioned that Lydia was fond of dancing he 
could not listen to a strain of dance music. Christ- 
mas was a particularly trying time to him, with all its 
assumption of rejoicing — a prison Christmas 1 

During the holidays he was in New York for a few 
days. BKs theory was that lack of exercise was the 
reason for his not sleeping better. He used to take 
long walks in the afternoon and evening so as to go ta 
bed tired. 

©ne afternoon at twilight he was walking round 
the reservoir in the Park when he recognized some* 
thing familiar in a trim little figure approaching 
him — something that changed the beat of his heart. 
It irs^ Miss Bennett. He stopped her, uncertain of 
his reception. 

"Is that Mr. O'Bannon ?" she said, staring up at 
Jum in the dim light. 




B24 MANSLAUGHTEK 

The city beyond the bare trees had begun to turn 
into a sort of universal lilac mist, punctuated with 
yellow dots of light It was too dark for Miss Ben- 
nett to see any change in O'Bannon's appearance, any- 
thing ravaged and worn, anything suggesting an. 
abnormal strain. Miss Bennett, though kind and 
gentle, was not imaginative about turbulent, irregular 
emotions, such as she herseK did not experience. She 
^as not on the lookout for danger signals. 

She did not feel unfriendly to O'Bannon. On the 
icontrary she admired him. She could, as she said. 
Bee his side of it. She prided herself on seeing both 
Bides of every question. She greeted him cordially 
as soon as she was sure it was he. He turned and 
walked with her. They had the reservoir to them- 
Belves. 

Miss Bennett thought it more tactful not to refer 
to Lydia. She began talking about the beauty of the 
city. Country people always spoke as if all natural 
beauty were excluded from towns, but for her 
part 

O'Bannon suddenly interrupted her. 

*^Have you seen Miss Thome lately?" he sai4 in 
a queer, quick, low tone. 

When Benny felt a thing she could always express 
it This was fortunate for her because when she ex- 
pressed it she relieved the acuteness of her own feel- 
ing. She very naturally, therefore, sought the right 
phrase, even sometimes one of an almost indecent 



MANSLAUGHTER 225 

poignancy, because the more poignantly sie made the 
other person feel the more sure she could be of her 
own relief. Then, too, she was not sorry that O'Ban- 
non should understand just what it was he had done 
• — his duty, perhaps, but he might as well know the 
consequences. 

"Have I seen her?'^ she exclaimed. "Oh, Mr. 
O'Bannon !" There was a pause as if it were too ter- 
rible to go on with, but of course she did go on. "I 
Bee her every week. She's like an animal in a trap. 
Perhaps you never saw one — in a trap, I mean. 
Lydia had a gray wolfhound once, and in the woods it 
strayed away and got caught in a mink trap. It waa 
almost dead when we found it, but so patient and 
hopeless. She's getting to be like that — each week a 
little more patient than the week before — she who 
was never patient. Oh, Mr. O'Bannon, I feel some- 
times as if I couldn't bear it — the way they've 
ground it out of her in a few months ! She seems like 
an old woman in a lovely young woman's body. They 
haven't spoiled that — at least they haven't yet." 

She wiped her eyes with a filmy handkerchief, and 
her step became brisker. She felt better. For a mo- 
ment she had got rid of the pathos of the situation. 
O'Bannon, she saw, had taken up her burden. He 
walked along beside her silent for a few steps, and 
flien suddenly took off his hat, murmured something 
about being late for an engagement and left her, dis- 
appearing down the steep slope of the reservoir. 



226 MANSLiTGHTER 

He wandered restlessly Tip and down like a man 
in physical pain. No reality, he finally decided, 
could be as terrible as the visions which, with the help 
of Mies Bennett, his imagination kept calling before 
him. That night he took the train, and in the middle 
of the next morning arrived at the prison gates. 

There was no difficulty about his seeing the pris- 
oner. His explanation that he was passing by on his 
!way to see the warden about one of the men prisoners 
was not required. The matron agreed readily to send 
for Lydia. It seemed to him a long time before she 
came. He stood staring out of the window, stray sen- 
tences leaping up in his mind — "not less than three 
nor more than seven years" — "an animal in a 
trap'' — "an old woman in a lovely young woman's 
body." He heard steps approaching an(^ his pulses 
began to beat thickly and heavily. He turned round, 
and as he did so she fell at his feet. 

The matron came in, running at the sound of her 
fall. O'Bannon picked her up limp as a rag doll in 
his arms and carried her back to her cell. Under most 
circumstances he would have noticed that the cell was 
bright and large, but now he only compared it, with a 
pang at his heart, to that large, luxurious, deserted 
bedroom of Lydia's in which he had once interviewed 
Evans. 

The matron drove him away before Lydia recov- 
ered consciousness. He waited in the outer room, 
heard that she was perfectly well, and then took his 



MANSLAUGHTEK 227 

imserable departure. He got back to New York late 
that night, and the next day he resigned his position 
as district attorney. 

Eleanor read of his resignation first in the local 
paper, and came to his mother for an explanation ; but 
Mrs. O'Bannon "was as much surprised as anyone. 
Without acknowledging it, both women were fright- 
ened at the prospect of O'Bannon's attempting, with- 
out backing, to build up a law practice in New York. 
Both dreaded the effect upon him of failure. Both 
iwould have advised against his resigning his position. 
Perhaps for this very reason neither had been con- 
sulted. 

The two women who loved him parted with 
specious expressions of confidence. Doubtless Dan 
would make a great success of it, they said. He was 
brilliant, and worked so hard. 



CHAPTER xy; 

IN THE spring Lydia was transferred from tlie 
kitchen to the long, bright workroom. Here the 
women prisoners hemmed the blankets woven in 
the men's prison. Here they themselves wove the rag 
rugs for the floors, made up the house linen and their 
own clothes — Joseph's too — not only their prison 
clothes, but the complete outfit with which each pris- 
oner was dismissed. 

Lydia was incredibly awkward with the needle. It 
surprised the tall, thin assistant in charge of the work- 
room that anyone who had had what she described as 
advantages could be so grossly ignorant of the art of 
sewing. Lydia hardly knew on which finger to put 
her thimble and tied a knot in her thread like a man 
tying a rope. But it was her very inability that first 
woke her interest, her will. She did not like to be 
stupider than anyone else. Suddenly one day her little 
jaw set and she decided to learn how to sew. From 
fhat moment she began to adjust herself to prison life. 
Lydia wondered, considering prisoners in the first 
grade are allowed to receive visits from their families 
^. onoe a week, and from others, with the approval of 
file warden, onee a month, at the small number of 

228 



MANSLAUGHTER 229 

visitors who came to the prison. Were all these 
women cast off by their families? Evans explained 
the matter to her, and Ljdia felt ashamed that she had 
needed an explanation. 

"It takes a man a week's salary — at a good job, 
too — from New York here and bacf 

Lydia did what was rare of her — she colored. 
For the first time in her life she felt ashamed, not so 
much of the privileges of money but of the ease with 
which she had always taken them. It came over her 
that this was one of the objects for which Mrs. Galton 
had once asked a subscription. A memory rose of the 
way in which in old days she used to dispose of her 
morning's mail when it came in on her flowered 
breakfast tray. Advertisements and financial appeals 
from unknown sources were twisted together by her 
vigorous fingers and tossed into the waste-paper 
basket. Mrs. Galton's might well have been among 
these. 

She was horrified on looking back at her own lack 
of humanity. She might have guessed vrithout going 
through the experience that prison life needed somo 
alleviation. It meant a great deal to her to see Benny 
every week. OBenny stood in the place of her family. 
She longed to hear of the outside world and her old 
friends. But she did not crave these visits vrith such 
passion b& the imprisoned mothers craved a sight of 
their children. 

Thought leading quickly to action in Lydia, she 



i230 MANSLAUGHTER 

arranged through Miss Bennett, allowing it to he sup- 
posed to be Miss Bennett's enterprise, to finance the 
yisits of families to the prison. Everyone rejoiced, 
as if it were a common benefit, over the visit of 
MuriePs mother and the beautiful auburn-haired 
daughter of the middle-aged real-estate operator. 
Lydia felt as if she had been outside the human race 
all her life and had just been initiated into it She 
said something like this to Evans. 

"Oh, Louisa, rich people don't know anything, Jio 
theyr 

Evans tried to console her. 

'^If they want to they always can.'' 

It was true, Lydia thought j she had not wanted to 
know. She had not wanted anything but her own 
:way, irrespective of anyone else's. That was being 
criminal — to want your own way too much. That 
was all that these people about her had wanted — 
these forgers and def rauders — their own way, their 
own way. Though she still held her belief that the 
killing of Drummond had been an accident, she saw 
that the bribing of him had been wrong — the same 
streak in her, the same determination to have her own 
way. She thought of her father and all their earljr 
struggles, and how when she had believed that she 
was triumphing most over him she had been at her 
worst 

Her poor father! It was from him she had inher- 
ited her will, but he had learned in life, as she was 



MANSLAUGHTER 231 

^w learning in prison, that the strongest will is the 
jPTill that knows how to bend. 

She thought a great deal about her father. He 
jnust have been terribly lonely sometimes. She had 
never given him anything in the way of affection. 
She had not really loved him, and yet she loved him 
now. Her heart ached with a palpable weight of re- 
morse. He had been her only relation, and she had 
done nothing but fight and oppose and wound him. 
What a cruel, stupid creature she had been — all her 
life 1 And now it was too late. Her father was gone, 
80 long ago she had almost forgotten him in one 
aspect. And then again it would seem as if he must 
still be somewhere, waiting to order her upstairs as he 
had when she was a child. 

Only Benny was left — Benny whom she had so 
despised. Yet Benny would not need to go to prison 
in order learn to respect other people's rights. Benny 
had been bom knowing just what everyone else 
wanted — eager to get all men their hearts' desire. 

Lydia was not religious by temperament. She had 
now none of the joy of a great revelation. But she 
had the courage, unsupported by any sense of a higher 
power, to look at herself as she was. She saw now; 
that her relation to life had always been ugly, hostile, 
yiolent. Everyone who had ever loved her had been 
able to love through something beautiful in their own 
natures — in spite of all the unloveliness of hers. Shei 
thougbt not only of the relations she had missed, like 



MANSLAUGHTER 

iSie relation to lier father, but of friendships she had 
fost, which she had deliberately broken in the hideous 
idaily struggle to get her own way» She would never 
BOW renew that struggle. She had come in contact 
with something stronger than herself, of which the 
impersonal power of the law was only a visible sym- 
bol. She was not sure whether it had broken her or 
remade her, but it had given her peace — happiness 
ehe had never had — a peace which she believed she 
could preserve even when she went out of the shelter- 
ing routine of prison. The only feature of life which 
terrified and revolted her was the persisting individu- 
ality of Lydia Thorne. If there were only a charm 
other than death to free you from yourself 1 Some- 
times she felt like a maniac chained to a mirror. Yet 
she knew that it was the long months of enforced con- 
templations that had saved her. 

On Friday evening the inmates were allowed to 
3ance in the assembly room — half theater, half 
chapel. In her effort to escape from herself Lydia 
went once to watch, and came again and again with 
increasing interest. It soon began to be rumored that 
fihe was a good dancer and knew new steps. The 
Jdances became dancing classes. Lydia, except for her 
natural impatience, was a bom teacher, clear in 
her explanations and willing to work for perfec- 
tion. 

Evans, who had taken Lydia to so many balls if 
past years, smiled to see her laborj^j^ orvc the steps of 



MANSLAUGHTER 288 

•om« heavy grandmothep or light-footed — and per- 
haps light-fingered — mulatto girl. 

An evening suddenly came back to her. It waa in 
New York. She had come downstairs about eleven 
o'clock with Miss Thome's opera cloak and fan. 
There had been people to dinner, but they had all gone 
except Mr. Dorset, and he was being instructed in 
some new intricacy of the dance. Miss Bennett, who 
belonged to a generation that knew something about 
playing the piano, was making music for them. 
Evans, if she shut her eyes, could see Lydia as she 
was then, in a short blue brocade, trying to shove her 
partner into the correct step and literally shaking him 
when he failed to catch her rhythm. She was being 
far more patient with Muriel, holding her pale cofFee- 
icolored hands and repeating, "One-two, one-two ; one- 
two-three-four. There, Muriel, youVe got it I" Her 
face lit up with pleasure as she turned to Evans. 
*^Isn't she quick at it, Louisa V^ 

Lydia's second spring in prison was well advanced 
when she was sent for by the matron. Such a sum- 
mons was an event Lydia racked her brain to think 
what was coming — for good or evil. The matron's 
first question was startling. Did she know anything 
about baseball f 

Did she ? Tee, something. Her mind went back 
to a Fourth of July house party she had been to where 
a baseball game among the guests waA a yearly 
feature. She and the matron discussed the poesibill- 



234 MANSLAUGHTER 

ties of getting up two nines anK)ng the inmates. She 
suggested that there were books on the subject. A 
book would be provided. She felt touched and flat- 
tered at the responsibility put upon her, humbly eager 
to succeed. 

The whole question began to absorb her. She 
studied it in the evening and thought about it during 
the day, considering the possibilities of her material, 
the relation of character to skill. Grace, a forger, was 
actually a better pitcher, but the woman who had 
killed her husband had infinitely more staying power. 

All through that second summer she occupied her- 
self, day and night, with the team, more and more as 
September drew to a close. For she knew that with 
the approaching expiration of her minimum sentence 
the parole board would consider her release. Free- 
jHom in all probability was near, and freedom is a 
disorganizing thought to prisoners. The peace she 
had gained in prison began to flow away as each day 
brought her nearer to release. She began to dream 
that she was already free, and to wake dissatisfied, 
with a trace of the same restless irritation of her first 
weeks. Could it be, she thought, that she had learned 
nothing after all ? Could even the idea of returning 
to the old life change her back into the old detestable 
thing? 

Prison authorities have learned that the last night 
in prison is more trying to a prisoner's morale than 
any other, except perhaps the first. Lydia found it 



% 



MANSLAUGHTER 23$ 

no when her last night there came. She knew that she 
was to be set free early in the morning. Miss Bennett 
would be there, and they would take an early train to 
New York together. It was a certainty, she kept tell- 
ing herself, a certainty on which she could rely, and 
yet she spent the entire night in an agony of fear and 
impatience. She would have been calmer if she had 
been waiting the hour of a prearranged escape. The 
darkness of night continued so long that it seemed as 
if some unheralded eclipse had done away with sun- 
rise, and when ait last the dawn began to color the 
window the hour between it and her release was 
nothing but a fevered anxiety. 

She was hardly aware of Miss Bennett waiting for 
her in the matron's room — hardly aware of the ma- 
tron herself, imperturbable as ever, bidding her good- 
by. Only the clang of the gate behind her quieted 
her. Only from outside the bars did she want to 
pause and look back at the prison as at an old 
friend. 

It was a bright autumn morning. The wind was. 
chasing immense white clouds across the sky and 
scattering the leaves of the endless row of trees that 
stood like sentinels along the high wall. 

Miss Bennett wanted to hurry across the street at 
once to the railroad station, although their train would 
liot start for some time ; she wanted to get away from 
the menace of that dark wall — a very perfect piece 
of masonry. But Lydia had seen it too long from the 



BSe ILOrSLAUGHTER 

inside not to be eager to savor a view of it from with- 

^ out She stared slowly about her like a tourist before 

Bome spectacle of awesome beauty. She looked down 

the alley between the trees and the wall to where on 

-- her left was the sharp clean comer of the stonework. 

She looked to her right, where as the wall rose higher 

she could see the little watchtower of the prison guard. 

Then she turned completely round and looked back 

lirough tie bars at the prison itself. 

^ "DonH you think it's a pretty old doorway ?" she 

said. 

Miss Bennett acknowledged its beauty rather 
briefly. 

*^ill you tell me why it has 'State Asylum' on the 
horse block ?'' she said. 

"That's just what it is/' said Lydia — "an asylum, 
a real asylum to some of us. It used to be for the 
insane, Benny. That's why." 

On the all-day journey to New York Miss Bennett 
had counted on hearing the full psychological story of 
the last two years. In her visits to the prison she had 
found that Lydia wanted to hear of the outside 
^ world — not to talk of herself; but now that she was 
frp>e Miss Bennett hoped this might be changed. She 
had taken a compartment so they could be by them- 
selves, but the minute the door was shut upon them a 
funny change came over Lydia. She grew absent and 
tense, and at last she sprang up and opened it. 

^*It's pleaeanter open/' she said haughtily, and then 



MANSLAUGHTER 337 

she suddenly laughed. "Oh, Benny, to be able to open 
a closed door!" 

Miss Bennett began to cry softly. All these nionths 
she had been trying to persuade herseK that the change 
in Lydia was due to prison clothes; but now, seeing 
her dressed as she used to dress, the change was still 
there. She was thinner, finer — shaped, as it were, 
by a sharper mold. All her reactions were slower. It 
took her longer to answer, longer to smile. This gave 
her — what Lydia had never had before — a touch of 
mystery, as if her real life were going on somewhere ^' 
else, below the surface, remote from companionship. 

She wiped her eyes, thinking that she must not let 
Lydia guess she thought her changed. Their eyes met. 
Lydia was discovering a curious fact, which she in 
her turn thought it better to conceal. It was this: 
That the figures of her prison life had a depth and 
reality that made all the rest of the world seem like 
shadows. Even while she questioned Miss Bennett 
about her friends she felt as if she were asking about 
characters in a book which she had not had time to 
finish. Would Bobby be sure to be at the station? 
Was Eleanor coming to town that night to see her ? 
Where was Albee ? 

Miss Bennett did not know where Albee was, and 
her tone indicated that she did not greatly care. She 
did not intend to stir Lydia up against anyone but 
she could not help wishing Lydia would punish 
Albee. He had not been really loyal, and he was the 



238 MANSLAUGHTER 

only one of the intimate circle who had not been, A 
man with red blood in his veins, Miss Bennett 
thought, would have married Lydia the day before she 
went to prison or would at least be waiting, hat in 
hand, the day she came out. 

Bobby, gay and affectionate as ever, met them at 
the station and drove with them to the town house. 
Morson opened the front door and ran down the steps 
with a blank face and a brisk manner, as if she had 
been returning from a week-end ; but as she stepped 
out of the motor he attempted a senitence. 

*^Glad to see you back, miss,'' he said, and then his 
self-control gave way. He turned aside with one hand 
over his eyes and the other feeling wildly in his tail 
pocket for a handkerchief. 

Lydia began to cry too. She put her hand on.Mor- 
son's shoulder and said "I'm so glad to see you, Mor- 
son. You're almost the oldest friend I have in the 
world," and she added, without shame, to Miss Ben- 
nett, "Isn't it awful the way I cry at anything nowa- 
days ?" 

She went into the house, blowing her nose. 

The house was full of telegrams and flowers. Lydia 
iiid not open the telegrams, but the flowers seemed to 
give her pleasure. She went about breathing in long 
;whiffs of them and touching their petals. Morson, in 
perfect control of himself, but with his eyes as red as 
fire, came to ask at what hour she would dine. 

Lydia had a great deal to do before dinner. She 



MANSLAUGHTER 239 

produced a flirty paper from her pocketbook and 
began studying it. 

"Is there anything special you'd like to order ?'^ 
said Miss Bennett. 

Lydia did not look up but answered that Morson 
remembered what she liked, which drove him out of 
the room again. Her telephoning, it appeared, was to 
the families and friends of her fellow prisoners. She 
was very conscientious about it, and very patient, 
even with those who, unaccustomed to the telephone 
or unwilling to lose touch with a voice so recently 
come from their loved ones, would ask the same ques- 
tion over and over again. 

But finally it was over, and Lydia free to bathe 
and dress and finally to sit down in her own dining 
room to a wonderful little meal that was the symbol 
of her freedom. Yet all she could think of was the 
smell of the freshly baked dinner rolls that brought 
back the large, low kitchen and the revolving oven — 
revolving at that very moment, perhaps — so far 
away. 

*'0h, my dear," said Miss Bennett, ^IVe found the 
nicest little maid for you — a Swiss girl who can 
sew — really make your things if you want her to, 
and " 

Lydia felt embarrassed. She turned her head from 
side to side as Miss Bennett ran on describing the dis- 
covery. She simply could never have a maid again. 
How was she to explain ? She did not understand it . 



2i0 MANSLAUGHTER 

lUMromghlj herself^ only elie knew that slie could 
aierer again demand that another woman — as joung, 
perhapfl, and as fond of amusement as herself — 
should give a lifetime to taking care of her wardrobe. 
Pergonal service like that woul4 annoy and embarrass 
her now. The first thing to do was to make her lift 
less complex in such matters. She put her hand over 
Miss Bennett's as it lay on the table. 

'^Shouldn't you think she'd wish me back at hard 
lahor ?" she said to Bobby. "She takes such a lot of 
trouble for me." 

Miss Bennett^ emotionally susceptible to praise, 
. iwiped her eyes, and presently went away, leaving 
^bby and Lydia alone. She wondered if perhaps 
that would be tiie best thing for Lydia to do — to re- 
build her life on Bobby's gay but unwavering devo- 
tion. 

Lydia, leaning her elbows on the table and her chin 
on her hands, listened while Bobby gossiped over the 
iempty coffee cups. Did Lydia know about this 
{Western ooal man that May Swayne was going to 
marry f Bobby set him before her in an instant — 
"A round-faced man, Lydia, with $30,000,000, and 
such a vocabulary I He never thinks ; he presumes. 
He doesn't come into a room ; he ventures to intrude. 
May has quite a lot of alterations to do on him." 

And the Piers — had Lydia heard about them? 
Fanny had fallen in love with the prophet of a new 
rdligion and had made all her arrangements to divorce 



MANSLAUGHTER i4S 

Noel, but before sbe left hirA, as a proof of her new 
powers, she thougbt sbe'd cure bim of drinking. 
Well, my dear, sbe did. And tbe result was sbe found 
sbe liked a nonalcobolic Noel better tban ever — and 
fibe cbucked tbe seer. Can you beat it ? 

Sbadows — tbey did seem like sbadows to Lydia. 
Staring before ber, sbe fell into meditation, remem- 
bering Evans and tbe pale coffee-colored Muriel and 
ibe matron — the small, placid-browed matron wbo 
knew not fear. 

Suddenly sbe came back to realize tbat Bobby was 
asking her to marry bim. 

Most of their acquaintances believed that he never 
did anything else ; but as a matter of fact, it was tbe 
first time be bad ever put it into words. He wasn^t 
sure it was a tactful thing to do now. Sbe might 
think — Bobby was always terribly aware of what 
people might think — that his suggesting such a 
mediocre future for her was to admit that he thought 
her beaten. Whereas to him she was as triumphant 
and desirable as ever. On the other hand, it might be 
IJust the right thing to do. With men like Albee get- 
ting to cover and some people bound to be hateful, she 
bould say to herself, 'Well, I can always marry Bobbjj 
and go to live in Italy." 

He put it to ber. 

"Lydia, wouldn't you consider marrying m« to* 
ttiorrow and sailing for Greece or Sicily or Gr«nadal 
— that's a heavenly place. I should be so wildljf 



• 1843 MANSLAUGHTER 

liappy, dear, that I think you'd be pleased in a mild 
sort of way, too." 

Go away ? It was the last thing she wanted to do. 

'^No, no P' she said quickly. *'I must stay here !'' 

'^ell, marry me and stay here." 

She shook her head, trying to explain to him — 
ehe wouldn't ever marry. She had found a new clew 
to life and wanted to follow it alone. She had inter- 
est, intense, vital interest, to give to life and affairs — 
1 yes, and even people ; but she had not love. Human, 
relationships couldn't make or mar life for her any 
more. She wanted to work — nothing else. 

She paused, and in the pause the dining-room door 

opened and Eleanor came in. Eleanor had been up 

at dawn to get a train from the Adirondaefcs in time 

' to meet Lydia at the station, and of course the train 

had been late. Would Lydia put her up for the night ? 

Lydia's cry of welcome did not sound like a per- 
son to whom all human relationships had become in- 
{iifferent. Indeed Eleanor was the person she wanted 
most to see. Eleanor was not emotional, or rather 

* $he expressed her emotion by a heightened intellectual 
sensitiveness. She wouldn't cry, she wouldn't regard 
Lydia as a shorn lamb the way Miss Bennett did, nor 
yet would she assume that she was utterly unchanged, 
as all the rest of her friends might. Eleanor's man- 
ner was almost commonplace. Perhaps it would be 
fairer to say that she left the introduction of anything 
dramatic to Lydia's choice. 



MANSLAUGHTEE 248 

Botby soon went away and left the two women to- 
gether. They went upstairs to Lydia's bedroom, and 
in their dressing gowns, with chairs drawn to the fire, 
they talked. They talked with long pauses between 
them. No one but Eleanor would have allowed those 
long silences to pass uninterrupted, but she was wise 
enough to know they were the very essence of com- — 
panionship. 'i>? .. *^"S ^•-■^ s f 

. Though Eleanor asked several questions about the 
details of prison life, she was too wise to ask any- 
thing about the fundamental change which she felt 
had taken place in Lydia. She did not betray that she 
felt there was a change. She wondered whether Lydia 
knew it herself. It was hard to say, for the girl, 
always inexpert with verbal expressions, had become 
znore so in the two years of solitude and contempla- 
tion. Whatever spontaneity of speech she had had 
yas gone. She was, Eleanor thought, like a person 
using an unfamiliar tongue, aware of the difficulty; 
of putting thought into words. 

She could not help being touched — and a little 
amused — at the seriousness with which Lydia men- 
tioned her late companions ; Lydia, who had always 
been so selective about her own friends and so scorn- 
ful about everybody else's. She spoke of Evans, the 
pallid little thief, as if light had flowed from her as 
from an incarnation of the Buddha. Seeing that 
Lydia had caught some reflection of the though^ 
Uleanor thought it better to put it into words. 



2U MANSLAUGHTER 

"Now, don't tell me, my dear,'' ahe said, "that you^ 
too, liav* discovered that all criminals are pure white 
eofuls." 

''Just the opposite. All pure white souls are crimi- 
mala — all of us are criminals at heart The only way 
mot to be is to recognize the fact that you are. It's a 
terrible idea at fi»st — at least it was to me. It was 
like going through death and coming out alive." 
Lydia paused, staring before her, and anyone in the 
world except Eleanor would have thought she had fin- 
ished; but Eleanor's fine ear caught the beat of an 
approaching idea. "But it's such a comfort, Nell, to 
l)elong to the tribe — such a relief. And I should 
never have had it if it had not been" — she hesitated, 
and Eleanor's heart contracted with a sudden fear that 
the name of O'Bannon was about to enter — "if it had 
not been fo* my accident." 

Eleanor Was not sure that Lydia had deliberately 
avoided the name. What, she wondered, was left of 
Ihat unjuat and bitter hatred ? She could not detect a 
traoe of bitterness anywhere in Lydia's nature to- 
night But then she had always had those momenta of 
gentlenms. 

Presenliy Miss Bennett came in to say in her old, 
#iinid, suggestive manner that it was late — she hated 
fo interrupt them, but she really did think liiat Lydia 
ought to go to bed. Lydia got up at once. 

"I suppose I ought," she said. "It's been an excit^ 
ing day for me." 



MANSLAUGHTBR 245 

Eloanor noted that such a suggedtion from Miss 
B«imett in old days would lutva meant that Ljdia 
:would have felt it her duty to stay up another hour* 

'*I have to, my dear,'' she would have said, "or else 
Benny would be tzying to coercf me in every detail of 
mj life.'' 




CHAPTER XVI 

TIE next morning at the regular prison lionr 
Lydia woke with a start. She had been 
aware for some time of a strange unaccount- 
able roaring in her ears. She looked about her, sur- 
prised to see that the light of dawn was not falling 
through a tall barred aperture at the head of her bed, 
but was coming across a wide carpeted room from two 
chintz-curtained windows. Then she remembered she» 
was at home ; the roaring was the habitual sound of 
a great city; the room was the room she had had since 
she was a child. It seemed less familiar to her, less 
homelike, than her cell. She put out her hand to the 
satin coverlet and the sheets, softer than satin. The 
physical sensation of the contact was delicious, and 
yet there was something sad about it too. It was the 
thought of her late companions that made her sad, 
as if she had deserted them in trouble. 

It would be two hours or more before Eleanor and 
Benny would be awake. She flung her arms above her 
head and lay back, thinking. She mustn't let them 
cherish her as if she were a wounded, stricken crea- 
ture. She was more to be envied now than in the oM 

246 



MANSLAUGHTER 24T 

fighting days, when aU her inner life had been a sort 
of poisoned turmoil. No one had pitied her then. 

Her plan had been not to be too hasty in arranging 
her new life, which she knew must include work — 
I ^work in connection with prisoners. But now she saw 
she mustn^t waste a minute. She must have work at 
once to take her away from herself. She could hardly 
face the coming day — everyone considering her and 
that detestable ego of hers, asking her what she wanted 
to do. She must have a routine immediately. She 
was not strong enough yet to live without one. Only 
one thing must take precedence of everything else — 
• a pardon for Evans. She could not bear to remain 
at liberty with Evans still serving a sentence. With 
that accomplished, she could go forward in peace. In 
peace ? As fihe thought of it she knew that there was 
ono comer of her mind where there was not and never 
iwould be peace. Only last evening, in the first hap- 
piness of being at home, the mention of O'Bannon's 
name had threatened to destroy it. 

And now he was in her mind, holding it without 
rivals. The moment had come when her hatred of 
him could find expression. It needn't be a secret 
dream, like a child's fairy story. She needn't sup- 
press it — she could act. If she had not been such a 
coward last evening she would have named him and 
gone boldly on and found out from Eleanor where he 
was, what he was doing, what was his heart's desire. 
Perhaps if she had put her questions frankly Eleanor 



2« MANSLAUGHTER 

3if oiild not Have told Her ; but it would not be difficult 
to deceive so doting a friend of his. Eleanor oould 
easily be persuaded tbat bis victim bad been so tamed 
and crusbed in prison tbat sbe bad come to admire 
bim, to look differently on ibe world. 

Suddenly Lydia sat straight up in ber bed. And 
badn^t sbe changed ? In the old days sbe had never 
felt with more bitter violence than she was feeling 
iiow. The excitement of her revenge bad wiped out 
every other interest. The flame of her hatred bad de- 
stroyed the whole structure of her new philosophy, 
6be sat up in her bed and wrung her bands. What 
could she do? What could sbe do? The mer« 
thought of that man changed her back into being the 
:iroman she hated to be. She would rather die than 
live as her old self, but how could she help thinking 
of him when the idea of injuring him was more vivid, 
more exciting, than any other idea in the world ? She 
had come out of prison resolved that her first action 
would be to get a pardon for Evans, and here she was 
forgetting her obligations and her remorse, forgetting 
everything but a desire to wound and destroy. He 
had the power to make her what she loathed to be. 

Her room was at the back of the house, and the sun, 
:fiT^<^^Tl£ Bome cbinlk^ between the houses behind the 
Thome house, crept in under the shades and b^^ 
aotoving slowly across the plain, dark, velvet carpet. 
It had time to move some distance while she sat there 
XBMQbOipablei unaware of her surroundings. 



MANSLAUGHTER 249 

Gradually sHo came to see that slie must choose be- 
tween the two. Either she must give up forever the 
idea of revenging herself on O'Bannon or ihe mu^ 
give up all the peace and wisdom thiat she had go pain- 
fully learned — she had almost lost it already, an4 
Bhe had not been twenty-four hours out of prison. 

An hour later Eleanor was wakened by the opening 
of her door. Lydia was standing at the foot of her 
bed, grasping the edge of it in her two white hands. 
It was Eleanor's first good look at her in the light of 
flay. She was startled by Lydia's beauty — a kind 
pf beauty she had never had before. No one could 
plow have likened her to a picture by Cabanel of the 
Btar of the Harem. Everything sleek and hard and 
smooth had gone. She looked more like the picture 
of »ome ravaged, pale Spanish saint, still so young 
that the inner struggle had molded without lining 
her face. She stood staring at Eleanor, her dark hair. 
Btanding out about her face, and her pale dressing 
gown defining the beautiful line of her shoulders, as 
she raised them, pressing her hands down on the foot 
of the bed. 

"Well, my dear, good morning/' was Eleanor's 
greeting, though she was not imawaro that something 
emotional was in the air. 

"Eleanor,'' began the other, her enormou* tragic? 
eyes fixed now, not on her friend's, but on a spot on 
the pillow about five inches away, "ther« is toneihing 
I wsaA #0 6ajr lo you." TIi« besi ag r e inwt ^as 



350 MANSLAUGHTER 

silence, and Lydia went on, "I want you never to 
talk to me about that man — your friend — I mean. 
O'Bannon.'' 

"Talk of him!" exclaimed Eleanor, her first 
thought being, "Am I always talking of him ?'' 

"I don't want to hear of him or think of him or 
speak of him." 

This time Eleanor's hesitation was not entirely ac* 
quiescent. 

"I can understand," she said, "that you might not 

want to see him, but to speak of him I have 

been thinking, Lydia, that that is one of the subjects 
that you and I ought to talk over — to talk out." 

"No, no!" returned Lydia quickly, and Eleanor 
saw with surprise that it was only by leaning on her 
hands that she kept them from trembling. "I can't 
explain it to you — I don't want to go into it — but 
I don't want to remember that he exists. If you 
would just accept it as a fact, and tell other people — 
Benny and Bobby, If you would do that for me, 
Eleanor " 

"Of course I'll do it," answered Eleanor. There 
really was not anything else to say. The next instant 
Lydia was gone. 

Eleanor lay quite still, trying to understand the 
meaning of the scene. She was often accused by her 
friends of coldness, of lack of human imagination, of 
attempting to substitute mental for emotional proc- 
0B8e& Aware of a certain amount of justice in these 



MANSLAUGHTER 251 

accusations, she tried to atone by putting her reason* 
ing faculty most patiently and gently at work up^n 
the problems of those she loved. Her nature was not 
capable of really understanding turgidity, but she did 
better than most people inasmuch as she avoided form- 
ing wrong judgments about it. She felt about Lydia 
now as she had once felt when O'Bannon had de- 
scribed to her his struggle against drinking — wonder 
that a person so much braver and stronger than she^ 
Eleanor, was could be content to avoid temptation in- 
stead of fighting it. 

At breakfast, which the three women had together^ 
Eleanor saw that Lydia had regained her calm of the 
evening before. While they were still at table Wiley 
was shown in. He felt obviously a certain constraint, 
an embarrasment to know what to say, which he con- 
cealed under a formal professional manner. Lydia 
put a stop to this simply enough by getting up and 
putting her arms round his neck. 

"I've thought so much of all youVe been doing for 
pae since I was a child," she said. 

He was associated in her mind with her father* 
Wiley felt his eyelids stinging. 

*^Why, my dear child, my dear child!" he said. 
And he held her off to look at her as if uncertain that 
it was the same girl. "Well, I must say prison doesn't 
seem to have done you much harm." 
. "It's done me good, I hope," said Lydia. 
' She msL^ him tit down and drink an eastim <oup ^f 



252 MANSLAUGHTER 

coffee. There was something quite like a festival in 
the comradeship that developed among the four of 
them« She began, to question her visitor about the 
method of getting a pardon for Evans. He advised 
her to go and see Mrs. Galton. At the name she and 
Benny glanced at each other and smiled. They were 
fcoth thinking of the day when Lydia had so resented 
the presence of the old lady in her house. 

She went to Mrs. Galton's office that same morning. 
It occupied the second floor of an old building that 
looked out over Union Square. Lydia had not 
thought of making an appointment, and when she 
reached the outer office she was told that Mrs. Galton 
was engaged — would be engaged for some time — 
a member of the parole board was in conference. 
Would Miss Thorne wait? 

Yes, Lydia would wait. She sat down on a hard 
bench and watched the work of the society go on 
before her eyes. She had some knowledge of business 
and finance, and she knew very soon that she was in 
the presence of an efficient organization ; but it was not 
only the efficiency that charmed her — it was partly 
the mere business routine, which made her feel like 
coming home after she had been at sea. The clear 
impersonal purpose of it all promised forgetfulnesa 
of self. At the end of half an hour of waiting she 
was possessed with the desire to become part of this 
work. Here was the solution of her problem. When 
at last she was shown into Mrs. Galton's bleak little 



MANSLAUGHTEE 253 

loffice — not lialf the size of Lydia's cell — her first 
iwrords were not of Evans, after all, 

"Mrs, Galton/' she said, "can you nse me in this 
organization ?" 

Without intending the smallest disrespect to Mrs. 
Galton, it must be admitted that this question was like 
asking a lion if it could use a lamb. The organiza- 
tion, like all others of its type, needed devotion, 
needed workers, needed money, and was not averse 
to a little discreet publicity. All these Lydia offered. 
Mrs. Galton smiled. 

"Yes," she said. The monosyllable was expressive. 

The older woman, with forty years of executive 
work behind her, divided all workers roughly into 
two classes : The amiable idealists who created no an- 
tagonism and accomplished nothing, and the effective 
workers who accomplished marvels and stirred up 
endless quarrels. She — except in her very weakest 
moments — preferred the latter, though they dis- 
rupted her office force and gave her nervous indiges- 
tion. She recognized Lydia as belonging to this class. 

And presently, being a wise and experienced 
woman, she recognized another fact: That she was 
probably in the presence of her successor. A pang 
shot through her. She was seventy and keener than 
ever about the work to which she had given all her 
life. If she kept this girl out she would hold office 
longer than if she let her in. If she let her in it 
would vivify the whole organization. She might be- 



2«4 MANSLAUGHTER 

oome ihe ideal leader: at least she could be made so 
— youth, beauty, money, experience of prison condi- 
tions and the romance of her story to capture public 
imagination. 

Lydia, with her acute sense of her own unworthi- 
ness, was dimly aware of some hesitation, and sup- 
posed that she was being weighed in the balance. She 
had no suspicion that a struggle, somewhat like her 
own struggle, was going on in the honest, philan- 
thropic breast before her. A few minutes afterwards 
Mrs. Galton offered her the treasurership. Lydia 
:wAs overcome by the honor. 

"But I thought you had a treasurer already,'' she 
murmured. "If I could be her assistant '' 

"Oh, no doubt she will be glad to resign,'' said the 
president with a calmness that suggested that glad or 
not the resignation would be forthcoming. 

The two women went out to lunch together. More 
and more, as they talked, Lydia saw that this was 
just what she wanted. This would be her salvation. 
After they were back in the office again she spoke of 
Evans. JVhat could she do ? [What must be done ? 

"Let me see," said Mrs. Galton. "You y^ere the 
complaining witness against her, I suppose. Well, 
you must see the judge and the district attorney^ who 
tried the case." 

Lydia gave a funny little sound, half exclamation, 
half moan. 

"O'Bannon!" she said. 



MAKSLAUGHTEE 255 

No, Mrs. Galton thought that wasn't the name of 
Hoe district attorney of Princess County. She rang 
her bell and told her secretary to look it np, while she 
yrent on calmly discussing the details of the procedure. 
Presently the secretary retumd with a book. John J. 
Hillyer waa district attorney. 

"Are you sure!'* Lydia asked. 'TE thought Mr. 
O'Bannon was." 

The secretary said, consulting her book, that he 
had resigned ahnost two years before. 

"But we'd have to have his signature, wouldn't 
we?" said Mre. Galton. 

She and the secretary talked of it, back and forth, 
not knowing that they were setting an impossibe con* 
dition for Lydia. She couldn't ask O'Bannon. All 
her interest in the prospect of this new work had 
withered at the name. She felt a profound dis- 
couragement It was terrible to find she would 
rather leave Evans in prison than ask O'Bannon to 
help get her out; terrible to find that man like a bar- 
Tiet across every path she tried to follow in order to 
escape from him. She thanked them for the trouble 
they had taken and rose to go. It was arranged that 
fihe was to come and begin work on the following Mon* 
iiay. 

It WAS almost tea time when she reached homa 
Bobby was liere, and the Piers, and presently May 
Swayne came in with her coal baron. Lydia's first 
emotion on seeing them was a warm, welcoming glad* 




356 MANSLAUGHTER 

Hess, but she soon found to her surprise that she had 
yeiy little to say to them. 

The truth was that she had lost the trick of meet* 
ing her fellow beings in a purely social relation, and 
the conscious effort to adapt herself, her words, her 
attention to them exhausted her. She looked back 
with wonder to the old days, when she had done noth- 
ing else all day long. 

Miss Bennett soon began to notice that she was look- 
ing like a little piece of carved ivory, with eyes of 
the blackest jet When at last her visitors had all 
gone she went straight to bed. 

The next day she had herself driven down to Wide 
Plains, so that she could see Judge Homans. Court 
was still in session when she got there, and she was 
shown to the judge's little book-lined room and left 
to wait. She had expected her first view of the wide 
main street, of Mr. Woolens shop, of the columned 
courthouse to be intensely painful to her, but it 
wasn't. The tall attendant who ushered her in 
greeted her warmly. She remembered him clearly^ 
leaning against the double doors of the court room 
to prevent anyone leaving during the judge's 
charge. 

Presently the judge came in, just as he had come 
in every day to her trial, his hands folded, his robea 
flowing about him. Lydia rose. Her name appar- 
ently had not been given to him, for he looked at her 
in surprise. Then his face lit up. 



MANSLAUGHTER 25? 

*^y dear Miss Thome," lie said, 'Vhen did ypri, 
get out?'' 

It was the first perfectly natural, spontaneous refer* 
ence to her imprisonment that she had heard since 
she left prison. It did away with all constraint and 
awkwardness, to be taken as a matter of course. 
Criminals were no novelty in the judge's life. He 
eat down, waved her into a chair opposite, put his 
elbows on the arms of his swinging chair and locked 
his knuckles together. 

"I'm very glad to see you — very glad indeed," he 
said. 

But he wasn't at aU surprised that she had come. 
It was not unusual, evidently, for the first visit of a 
released convict to be paid to the judge. He began to 
question her rather as if she were a child home for 
the holidays. 

"And what did you learn ? Baking ? Now that's 
interesting, isn't it ? And sewing ? Well, well !" 

He treated her so simply that Lydia found herself 
speaking to him with more freedom about the whole 
experience of prison than she had been able to speak 
to anyone. The reason was, she thought, that she did 
not need to explain to him that she was not a tragic 
exception, a special case. To him she was just one 
of a long series of lawbreakers. 

They talked for an hour. She noted that the judge 
Btill enjoyed talking, still insisted on rounding out 
his sentences; but she felt now no impatience. Hia 



258 MANSLAUGHTER 

xeminisc5eiice8 interested her. Before long she found 
herself consulting him about a subject that had long 
preyed on her mind — Alma Wooley. She wanted 
to do something for Alma Wooley, yet she supposed 
the girl would utterly reject anything coming from 
the woman who had 

The judge put his hand on her arm. 

"Now don't you worry a mite about Alma," he 
«aid. "Alma married a nice young fellow out of the 
district attorney's oflSce — named Foster — and now 
they have a baby, a nice little baby. I was saying to 
her father only yesterday that Foster is a much better 
man for her ^" 

While the judge was launched on hia speech to 
Mr. Wooley, Lydia's mind went back to Foster — • 
Foster waiting and watching for O'Bannon like a 
puppy for its supper. Well, she could forgive him 
even his admiration for that man since he had made 
Alma Wooley happy. A weight was lifted from her 
conscience. 

Finally, with some «nbarrassment, die told the 
judge the object of her visit — a pardon for Evans. 
She was prepared to have him remind her, as O'Ban- 
non had once done, that it was a matter which had 
been in her own hands, in Ihat in this very room in 
yrhich she was now sitting she had virtually refused 
to help Evans. But Judge Homans^ if ha remem- 
bered, made no reference to the past. 

'TTos, yes," he said. "Now let me set. It must 



MANSLAUGHTER 259. 

have been O'Bannon tried that case^ wasn't itf* 
Lydia nodded, and he went on, "Poor O'Bannon ! 1 
miss him very much. He resigned, you know, about 
the time Mrs. O'Bannon died." 

"He was married ?" asked Lydia, and even in hei? 
own ears her voice sounded tmnaturally loud. 

No, the judge said, it was the old lady, his mother; 
and he went on telling Lydia what a fine fellow the 
former district attorney had been — a good man and 
a good lawyer. 

"The two are not always combined," the judge said 
with a chuckle, feeling something cold in his audi- 
tor's attention. 

Lydia rose to her feet. She was sorry, she said, 
that she really must be going home. The judge found 
his soft black hat and accompanied her to her car. 

"Don't drive yourself ?" he asked. 

She shook her head. She would never drive a car 
again. The judge patted her hand — told her to come 
and see him again — let him know how she was get- 
ting on. She promised. She saw that in some way; 
an unbreakable human bond had been established be- 
tween them by the fact that she had committed a crime 
and he had sentenced her to state's prison for it. 

She went home feeling encouraged. Not only had 
she managed to get him to agree to enlist O'Bannon's 
help in the matter of Evans' pardon, but she herself 
tad supported the niention of O'Bannon'a name with 
something that was almost calm. 



CHAPTEE XVII 

IT WAS noticeable — though no one noticed it — 
that a month after Lydia went to work in Mrs. 
Galton's organization everyone in her immediate^ 
circle was doing something for released convicts* 
Bobby, Miss Bennett, Eleanor, Wiley, all suddenly 
began to think that the problem of the criminal wa» 
the most important, the most vital, the most interest- 
ing problem in the world. The explanation was 
simple : A will like Lydia's, harnessed to a construc- 
tive purpose, was far more irresistible than in the old 
days when it had been selfish, spasmodic and undis- 
ciplined. 

She was given a little office, like Miss Galton's^ 
and she was in it every morning at nine o'clock. Misa 
Bennett, who had worried all her life because Lydia 
led an irregular, aimless, idle existence, now worried 
even more because her working hours were long, 

^'Surely," she protested almost every morning, 
*'Mrs. Gal ton will not care if you don't get there until 
half past nine or even ten. These cold days it isn't 
good for you '^ 

Lydia explained that she was not going to the office 
early in order to please Mrs. Galton, who, as a matter 

260 



MANSLAUGHTER 26* 

of fact, did not arrive there until late in the morning* 
The organization needed money desperately, there was 
much to be done. But the truth was she loved the 
routine — the hard impersonal wort It saved her 
from herself. She was almost happy. 

Eleanor had evidently done what she had been 
asked to do, for O'Bannon seemed to have dropped out 
of the world. His name was never mentioned, and 
as week after week went by it seemed to Lydia that 
fihe herself was forgetting him. Perhaps a time would 
(Bome when she could even see him without wrecking 
her peace of soul. Her only sorrow was the delay in 
Evans' pardon. It didn't come. Lydia could not 
enjoy her liberty with Evans in prison. The forms 
had all been complied with, but the governor did not 
act. At last Mrs. Galton suggested her going to Al- . 
bany ; or perhaps she knew someone who would have 
influence with the governor. Yes, Lydia knew some- 
one — Albee. 

Albee was now senator from his own state, and a 
busy session in Washington had kept him there. He 
had been among the first to telegraph Lydia. She 
found his message and his flowers in the house when 
she first came home. The message sounded as if it 
had come from a friend ; but Lydia knew that it had; 
not ; that Albee had escaped from her and her influ- 
ence, or thought he had. She had known it even in 
the days of her trial, and looking back on the facts 
and on herself she wondered that she had not resented 



262 MANSLAUGHTER 

it. Thofle were 'days in which she had awarded pua- 
ishments readily, and Albee had really behaved, 
badly to her. They had been very nearly engaged 
and yet the instant she was in trouble he had deserted 
her. He had gone through all the motions of helping 
her, but in spirit she knew that Albee the day she 
killed Drummond had begun to disentangle himself. 
She felt not the least resentment against him; only; 
she recognized the fact that his remoteness from her 
made it more difficult to make use of him for Evans, 
Tmless — the idea suddenly came to her — it might 
make it easier. He would avoid seeing her if he 
could ; but if she found her way to him he might bo 
eager to atone, to set himself right by doing her a 
definite favor. 

The evening of the day that she saw this clearly she 
took a train to Washington. The next morning she 
was waiting in his outer office before he reached it 
himself. A new secretary — the old one had been pro- 
moted to some position of political prominence at 
home — did not know her and had not been warned 
against her by name. So she was sitting there when 
Albee came in with his old cheerful, dominating, leo- 
nine look. Just for the fraction of a second his f aoe 
fell at seeing her, and then he hurried to her side, aa 
if out of all the world she was the person he most 
9;(ranted to see. 

It must not be supposed that Lydia had become 8b 
eaintJy that she had forgotten her knowledge of men. 



MANSLAUGHTER 263 

Bhe knew now that if she were cordial to Albe© she 
pould not depend on his doing what she wanted. If 
^n the other hand she withheld her friendship she 
was sure he would bid high for it. She ignored all 
his flustered protestations. She smiled at him, a 
smile a little sad, a little chilly and infinitely 
remote. 

"I want very much to speak to you, Stephen," she 
said, and her tone told him that whatever she wanted 
to talk about had nothing whatsoever to do with them- 
selves. 

He led her into the inner office. A curious thing 
.was happening to him. He had never been in love 
with Lydia. He had deliberately allowed her beauty 
and wealth to dazzle him ; he had admired her cour- 
age, her sureness of herself, contrasting it with his 
own terror of giving offense to anyone ; but at times 
he had almost hated her. If she had inspired him 
with one atom of tenderness he would not have 
deserted her. She never had. He had cut himself off 
from her without regret. But now as she sat there, 
finer and paler and more — much more — than two 
years older, she did inspire tenderness, tenderness of 
a most vivid and disturbing sort. He could not take 
his eyes from her face. He suddenly cut into what 
she was saying about Evans. 

"Lydia, my dear, are you happy? Tes^ yes, of 
oourse I can get from the governor anything you ask 
Ida, b«t tell me about yourself.^' 



264 MANSLAUGHTER 

He leaned over, taking her hands in his. She rose, 
withdrawing them slowly as she did so. 

"Not now/' she answered, and moved toward the 
3oor. 

"You mustn't go like that,'' he protested. "Just 
think, my dear, I have not seen you for two years — 
the toughest two years I ever spent ! You can't just 
come and go like this. I must see you, talk to you.'' 

"When you have got me Evans' pardon, 
Stephen — if you get it." She still spoke gently, but 
there was a good deal of intention behind Lydia at 
her gentlest. 

He caught the "if" — almost an insult after his 
confident assertion, but he did not think of the insult. 
He was aware of nothing but the desire that she 
should smile gayly and admiringly at him again as 
she used to, making him feel Jovian. 

"I'm going to New York on Thursday," he said. 
"On Friday evening you shall have the pardon. Will 
you be at the opera Friday evening ?" 

She hesitated. She had not been to the op'^ra yet. 
She could not bear the publicity of that blazing circle, 
but she had kept her box. After all, she thought, she 
could sit in the back of it, and music was one of the 
greatest of her pleasures. 

"Will you join me there?" she said. 

"It will be like old times." 

"Not quite," she answered. 

Still with his hand on the knob of the door, as if 



MANSLAUGHTER 266 

he were just going to open it for her, he detained her, 
trying to make her talk, asking lier about her friends, 
her work, her health; trying to hit upon the master 
key to her mind, and at last, for he was a man of long 
experience, he found it 

"And that damned crook who prosecuted your 
case,'' he said. "Do you ever see him ?" 

She shook her head. 

"I prefer not even to think of him," she replied, 
and this time she made a gesture that he should open 
the door. Instead he stepped in front of it. He had 
iwaked her ; he had her attention at last. 

"Naturally, naturally," he said, "but I wish you 
i^rould think of him for a minute. I'm in rather a 
fix about that fellow." 

She longed to know what the fix was, hut she did 
not dare hear. She said softly, "Please don't make 
jne think of him, Stephen. I'd really rather not." 

"But you must listen, Lydia. Help me. I don't 
know what I ought to do. I have it in my power to 
ruin that man. Shall I?" 

There was a pause. Albee heard her long breaths 
trembling as she drew them. He thought to himself 
that his knowledge of her had not gone astray. She 
had hated that man, and whatever else had changed 
in her, that hadn't. She suddenly came to life and 
tried to open the door for herself. 

"I must go," she said. He did not move. 

^ou know," he said, speaking quickly, "that after 



266 MANSLAUGHTER 

youT trial lie went to pieces, resigned his position, toolc 
to drinking again, tried to make his way in New York. 
He was nearly down and out for a time there.'' 

He watelied her. A smile, a terrible smile, began 
to curve the comers of her mouth. He went on : 

*^I couldn^t he exactly sorry for his had luck. In! 
fact, to he candid, I gave him a kick or two when I 
had the chance. But now he's pulled himself out. 
He's worked like a dog, and I hear that a couple of 
friends of mine, of the firm of Simpson, Aspinwall & 
McCarter, are going to offer him a partnership. It's 
a big firm, particularly in the political world." There 
was a short silence. "Shall I let him have it, Lydia V* 

She raised her shoulders scornfully. 

"Could you stop his getting it, Stephen ?" 

"Do you doubt it V 

She turned on him. Her jaw was set and lifted 
as in the old days. 

"Of course I do I If you could have you certainly] 
>rould have without consulting me. There is a man 
;who you know lacks all integrity and honor, and who, 
moreover, goes about saying that you tried to bribe 
him — and failed. Oh, he makes a great point of 
that — you failed I Would you let a man like that 
go into a firm of your friends if you could stop it f 
JTo, no I Not unless you have grown a good deal 
pieeker than I remember you, Stephen." 

Albee made a sweeping gesture, as expressive as a 
jBoman iemperor^s thumbs down. 






MANSLAUGHTEB 267 

''He shall not have iV' ^^3 ^^ added wi& a amild 
as cruel as Ljdia's own: ''He believes liuneelf abso- 
Intely sure of it** 

She smiled straight into his eyes. 

"Bring me that Friday night/* she said, ''It's more 
important than the pardon.*' 

He opened the door for her and she went out 

This was Wednesday. She could hardly wait for 
Friday to come. This was the right way — to destroy 
the man first and then to forget hinu She had been 
eilly and sentimental and weak to fancy that she could 
have real peace in any other way, to imagine that she 
could go through life skulking, fearing. She was 
furious at herself when she remembered that she had 
asked Eleanor to avoid mentioning his name. She 
could mention his name now herself, and see him too. 
She would enjoy seeing him. She was hardly aware 
of the passage of time on her journey back to New 
York. She was living over a meeting between 
O'Bannon and herself after the partnership had been 
withdrawn. He must be made aware that it was her 
doing. 

She reached home just before dimier, and found 
that Miss Burnett was dining out Good I Lydia 
had no objection to being alone. But Benny had 
arranged otherwise. She had telephoned to Eleanor, 
and she was coming to dins. Lydia smiled. That 
was pleasant too. 

Eleanor was an intelligent woman but not a mind 




M8 MANSLAUGHTER 

leaden Bhe saw some change liad taken place in 
Ljdia, noticed that she ate no dinner^ and came to 
the conclusion that something had gone wrong about 
Evans' pardon; that Albee had been, as usual^ a weak 
friend. When they were alone after dinner was over 
she prepared herself to hear the story. Instead, 
Lydia said, 'Tm going to the opera on Friday, 
IN'ell — Samson and Delilah. Will you come with 
meT 

There was a little pause, a slight constraint Then 
Eleanor answered that she couldn't; that she had a 
|>oz of her own that someone had sent her. Lydia 
sprang up with a sudden, short, wild laugh. 

'*That man's going with you !'* she said. 

**Mr. O'Bannon ? Tes, he is.'' Eleanor thought a 
•eoond. 'Til put him off, Lydia. I'll tell him not to 
pome.'' 

"TouTI do nothing of the kind. It's perfect I 
don't know what got into me the other day, Eleanor. 
Tou must have despised me for such pitiful cow 
ardice." 

'ITo, my dear," said Eleanor slowly, hut obviously 
relieved that the question had come up again, '^ut 
I did feel that you weren't going to work the best way 
to get the poison of the whole thing out of your souL*' 

Lydia laughed the same way again. 

'^Oh, d^n't worry about that 1 I shall get rid of th0 
poison." 

'*Howr 



MANSLAUGHTER a«» 

*^ fihall make him suffer. I shall revenge myself 
and then forget he exists. Yon can tell him so if 
you want/' 

Eleanor stared in front of her, blank and serious. 
Then she said, "I donH hare many opportunities any 
mora I seldom see him.'' 

Lydia's eyes brightened. 

*'Ah, you've found him out !" 

*'0n the contrary, the longer I know him the more 
highly I think of him. I don't see him because he's 
busy. He has been having a difficult time — in busi- 
ness. He decided to get out of politics and go into 
straight law. New York is like a ferocious monster 
to a man beginning any profession. Dan — but it 
doesn't matter. His troubles are over now." 

"Are they indeed ?" said Lydia. 

"Yes, he's had a wonderful offer of a partnership 

from an older man who Oh, Lydia, you ought 

to try to see that your point of view about him is a 
prejudiced — a natural one, but still " 

"Is it a definite offer, Eleanor ?" 

"Yes, absolutely, though the papers are not to be 
signed for a day or so." 

Lydia breathed in thoughtfully "A day or sc^ and 
Eleanor pressed on. 

"It isn't that I care what you think of him or he 
of you. I'm past that with my friends, and, as I 
say, I don't see nearly as much of him as I lued to; 
but " 



270 MANSLAUQHTEB 

"Of course you don't," answered Ljdia. 'TEIe's 
adiamed — or, no, it's more that he can't bear to see 
himself in contrast with, your perfect integrity, 
Eleanor. Did you know that he came to prison to see 
me, to gloat over me ? Sent in for me to come to him 
in my prison clothes " 

Lydia's breath quickened as she spoke of the out- 
rage. 

"He didn't come to gloat over you." 

"What did he come for then ?" 

To her own surprise Eleanor heard her own voice 
saying, as if unaided it tapped scane source of knowl- 
edge never before open to her, "Because you know 
very well, Lydia, the man's in love with you." 

Lydia sprang forward like a cat 

"Never say such a thing as that again !" she said. 
"You don't understand, but it degrades me, it pol- 
lutes me ! Love me ! That man I I'd kill him. if I 
thought he dared!" 

Nothing rendered Eleanor so calm as excitement in 
others. 

"Well," she said, "perhaps I'm mistaken," and 
appeared to let the matter drop ; but the other would 
not have it. 

"Of course you're mistaken I But you must have 
had some reason for saying such a thing. You're not 
the kind of person, Eleanor, who goes about having 
disgusting suspicions like that without a reason." 

"Do you really want me to give you a reason or 



MANSLAUGHTER 271 

are you onljr jraiting to tear me to pieces, whatever I 
sayT 

Lydia sat down and cangHt her hands betwe^a her 
knees, determined to be good. 

**I want your reason,^^ she said. 

Reasons were not so easy, Eleanor foimd. She 
spoke slowly. 

"I saw all through your trial that Dan was not 
like himself, that he was struggling with something 
stronger than he. He is a man who has always had 
terrible weaknesses, temptations ^^ 

"He drinks,'* said Lydia, and there was a note 
of almost boastful triumph in her tone. 

"No" — Eleanor was very firm about it — "in re- 
cent years only once." 

"More than once, Eleanor." 

"Only once, in a time of emotional strain. What 
was the emotion ? Tou had just been sentenced. It 
icame to me suddenly that if he were in love with you 
— it would explain everything." 

"If he hated me — that would explain it too." 

"The two emotions are pretty close, Lydia." 

"Close?" Lydia exclaimed violently. "It shows 
that you have never felt either." 

"Have you ?" 

'Tes, I've felt hate. It's poisoned and withered 
me for over two years now, and I don't mean to bear 
it any more. I mean to get rid of it this way; — to 
Jtturt that man enough to satisfy myself." 



272 MANSLAUGHTEB 

Eleanor rose slowly, and the two women stood a 
little apart, looking at each other. Then Eleanor 
said, "You'll never get rid of it that way. Don't do 
it, Lydia, whatever you mean to do." 

'^You're pleading for that man, NelL Don't 1 It'a 
ignominious." 

"I'm pleading for you, my dear." 

'T)on't! It's impertinent" 

Worse than either, Eleanor knew it was useless. 
Her motor was waiting for her and she went away. 
For the first time she imderstood something that Dor- 
set had once said to her — that Lydia in her eviS 
moods waa the most pathetic figure in the wor7^ 



CHAPTER XVUll 

BEFOEE the lights went up on the first entr^acte 
Lydia retreated to the little red-lined box of 
an anteroom and sank down on the red-silk 
8ofa. She and Miss Bennett had come alone to the 
opera ; but Dorset and Albee, who was committed to 
some sort of political dinner first, were to join them 
presently. 

Even while the house was still in darkness Lydia 
had recognized the outline of O'Bannon's head in a 
box across the house. She had seen it before she 
had seen Eleanor. Miss Bennett had stayed in the 
front of the box. Lydia was glad she had. She 
wanted to be alone while she waited. She could see. 
her between the curtains, sweeping the house with her 
opera glasses. 

The door of the box opened and Albee came in. 
Bhe did not speak, but looking up at him every mus- 
de in her body grew tense with interest. He smiled 
at her and began to hang up his hat and take off his 
iooat She couldn't bear the suspense. 

'Well V she asked sternly. 

'^If s all right. The governor will sign li Wa 

fanly been pressure of business ^^ 

273 



274 MANSLAUGHTEB 

She interrupted hinu 

"And the other thing? Have yon failed there P 
Somehow she had never thought of his failing. What 
should she do if he had { 

He made a quick pass with his right hand, indica- 
ting that O'Bannon had been obliterated. 

"Our friend will never be a partner in that firm,'' 
he said. 

He looked at her eagerly and got his reward. She 
smiled at him, slowly wagging her head at the same 
time, as if he were too wonderful for words. 

"Stephen, you are superb," she said, and evidently 
felt it "Does he know it yet V 

"No, he won't know it until he opens his mail to- 
morrow morning." 

Lydia leaned forward and peered out into the 
house between the curtains. Then she turned back 
and smiled again, but this time with amusement. 

"He^s over there now with Eleanor, pleased to 
death with himself and thinking the world is his 
oyster." 

Albee had been standing. Now as the lights be- 
gan to sink for the opening of the second act he gave 
an exclamation of annoyance. 

"I have something to show you," he said. He sat 
down beside her on the narrow little sofa, and lower- 
ing his voice to fit the lowere'd lights he whispered, 
"What would you give for a copy of Simpson's letter: 
withdrawing his partnership offer ?" 



MANSLAUGHTER 275 

'TToa liave it V^ Her voice betrayed that she would 
igive anything. 

"What would you give me for it?" he murmured, 
and in the darkness he put his arms ahout her and 
tried to draw her to him. 

^T. won't give you a thing 1'* Her voice was like 
steel, and so was her body. 

Albee's heart failed him. It seemed as if his arms 
were paralyzed. He did not dare do what he had 
imagined himself doing — crushing her to him 
whether she consented or not. He suddenly thought 
to himself that she was capable of making an outcry. 

"The inhuman, unfeminine creature !" he thought, 
even as he still held her. 

He felt her put out her hand and quietly take the 
letter from him. No, that was a little too much! 
He caught her wrist and held it firmly. Then the 
door opened, someone came in, Bobby's voice said, 
'^Are you here, Lydia?" 

"Yes," said Lydia in her sweetest, most natural 
tone. "Turn on the light, Bobby, or you'll fall over 
something. It's just there on your right." 

It took Bobby a moment to.find the switch. When: 
he turned on the light he saw Lydia and Albee sit- 
ting side by side on the sofa. Lydia was holding a 
folded paper in her hand. 

^What's the point of sitting in here when the act 
is on ?" said Bobby. "Let's go in and see her vamp 
the strong man." 



27« MAK^SLAUGHTBR 

Ljdia sprang up^ and looking at Albee deliberately 
tucked away the paper in the front of her low dress. 

'Turn out the light again Bobby/' ehe said. "It 
ehines between the curtains and disturbs me/' 

All three went back to the box, where Misa Ben- 
nett had been sitting alone. It was a long time since 
Lydia had heard any music, and the music of the 
fiooond act of Samson and Delilah, the long sweeping 
diords on the harp, began to trouble her, as the com- 
ing thunderstorm seemed to be troubling Delilah. 

Her long abstraction from any artistic impression: 
made her as susceptible as a child. The moonlight 
flooded her with a primitive glamour, her nerves 
crept to the music of the incredibly sweet duet; and- 
when at last Samson followed Delilah into her house 
Lydia felt as if the soprano's triumph were her own. 

As the storm broke Albee rose. He bent over Miss 
Bennett and then over Lydia. 

"Good night, Delilah,'' he whispered. 

She did not answer, but she thought, "Not to your 
Samson, Stephen Albee." 

He was gone and she still had the letter. When 
the act was over she went back to the anteroom to 
i?ead it. Tes, there it was on Simpson, Aspinwall & 
McOarter's heavy, simple stationery — clear and un- 
equivocal. Mr. Simpson regretted so much that eon- 
jiitions had arisen which made it imperative 

Lydia glanced across the house and caught O'Ban- 
&<m laughing at something that Eleanor was saying 



MANSLAUGHTEE 27T 

to him. She smiled. Whatever the joke was, she 
thought she knew a better one. 

"How lovely you look, Lydia," said Bobby, seeing 
the smile. "Almost like a madonna in that white 
stuff — like a madonna painted by an Apache 
Indian.^' 

"Have you anything that I could write on Bobby 
— a scrap of paper V^ 

Bobby tore out a page from a cherished address 
book and gave it to her with a gold pencil from his 
watch chain. She stood under the light, pressing the 
top of the pencil against her lips. Then she wrote 
rapidly: 

"I have something of importance to say to you. 
iWill you meet me in the lobby on the Thirty-ninth 
Street side at the end of the performance and let me 
drive you home ? Xydia Thoenb." 

She folded it and held it out 

^ Will you take that to O'Bannon and get an answer 
from him ?'' 

"To O'Bannon?'' said Bobby. "Has anything 
happened ?" 

"DonH bother me now, Bobby, there's a dear. Juirt 
take it'' She half shoved him out of the box. '*And 
be as quick as you can," she called after him. 

He really was quick. In a few seconds she saw the 
ourtain of the opposite box pushed aside and Bobby 
^tor. He spoke a moment to Eleanor, and then 



278 MANSLAUGHTER 

when so one else was watching she saw him speak to 
O'Bannon and give him her note. The two men rose 
and went together into die back of the box ont of her 
si^t. What was happening? Was O'Bannon now 
on his way to her ? There was a long delay. Miss 
Bennett's voice called, "Is somebody knocking?'* 
The noise was Lydia's restless feet tapping on the 
floor. Just as the lights began to go down Bobby 
returned — alone. He handed her a note. 

"Dear Miss Thome: I cannot drive home with 
you, but I will stop at your house for a few minutes 
about half-past eleven or a quarter to twelve, if that is 
not too late. D. O'B.'' 

Lydia smiled again. This was better still. She 
would have plenty of time in her own drawing-room 
to reveal the facts in any way she liked. She hardly 
heard the music of the next theme, hardly 
enjoyed the spectacle of Samson's degradation, so 
absorbed was she in the anticipation of the coming 
interview. 

During the ballet in the last scene she saw Eleanor 
rise and O'Bannon follow her. She sprang up at 
once, thou^ Miss Bennett faintly protested. 

"Oh, aren't you going to wait to see him pull down 
ihe temple ? It's such fun." Miss Bennett liked to see 
masculine strength conquer. Lydia shook her head, 
but offered no explanation. 

It was almost half past eleven when they entered 



MANSLAUGHTER 279 

Ihe house. Miss Bennett, who had been yawning on 
the drive home^ walked straight to the staircase. Mor- 
flon had delegated his duties for the evening to the 
parlor maid, a young Swede, and she began industri- 
ously drawing the bolts of the front door and prepar- 
ing to put out the lights. Lydia stopped her. 

"Get me a glass of water, will you, Frieda ?'' she 
said. 

"There'll be one in your room, dear," Miss Ben- 
nett called back, every inch the housekeeper. She did 
not stop, however, but went on up and disappeared 
round the turn in the stairs. 

When the girl came back Lydia said, 'TFrieda, I'm 
expecting a gentleman in a few minutes. After you've 
let him in you need not wait up. Is the fire lit in the 
drawing-room ? Then light it, please." 

She stood for a moment, sipping at the long, cool 
glass and listening to hear Miss Bennett's footsteps 
growing more and more distant ; listening, too, for a 
footstep in the street. 

In the drawing-room the firelight was already leap- 
ing up, outdoing the light of the shaded lamps. Left 
alone, Lydia slipped off her opera cloak very softly, 
as if she did not want to make the smallest noise that 
would interfere with her listening. The house was 
quiet, and even the noise of the city was beginning toi 
die down. The steady roar of traffic returning from 
the theater was almost over. Now and then she could 
tear a Fifth Avenue bus rolling along on its heavy 



280 MANSLAUGHTER 

rubber tires; now and then the damming of a motor 
door as some of her neighbors returned from an eve- 
ning's amusement. 

She bent over the fire trying to warm her hands. 
They were like ice, and it must have been from cold, 
not excitement, she thought, for her mind felt as calm 
as a well. She turned the little clock — all lilac 
enamel and rhinestones — so that she could watch it's 
tiny face. It was a quarter to twelve. She clenched 
her hands. Did he intend to keep her waiting ? 

She started, for the door had softly opened. Miss 
Bennett entered in one of her gorgeous dressing gowns 
of crimson satin and bright-blue birds. 

*'Dear child," she said, "you ought to be in bed." 

"I'm waiting for someone who's coming to see m^ 
Benny; and as he may be here at any minute, and I 
don't suppose you want to be caught in your present 
costume ^" 

Miss Bennett lifted her shoulders. 

"Oh, at my age !" she said. "After all, what is the 
use of having lovely dressing gowns if no one ever 
Bees them ?" 

"It's Dan O'Bannon that's coming," said Lydia, 
"^'and I want to see him alone." 

"O'Bannon coming here I But, Lydia, you can't see 
him alone — at this hour. Why, it's midnight !" 

Miss Bennett's eyes clung to her. 

'^Eleven minutes to," said Lydia, with her eyes on 
die clock. *T! wish you'd go, Benny." 



MANSLAUGHTER 281 

Mise Bennett hesitated. 

"I don^t think you ought to see him alone. I don't 
jhink it's quite — quite nice.'' 

"Oh, this is going to be very nice !" 

"No, I mean I don't think it's safe. Suppose any- 
thing should happen." 

"Should happen ?" said Lydia, and for a moment 
she looked like the old haughty Lydia. "What could 
happen ?" 

Miss Bennett raised both her arms and let them 
drop with a gesture quite Prench, expressing that they; 
both knew what men were. 

'TEe might try to make love to you," she said. 

The minute she had spoken she wished she had 2L0t^ 
for Lydia's fine dark brow contracted. 

'*What disgusting ideas you do have Benny I 
That man!" She stopped herself. "I almost wish 
he would. If he did I think I should kill him." 

To Miss Bennett this seemed just an expression; 
but to Lydia, with her eyes fixed on an enormous pair 
of steel-and-silver scissors that lay on the writing table, 
it was something more than a phrase. 

Miss Bennett decided to withdraw. 

"Stop in my room when you come up," she said. 
*1 shan't close my eyes till you do." Then gathering 
lier shining draperies about her she left the room. 

Even after Miss Bennett had gone her su^totiott 
remained with Lydia. Would that man have aay 
ipah ijjea ! Would he think her Bmiding f (xr him at 




283 MANSLAUGHTER 

Bxicli an hour had any flattering significance f Or 
^ould he see that it was proof of her utter contempt 
tfor him — of her belief that she was his superior, the 
master mind of the two, whatever their situation? 
As for love-making — let him try it ! Her blow 
>rould be all the more effective if it coxdd be delivered 
;\vhile he was on his knees. 

With an absurd, hurried, tingling stroke the little 
jclock struck midnight. Strange, she thought, that 
[waiting for something certain stretched the nerves 
more than imcertainty. She knew O'Bannon would 
oome — or did she ? "Would he dare do that ? Leave 
her sitting waiting for him and never come at all ? 
Undoubtedly he had taken Eleanor back to her hoteL 
Were they laughing together over her note ? 

At that instant she heard the distant buzz of the 
front doorbell. Every nerve in her body vibrated at 
the sound. Then the drawing-room door opened and 
closed behind O'Bannon. 

The fly had walked into the parlor, she said to her- 
eelf — a great big immaculately attired fly. Seeing 
him there before her all her nervousness passed away, 
and she was conscious of nothing but joy — a joy as 
inspiring as if it were founded on something holier 
than hatred ; joy that at last her moment had come. 

She waited a second for his apology, and then she 
said quite in the manner of a great lady who without 
complaining is conscious of what is due to her^ 
^'You're late." 



MANSLAUGHTER 283 

*T! walked up," he said, "It's a lovely night." 

*^Tou have wondered why I sent for you ?" 

"Of course." 

She sank lazily into a chair by the fire. 

"Sit down," she said graciously, as if she were ac- 
cording the privilege to an old servant who might 
hesitate otherwise. 

He shook his head. 

"No," he answered; "I can^t stay but a minute. 
It's after twelve." 

He leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and took 
up the jade dog that stood there, examining its pol- 
ished surfaces. Lydia was well content with this ar- 
rangement It made her feel more at ease. She let 
a silence fall, and in the silence he raised his eyes 
from the dog and looked at her as if he were reluc- 
tant to do so. 

He said, "Fm glad to see you here — back in your 
normal surroundings." 

Thank heaven she did not have to be dovelike any; 
more. 

"Oh, are you ?" she said derisively. "Didn't you 
enjoy your little visit to me in prison ?" 

He shook his head slowly. 

"Then may I ask why you came ?" 

"I don't think I shall tell you that." 

"Do you think I don't know?" she asked with a 
sudden fierceneBS. 



284 MANSLAUGHTEK 

"I really haven't thought whether you knew or 
not'' 

"You came to get just what you did get — the full 
savor of the humiliation of my position." 

"My God," he answered coolly, "and they say 
women have intuition!" 

His tone, as much as his words, irritated her, and 
ehe did not want to be irritated. She raised her chin. 

'T!t doesn't really matter why you came, at least 
liot to me. Let me tell you why I sent for you to- 
night." 

But he was pursuing his own train of thought and 
did not seem to hear her. 

"Are you able to come back into life again ? Are 
you" — he hesitated — "are you happy ?" 

"No. But then I never was very happy. I can 
tell you this : I wouldn't exchange my prison experi- 
ence for anything in my whole life. Tou gave mo 
Bomething, Mr. O'Bannon, when you sent me to 
prison, that no one else was ever able to give me, not 
even my father, though he tried. I mean a sense of 
the consequences of my own character. That's the 
only aspect of punishment that is of use to people." 

His eyes lit up. 

'^Tou don't mean you're grateful to me I" he said. 

"IJ'o, not grateful," she answered, and a little smilel 
began to curve the comers of her mouth. "Not grate- 
ful to you, because, you see, I am going to return the 
^obligation — to do the same kind deed to you." 



MANSLAUGHTER 285 

"To me? I don^t believe I understand." 

"I don't believe you do. But be patient. You 
"will. During my trial, I imagine — in fact I was 
told by your friends — that you took the position that 
you were treating me as you treated any criminal 
Ivhose case you prosecuted/' 

"What other stand could I take?" 

"Oh, oflBcially none. But in your mind you must 
have known you had another motive. Some people 
think it was a young man's natural thirst for head- 
lines, but I know — and I want you to know I know 
it — that it was your personal vindictiveness toward 
me." 

"Don't say that !" he interrupted sharply. 

"I shall say it," Lydia went on, "and to you, be- 
cause you are the only person I can say it to. Oh, 
you knew very well how it would be ! I have to sit 
silent while Eleanor tells me how noble your motives 
were in prosecuting me. You know — oh, you are 
so safe in knowing — that I will not tell anyone that 
your hatred of me goes back to that evening when I 
did not show myself susceptible to your fascinations 
when you tried to kiss me, and I ^" 

"I did kiss you," said O'Bannon, 

"I believe you did, but ^" 

"You know I did." 

She sprang up at this. 

"And is that something you're proud of, something 
it gives you satisfaction to remember ?" 



286 MANSLAUGHTER 

"The keenest" 

She stamped her foot. 

"That you kissed a woman against her will? 
Held her in your arms because you were physically 
stronger ? You like to remember ^^ 

"It was not against your will," ho said, 

"It was !" 

"It was not!" he repeated. "Do you think I 
haven't been over that moment often enough to be 
sure of what happened ? You were not angry 1 You 
were glad I took you in my arms ! You would have 
been glad if I had done it earlier I" 

"Liar !" said Lydia. "Liar and cad — to say such 
a thing!" She was shivering so violently that her 
teeth chattered like a person in an ague. "If you 
knew — if you could guess the repugnance, the hor- 
ror of a woman embraced by a man she loathes and 
despises ! Her flesh creeps ! There are no words for 
it ! And then — then to be told by that man's mad 
vanity that she liked it, that she wanted it, that she 
brought it on herself ^" 

"Just wait a moment," he said. "I believe that 
you hate me now all right, whatever you felt then." 

"I do, I do hate you," she answered, "and I have 
the power of proving it. I can do you an injury." 

"You will always have the power of injuring me." 

"Be sure I will use it." 

"I dare say you will." 

"I have. I haven't wasted any time at all." 



MANSLAUGHTEE 287 

"Wliat is all this about ? What have you done V^ 
he asked without much interest 

She drew the letter out of the front of her dress 
and handed it to him with a hand that trembled 
60 much it made the folded paper rattle. He 
took it, unfolded it, read it. Watching him, she 
saw no ehange in his face imtil he looked up and 
smiled. 

"Is this it V^ he asked. "A lot I care about that — 
not to go into the Simpson firm ! You don't under- 
stand your power. The things that would have made 
me suffer — well, if you had let prison break you, if 
you had given your love to that crooked politician 

who came down to bribe me on your behalf Why, 

when you fell at my feet in the reception room at 
Auburn I suffered more than in all my life before or 
since, because I love you." 

"Stop !" said Lydia. "Don't dare say that to me !'' 

"I love you," he said. "You don't have to go about 
looking for things like this," and he flicked the letter 
contemptuously into the fire. "You make me suffer 
just by existing." 

"I won't listen to you !" said Lydia, and she moved 
away. 

"Of course you'll listen to me," he answered, stand- 
ing between her and the door. "There isn't one thing 
you've done since I first saw you that has given me 
the slightest pleasure or peace or happiness — • 
nothing but unrest and pain. When you're hard and 



288 MANSLAUGHTER 

bitter I suffer, and whea you're gentle and 
kind '' 

She gave a sort of laugh at this. 

"When have you ever seen me gentle and kind ?" 
she asked. 

*^0h, I know how wonderfully you could give your- 
self to a man if you loved him.'' 

"Don't say such things!" she said, actually shud« 
dering. "It sickens me I Don't even think them I" 

"Think! Good God, the things I think!" 

"Don't even think of me at all except as your re- 
lentless enemy. If it were true what you just said 
now, that you love me ^" 

"It is true." 

"I hope it is. It gives me more power to hurt you. 
It must make it worse for you to know how I hate, 
how I despise you, everything about you ; your using 
your looks and your fine figure to hypnotize simple 
people like Eleanor and Miss Bennett and poor 
Evans ; the vanity that makes you hate me for being 
free of your charms; and all the petty, underhanded 
things you did in the trial ; all your sentimental bun- 
combe with the poor little Wooley girl; and your 
twisting the law — the law that you are supposed to 
uphold — in order to get that bracelet before the 
jury; your mouthing and your cheap arts with the 
jury; and most of all your coming to Auburn to feast 
your eyes on my humiliation. Oh, if I could forgive 
all the rest I could never forgive you that !" 




MANSLAUGHTER 289 

"I'm not particularly eager that you should forgive 
me," he said. 

To her horror she found that the breaking down of 
the barriers which had kept her all these months from 
rehearsing her grievances to anyone was breaking 
down her self-control. She knew she was going to 
cry. 

"You can go now," she said. She made a sweep- 
ing gesture toward the door. Already the muscles in 
her throat were banning to contract He stood look- 
ing into the fire as if he had not heard her. She 
stamped her foot. "Don't you understand me ?" she 
said. "I want you to go." 

"I'm going, but there's something I want to say to 
you." He was evidently trying to think something 
out in words. 

"I shall never have anything more to say to you," 
she replied. 

She sank down on the sofa and leaned her head 
back among the cushions. She closed her eyes 
to keep back her tears, and sat rigid with the struggle. 
If she did not speak again — and she wouldn't — she 
might get rid of him before the storm broke. He 
took a cigarette and lit it. Even New York was silent 
for a minute, and the little clock on the table suc^ 
ceeded in making audible its faint, quick ticking. 
Lydia became aware that tears were slowly forcing 
their way under her lids, that she was swallowing 
audibly. She put her hands against her mouth in the 



290 MANSLAUGHTER 

effort to keep back a sob. And O'Baimon began to 
speaky without looking at her. 

"I donH know whether I can make you undeif 
stand/' he said. ^^I don't know that it matters 
whether you understand or not, but in your whole 
case I did exactly what a district attorney ought to 
do, only it is true that behind my doing it ^^ 

He was stopped by a sob. 

*^Tes, yes !'' she said fiercely, her whole face dis- 
torted with emotion, "it's true I'm crying, but if you 
come near me I'll kill you." 

"I won't," he answered. "Cry in peace." 

She took him at his word. She cried, not peac^ 
fully but wildly. She flung herself face downward on 
the sofa and sobbed, with her head buried in the 
cushions, while her whole body shook. She had not 
cried like this since she was a little child. It was a 
wild luxurious abandonment of all self-control. Once 
she heard O'Bannon move. 

"Don't touch mel" she repeated without raising 
her head. 

"I'm not going to," he answered. 

He began to walk up and down the room — up and 
down the room she could hear him going. Once lie 
went to the mantelpiece, and leaning his elbows on 
the shelf he put his hands over his ears. And then 
without warning he came and sat down beside 
her on the sofa and gathered her into his arms like a 
child. 



ill 



MANSLAUGHTER 291 

*^o, no r' ahe said with what little was left of her 
voice. 

"Oh, what difference does it make ?" he answered. 

She made no reply. She seemed hardly aware that 
he had drawn her head and shoulders across his up- 
right body so that her face was hidden in the crook 
of his arm. He put his hand on her heaving shoulder, 
looking down at the disordered knot of her black hair. 
A few minutes before he would have said that he 
could not have touched her hand without setting fire 
to his strong desire for her. And here she was, softly 
in his arms, and his only emotion was a tenderness 
so comprehensive that all desires beyond that moment 
were swallowed up in it. 

He almost smiled to remember the futility of the 
explanation he had been attempting. This was the 
real explanation between them. How little differ- 
ence words made, he thought, and yet how we all 
cling to them! He took his free hand from her 
shoulder, and like a careful nurse he slid back a hair- 
pin, just poised to fall from the crisp mass of her hair. 

Gradually her sobs stopped, she gave a long deep 
breath, and presently he saw she had fallen asleep. 

There never was an hour in O'Bannon's life that 
he set beside that hour. He sat like a man in a 
trance^ and yet acutely aware of everything about 
him; of the logs in the fire that, burning through, fell 
apart like a blazing drawbridge across the andirons ; 
of an occasional footstep in the street; and finally 



292 MANSLAUGHTER 

of the inevitable approach of the rattling milk wagon, 
of its stopping at the door, of the wire trays, of the 
raising of the Thome basement window and the slow 
thimip of the delivery of the allotted number of 
bottles. 

After a long time a little frightened face stared at 
him round the door. Turning his head slowly, he saw 
Miss Bennett, her gray hair brushed straight back 
from her face and her eyes large and staring. 

"Is she dead ?" she whispered. 

O'Bannon shook his head, and hardly making a 
sound, his lips formed the words, "Go away." 

Miss Bennett really couldn't do that. 

"It's almost five o'clock," she said reproachfully. 

He nodded. 

"Go away," he said. 

In her bright satin dressing gown she sat down, 
but he could see that she was nervous and uncertain. 
He summoned all the powers of will that he pos- 
sessed; he fixed his eyes on her, compelling her to 
look at him; and when he felt he had gathered her 
in he raised his right hand and gently but decisively 
pointed to the door. She got up and went out. 

The fire had burned itself completely out now, and 
the cold of the hours before dawn began to penetrate 
the room. O'Bannon began to apprehend the fact 
that this night must some time end — that Lydia 
must presently wake up. He dreaded the moment 
there would be more anger, more repudiation of th^ 



MANSLAUGHTER 293 

obvions bond between them, more torture and separa- 
tion. He shivered, and leaning forward he softly 
drew her cloak from a neighboring chair and laid it 
over her, tucking it in about her shoulders. He was 
afraid the movement might have waked her, but she 
seemed to sleep on. 

Again the minutes began to slip enchantedly away, 
and then far away in the house, in some remote upper 
story, he heard a footstep. Housemaids. Inwardly 
he called down the curse of heaven upon them. He 
glanced down at Lydia, and suddenly knew — how 
he knew it he could not say — that she had heard it 
too; that she had been awake a long time, since he 
put the cloak over her — perhaps since Miss Bennett 
had left the room. 

Awake and content! His heart began to beat 
loudly, violently. 

"Lydia," he said. 

She did not move or answer, only he felt that her 
head pressed more closely into the hollow of his arm* 

THB END 



*i' 



RUBY M. AYRE'S NOVELS 

May IM bad wharavtrjioatoara sold. Ask for firossat ft Onriap'a list 

RICHARD CHATTERTON 

A fascinating story in which love and jealousy play 
strange tricks with women's souls. 

A BACHELOR HUSBAND 

Can a woman love two men at the same time ? 

In its solving of this particular variety of triangle " A 
Bachelor Husband " will particularly interest, and strangely 
enough, without one shock to the most conventional minded. 

THE SCAR 

With fine comprehension and insight the author shows a 
terrific contrast between the woman whose love was of the 
flesh and one whose love was of the spirit. 

THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW )^ 

Here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet tnr 
to build their wedded life upon a gospel of hate for eacn 
other and yet win back to a greater love for each other in 
the end. ^ 

THE UPHILL ROAD 

The heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. The 
man was fine, clean, fresh from the West It is a story of 
strength and passion. 

WINDS OF THE WORLD 

Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Stuigess 
and inherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last — ^but 
we must leave that to Ruby M. A3rres to tell you as only 
she can. 

THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

In this story the author has produced a book which no 
one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss. 
The story fairly leaps from climax to climax. 

THE PHANTOM LOVER * - ^ -' 

Have you not often heard of someone being in love with 
love rather than the person they believed the object of ^eir 
affections ? That was Esther 1 But she passes through the 
crisis into a deep and profound love. 

Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York 



C^" 



u 



FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S 

NOVELS 



■■r >• iMi t^w n ww h&ttm an told. Atfc for fltttwt A gwrtap't IM. 



THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER 

A novel of the 12tti Century. The heroine, believing she 
had lost her lover, enters a convent He retwnSi and in- 
teresting developments follow. 

THE UPAS TREE 

A love story of rare chamu It deals with a successful 
author and his wife, 

THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE 

The story of a seven day courtship, in which the dis- 
erepaacjrin ages vanished into insignificance before the 
convincing demonstration of abiding love. 

THE ROSARY 

The storv of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty 
above all else in ue world, but who, when blinded througk 
an accident, gains life's greatest happiness. A rare story 
of the great passion of two real people superbly capable of 
love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward. 

THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 

The lovely yoim^ Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the 
death of a husband who never understood her, meets a fine, 
clean young chap who is ignorant of her title and they fall 
deeply in love with each other. When he learns her real 
identity a situation of singular power is developed. 

THE BROKEN HALO 

The story of a young man whost religious belief was 
shattered in childhood and restored to him by the little 
white lady, many years older than himself, to whom he U 
passionately devoted. 

THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR 

The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for 
Africa, marries wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her 
fulfill the conditions of her imcle*s will, and how they finally 
come to love each other and are reunited after ezperiances 
that soften and purify. 

Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers , New York 






♦.-:' f -f *'.'*■/ 



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^ 



PETER B. KYNE'S NOV ELS 

Mwr b> Iw* wlwTwitr iotia wr» «old. Art fur awtwt * D«ilip't Iht 

THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR . ' 

When two strong men clash and the under-dog has Irish 
blood in his veins — ^there's a tale that K3me can tell 1 'SSd y 
^THe girl " is also very much in evidence. 

KINDRED OF THE DUST 

Donald McKay, son of Hector McKay, millionaire Imn- 
ber king, falls in love with " Nan of tiic Sawdust Pile," a 
charming girl who has been d^acized by her townsfolk. , • 

THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS 

The fight of the Cardigans, father and son, to hold the ' 
Valley of the Giants against treachery. The reader finishes 
with a sense of having lived with big men and women in a 
big coxmtry. 

CAPPY RICKS 

The story of old Cappy Ricks and of Matt Peasley, the r 
boy he tried to break because he knew the adSTest was  v 
good for his soul. ^  

WEBSTER: MAN'S MAN 

In a little Jim Crow Republic in Central America, a man 
and a woman, hstfling from the " StateSj'HSiet up with a 
revolution and for a while adventures and excitement came 
so thick and fast that their love afiEair had to wait for a lull 
in the game. 

CAPTAIN SCRAGGS 

This sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscal- 
lion sea-faring men — a Captain Scraggs, owner of tKe g^een 
vegetable freighter Maggie, Gibney Uie mate and M^uff- 

ney the engineer. ., . ,. ., 

THE LONG CHANCE . • . '. 

A story fresh from the heart of the West, of San Pasqual, 
a sun-baked desert town, of Harley P. Hennage, the best 
gambler, the best and worst man of San Pasqual and of - 
tovely Donna. 

Grosset & DuNLAP, Publishers, New York 






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