The Juryman

Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class who are neither better nor worse than other men. Left an orphan in infancy, the paths of life were rough and lonely from the start. He had a violent temper and a good heart. The temper was often roused and punished with energy similar to its own; the heart remained almost undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances and loving affection. One softening gleam fell upon his early path, and he loved it like sunshine, without understanding the great law of attraction that made it so pleasant. When he attended school in the winter months, he always walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams. On the playground he was with her, always ready to fight anyone who displeased her. Their comrades laughed and called him Mary’s beau; they blushed and felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting meant.

Things had reached that state of half-revealed consciousness—he fourteen, she twelve—when her family moved to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he had been in love with Mary; but years later, when people talked about marriage, he thought of her, wondering where she was and if she remembered him. When he drove his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes along the way brought back visions of his favorite schoolmate, with her clean cape bonnet thrown back, her glossy brown hair playing in the wind, and her innocent face smiling at him in friendly greeting. “She was the best and prettiest child I ever saw,” he often said to himself. “I wonder if she’d be as pleasant now.” Sometimes he thought of going west to find her. But he didn’t know where she was; his funds were small, and his courage failed at the thought. “Oh, it’s many years since we were children together.

Perhaps I should find her married.”

Gradually that one ray of poetry faded from his soul, and all his thoughts fell into the common prosaic mold. His lot was cast with rough people who required much work and gave little sympathy. The image of his little mate floated farther and farther away, and less and less often did her clear blue eyes smile at him through the rainbow mists of the past or from the air castles of the future. In time, he married in the same fashion as a large proportion of men: because it was convenient to have a wife, and there was a woman of good character in the neighborhood, willing to marry whoever first offered a decent home. Her character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity. She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull, and quietly obstinate.

The neighbors said she was well suited to him because he was so rough and passionate, and in the main he thought so himself, though her imperturbable calm sometimes fretted him like a rock chafes the lashing ocean into foam. When a child was born to them, they both loved it better than they had ever loved anything, and according to their light, they sincerely strove to do their duty. The child’s bodily needs were well supplied, often at the cost of great weariness and self-sacrifice, but their own coarse upbringing had given them few good ideas about the cultivation of an immortal soul. The infant did more for them than they for him. Angelic influences, unseen and unheard amid the hard struggles of their outer life, became visible and audible through the unconscious innocence of their little one. For the second time in his life, a vision of beauty and love gleamed across the rough path of that honest, laborious man.

Vague impressions of beauty he had always received from the great panorama of the universe. His heart sometimes welcomed a bright flower in the sunshine or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he marveled at the splendor of the rainbow and sometimes gazed reverently at the sun sinking to rest in its rich drapery of purple and gold. But those were glimpses of the infinite; their beauty didn't seem to belong to him; it didn't enter like a magic charm into his own existence as did the vision of Mary Williams and his own little Joe. The dormant tenderness within him leaped up at the smile of his babe, and every pressure of the little fingers made a dimple in the father’s heart. Like the burst of spring after a long cold winter was this revelation of infancy to him.

When he plodded home after a hard day’s work, it rested him body and soul to have the little one spring into his arms for a kiss or come toddling along, tilting his little bowl of milk in eagerness to eat supper on father’s knee.

But though this new influence seemed to have an almost miraculous power over his nature, it could not quite subdue the force of temperament and habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood, he was sometimes cherished with unwise fondness and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion that made him run and hide from the over-indulgent father. Mr. Barker himself had been raised under the rule of punishment rather than gentleness, and he believed in it firmly. If his son committed a fault, he could think of no other cure than severity. If a neighbor did him a bad turn, he would say in front of the boy, “I’ll watch my chance to pay him back.” If the dog stole their dinner while they were working in the woods, he’d say, “Run after him, Joe, and give the rascal a good beating.” When he saw the child fighting with a larger boy who had offended him, he would praise his strength and courage and tell him never to put up with an insult.

He didn't realize that these things were all teaching and that they did far more to shape his son’s character than anything learned at school. He didn't know because he'd never thought about it. The only moral instruction he had ever received was from the parish minister, who usually preached about the hardheartedness of Jews two thousand years ago rather than the mistakes and temptations of the men and boys sitting before him.

Once, he received a rebuke from his neighbor Goodwin that, being novel and unexpected, offended him as an impertinent interference with his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a lad of thirteen, when the horse took fright at a piece of white paper blown across the road. Mr. Barker was already in a bad mood because a sudden squall of rain had wet some fine hay ready for the barn. Following the system on which he had been raised, he jumped to the ground and beat the poor beast mercilessly. Mr. Goodwin, passing by, asked the cause of such severity and protested against it, assuring him that a horse is never cured of bad habits by violence. He spoke gently, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having told him to mind his own business, he continued to whip the poor frightened animal. The humane neighbor turned away, saying, “That’s a bad lesson for your son, Mr. Barker.”

“If you say much more, I’ll whip you instead of the horse,” muttered the angry man. “It isn't his horse. What business is it to him?” he added, turning to his son.

He didn't reflect how narrowly he was restricting his child’s sympathies with such words. But when he got back in the wagon, he didn't feel altogether pleased with himself, and his inward uneasiness was vented on the horse. The poor bewildered animal, covered with foam and breathing hard, tried his best to do his master’s will as far as he could understand it. But, nervous and terrified, constantly expecting the whip, he startled at every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined in with a sudden jerk that tore the corners of his mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel crack of the whip made him tear over the ground only to be restrained again.

The sun was setting and threw a radiant glow on every tree and little shrub, jeweled by the recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cozily by the wayside; winds played gently with the flowers and kissed the raindrops from their faces. But all that loveliness passed unheeded by those human hearts because they had at the moment no inward beauty to harmonize with nature. Perhaps the familiar landscape seemed very different to the poor horse than it would have done had he traveled along those pleasant paths guided by a wise and gentle hand.

Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager welcome and loving prattle might soon have tamed the evil spirit in his father’s soul that night. But he was a tall lad who had learned to double up his fists and tell other boys they had better leave him alone if they knew what was good for themselves.

He still loved his father better than anything else in the world, but the charm and power of infancy were gone. He reflected the vexed spirit like a too-faithful mirror. He was no longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the influence of angels.

Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a hardening rather than a softening influence. Ambition for his son increased his love of accumulation, and gratifying that desire narrowed his sympathies more and more. Joseph had within him the unexpanded seeds of noble qualities, but he inherited his father’s passionate temperament with his mother’s obstinacy, and the education of such circumstances as described turned his energies and feelings into wrong channels. The remark, “It isn't his horse; what business is it to him?” heard in his boyhood, expressed the views and habits of his later years. But his mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father, who often said exultingly, “There’s no danger of Joe. He knows how to fight his own way through the world.”

Such was their mutual product of character when Mr. Barker was summoned to serve on a jury in a case involving life or death. He was vexed to be called away from his work and had never reflected at all on the fearful responsibility of a juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a very young man, and his open, honest face gave no indication of capacity for crime, but he was accused of murder, and circumstantial evidence was strong against him. It was proven that a previous quarrel had existed between him and the murdered man, and that they had been seen taking the same road, the prisoner intoxicated, the night the violent deed was committed. Most people thought there was no doubt of his guilt; others thought the case by no means certain. Two of the jury were reluctant to convict him and wished to find the evidence insufficient; the penalty was so dreadful, and their feelings were so touched by the settled misery of his youthful face.

Others spoke sternly of justice and urged that the Scripture demanded blood for blood. Peter Barker was among them. From the beginning, he was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded for him had once been employed in a lawsuit against Mr. Barker and had won the case for his client. The juryman nursed a grudge against him for his sarcastic eloquence on that occasion. Moreover, it so happened that neighbor Goodwin, who years ago had reproved his cruelty to the horse, took a compassionate interest in the accused. He often consulted with the lawyer and seemed to watch the jurors’ faces anxiously. It was a busy time of year, and the jury were impatient to get back to their shops and farms. Mr. Barker wouldn't have admitted it even to himself, but all these circumstances helped increase his hardness toward the prisoner. By such astonishingly slight motives is the conduct of men often swayed on the most important occasions.

“If the poor young fellow really did commit the act,” said one of the jury, “it seems likely he did it in a state of intoxication. I was once drunk myself; they told me afterward that I had quarreled with a man and knocked him down a high flight of steps, but I had no memory of it. If I had killed him and they had hanged me for it, what an awful thing it would have been for my poor father and mother. It taught me a good lesson, for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps this poor youth might profit from his dreadful experience if he were given a chance. He's so young, and there's nothing wicked in his face.”

“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker, “there's no trusting that. The worst villains aren't always the worst-looking. As for his being drunk, there's no telling whether it's true or not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the story to stir up compassion, and the witnesses may be more than willing to believe everything strange in the prisoner’s conduct was the result of intoxication. Besides, we can't admit that plea to soften the verdict; for then, don't you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy only has to get drunk first? If anyone killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I'd want him to swing for it.”

With such remarks, urged in his vehement way, he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his own, without fully being aware of what he was doing. He was foreman of the jury, and when the awful moment arrived on which depended the life of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty” in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale and still, looking at him with such fixed despair. Something in that face moved him strongly. He turned quickly away, but the vision was before him—always, and everywhere before him. “This is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely done my duty. The law required it. I have done my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at him—always, everywhere.

He was afraid to touch a newspaper, for he wished not to know when the day of execution would come. But officious neighbors, unaware of his state of mind, were eager to talk about it, and when drawn into such discourse, he tried to fortify his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst circumstances of the case. Despite all his efforts, the night before the execution he had troubled dreams in which that ghastly young face was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw it in the air. It walked beside him as he plowed the fields; it stood before him on the threshold of his own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested came back to him with painful clarity. Could there be a doubt that the condemned had really committed murder? Was he intoxicated? Might he have been intoxicated for the first time in his life? And he so young! But he drove the thoughts away, saying to himself, “The law required it. I merely did my duty.”

Still everything looked gloomy. The evening clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale, despairing face gazed at him forever.

For the first time in his manhood, he craved a companion in the darkness. Neighbors came in and described the execution, and while they talked, the agitated juryman beat the fire brands into a thousand pieces and said not a word. They told how the youth had written a long letter to his mother and had died calm and resigned. “By the way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,” said one. “They tell me she used to live in this neighborhood. Do you remember a girl by the name of Mary Williams?”

The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker’s hand as he gasped, “Mary Williams! Was he her son? God forgive me! Was he her son?”

And the strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.

There was silence in the room. At last, the talkative neighbor said in a subdued tone, “I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn't know she was a friend of yours.”

The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl, and it seems only yesterday that we used to go together to pick our baskets full of berries. And so she was his mother? I remember now there was something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”

Perhaps the mention of Mary’s beauty, or the melting mood so unusual with her husband, might have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker. Whatever the motive, she said in her demure way, without raising her eyes from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enough to suppose the young man had a mother; and other mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel as well as this Mary Williams.”

He only answered by shaking his head slowly and repeating, as if to himself, “Poor Mary! And so he was her son.”

Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful scene were repeated and dwelt upon, as human beings are apt to dwell on all that excites strong emotion. To Joseph, the name Mary Williams conjured up no smiling visions of childhood love, and he tried to bolster his father’s weakening feelings by highlighting all the arguments for the prisoner’s guilt. The juryman was glad to be thus fortified and replied in a firm, assured voice, “At all events, I did my duty.” Yet for months afterward, the pale young face looked at him despairingly from the evening air and came between him and the sunshine. But time, which softens all things, drifted the dreary specter into dim distance, and Mr. Barker’s mind was again wholly taken up with making money for his son.

Joseph was called a fine, promising young man, but his behavior wasn't entirely satisfactory to his parents. He was fond of dress and company, and his fiery temperament often got him into quarrels. On two or three occasions, they feared he had been a little excited by drink. But he was in reality a good-hearted fellow, and like his gruff father, he had undeveloped seeds of deep tenderness within him. His father’s life was bound up in his; his mother loved him with all the energy her sluggish nature could muster; and despite his violent and capricious temper, the neighbors loved him too.

What, then, was their horror when it was rumored that on his twenty-fourth birthday he had been arrested for murder! And alas, it was only too true that his passions had overmastered his reason. He had wished to please a young girl in the vicinity, but she treated him coldly because a rival had told her he had been seen drunk and, in that state, had spoken over-boldly of being sure of her love. He drank again to drown his frustration, and while under the influence, he met the informer. His exulting rival was unwise enough to exclaim, “Ho! Here you are, drunk again! What a promising fellow for a husband!” Unfortunately, an ax was at hand, and in the double fury of drink and rage, he struck with it again and again. An hour later he would have given all he ever hoped to possess—nay, he would gladly have died—could he have restored the life he had so recklessly destroyed.

Thus Mr. Barker was again brought into a court of justice on an affair of life and death. How differently all the questions now presented themselves!

As he sat beside that beloved son, the pride of his life, his only hope on earth, oh, how he longed for words of fire to plead that his young life might be spared for repentance and reform! How well he remembered the juryman’s plea for youth and intoxication, and with what agony of self-reproach he recalled his own harsh reply! With intense anxiety he watched the faces of the jury for some glimmer of compassion, but again and again a pale young face loomed between him and them, gazing with fixed despair. The vision of earlier years returned to haunt him, and Joseph, his best beloved, his only one, stood beside it, pale and handcuffed, as he had been.

The voice that pronounced his son guilty sounded like an awful echo of his own, and he seemed to hear Mary Williams whisper, “And my son also was very young.”

That vigorous offshoot of his own existence, so full of life and feeling—and, alas, of passion, which leads us all astray—must die! No earthly power could save him. May the All-Merciful sustain that poor father as he watches the heavy slumber of his only son in that dark prison, and while he clasps that cold hand, remembers so well the dimpled fingers he used to hold when little Joe sat on his knee and prattled childish love.

And the All-Merciful was with him, sending strength to sustain him through that terrible agony. It didn't break his heart; it melted and subdued him. The frozen sympathies of his nature flowed under this trial of fire, and, for the first time, he truly understood that every human being is, or has been, somebody’s little Joe.

“How kind you are to me!” said the prisoner in response to his soothing words and affectionate attentions.

He replied meekly, “Would that I had always been so!” Then turning his face away and pressing Joseph’s hand earnestly, he said in an agitated voice, “Tell me truly, my son, does it ever occur to you that I may have been to blame for this great misfortune?”

“You, dear father!” Joseph exclaimed. “I don't understand what you mean.”

Still keeping his face turned away and speaking with effort, Mr. Barker said, “Do you remember once when I was beating my horse cruelly, and you were a boy of twelve then? Neighbor Goodwin remarked that I was giving a bad lesson to my son. I was angry with him at the time, and perhaps that resentment helped make me hard toward a poor young fellow who is now dead and gone, but his words keep ringing in my ears now. May God in His mercy forgive me if I have ever done or said anything to lead you into this great sin! Tell me, Joseph, do you ever think it might have been different if you had had a less violent father?”

“My poor father!” exclaimed the prisoner, pressing his hand convulsively. “It almost breaks my heart to hear you humble yourself before me, who deserves it so little. Only forgive me my violent outbursts, dear father, for in the midst of them all, I always loved you. You have always tried to do me good and would rather have died than led me into harm. But since I've been in prison, I've thought of many things that never occurred to me before. The world and everything in it are shown to me in a different light. I see now that retaliation and hatred are murder.

I've often read lately the words of Jesus: forgive your brother his offenses not only seven times but seventy times seven, and I feel that it should be so among human beings in all their dealings with each other. What I've done cannot be undone, but if it's any comfort to you, rest assured that I didn't mean to kill him. I was miserable and foolish enough to drink, and then I didn't know what I was doing. Violent as my temper has been, I never once thought of taking his life.”

“I know it, my son, I know it,” he said. “And that thought comforts me some. As long as I have a loaf of bread, I'll share it with the mother and sister of him you—”. He hesitated, shuddered, and added in a low, deep tone, “you killed.”

“I was going to ask you that,” replied the prisoner. “And one more thing, dear father: try to bear up bravely under this terrible blow, for the sake of my poor, patient mother.”

“I will, I will,” he answered. “And now, my dear misguided boy, say you forgive your poor father for the lessons of his violent words and actions. I didn't foresee the consequences, my child. I did it in ignorance. But it was wrong, wrong, all wrong.”

The young man threw himself on his father’s bosom, and they had no words but tears.

After his only strong tie to life was broken by the violent arm of the law, Mr. Barker was a changed man—silent, melancholy, patient, gentle, and forgiving toward all. He never complained of the great sorrow that sapped his life, but the neighbors saw how thin and sad he looked, and even the roughest natures felt compassion for him.

Every year, the woman who had been Mary Williams received a hundred-dollar note. He never whispered to anyone that it came from the juryman who had helped condemn her son to death, but when he died, a legacy of a thousand dollars to her showed that he never forgot that pale, despairing face that had haunted his dreams for years.