COLLUSIONBy Lincoln SteffensThe sacred door of the Judge’s chambers bolted open and he beheld the light, lovely figure of a woman trembling before him; brave, afraid.“Oh, Judge,” she panted, but she turned and closing the door securely, put her back against it to hold it shut. And so at bay, she called to him:“Judge, Judge, can’t I tell you the truth? Can’t I? My lawyer says I mustn’t. He says perjury is the only way. And I—I have done perjury, Judge. So has my husband. And I’ll swear to it all in court when we are under oath. But here where we are all alone, you and I, unsworn, with no one to hear, can’t I tell you the truth?“I must. I can’t stand the lies. Yes, yes, I know they are merely forms, legal forms. My lawyer has explained that, and that we must respect the law and comply with its requirements. And we’ll do that, Judge; we have, and I’ll go through with it, if—I mean that it would help me if I could know that you were not deceived by the lies; if I could know that you knew the truth.“And the truth is so much truer and more beautiful than the lies. Ours is. I loved him, Judge. I love him now. And he loved me. And it wasn’t his fault that he fell in love with her. And she didn’t mean to—to hurt me so. She was my friend. I brought them together. I was happy when I brought them together, her, my old chum, and him, my lover; and when I saw that they took to each other, I was glad. I never thought of their loving. I didn’t think of that till, by and by, I found that they were avoiding each other. I couldn’t get them to meet any more. That made me think—it was terrible what I thought.“I thought—Judge, I knew that they had agreed not to meet any more because they had discovered that they loved each other. He admitted it, when I asked him, finally. So did she, later, when upon my demand, we all three met to speak what was in our hearts.“That was when I refused to have it so. I wouldn’t keep a man who loved another woman. I couldn’t, could I? And so I said I would go away and get the divorce and let them be together and, by and by—marry.“It was all to be clean and honourable and fine, Judge. We didn’t know then the requirements of the law. We didn’t know we shouldn’t have an honest understanding like that. And I—I didn’t know that I had to make charges against him that are not true, and that he had to write me letters to prove he had refused to support me; false letters; and coarse. He? Coarse? Judge, he——“But I’m not complaining. We copied, my husband and I, the letters the lawyer wrote out for us to sign and date back and show to you. We have done our part. I have lived here, in this terrible place, among these other—people. I have been here the required length of time for the ‘residence.’ I have withstood the looks we get from men—and women. We have obeyed the law, yes, and I will come to your court and swear—I will swear falsely, Judge, to all you ask. I must, mustn’t I? I can’t go on this way loving a man who doesn’t love me. And I can’t keep two lovers apart, can I? When love is so beautiful, so right, so good. Don’t I know? And it must be pure.“So I will do my duty, just as my lawyer does his, and as you do yours. Oh, I know; I know how conscientious you all are, and especially you, Judge. My lawyer has told me, again and again, that you know it’s all perjury. Every time I wanted to come to you and tell you the truth, he has said that you understood. He forbade me to come; he doesn’t know I am here now. But I had to come. I think I might not be able to go through with it if I had not told you the truth myself: How we three have agreed perfectly, he and I and she; how we are to pay each a third of the costs. They were so generous about it, begging to pay all. And I want you to be sure we are all perfectly reconciled to the change; all of us; I, too; perfectly.“And, Judge, he, my husband, he couldn’t, he simply could not have written letters like that. Oh, I’ll swear to them; I’ll swear to anything, I’ll do anything, almost, if—if only you, Judge——”The Judge rose.“If,” he finished for her, “if only I will understand. Well, I will.”And he went to the door, opened it wide and, as she passed, he bowed to the woman with the respect which, till that day, he had paid only to the Law.
By Lincoln Steffens
The sacred door of the Judge’s chambers bolted open and he beheld the light, lovely figure of a woman trembling before him; brave, afraid.
“Oh, Judge,” she panted, but she turned and closing the door securely, put her back against it to hold it shut. And so at bay, she called to him:
“Judge, Judge, can’t I tell you the truth? Can’t I? My lawyer says I mustn’t. He says perjury is the only way. And I—I have done perjury, Judge. So has my husband. And I’ll swear to it all in court when we are under oath. But here where we are all alone, you and I, unsworn, with no one to hear, can’t I tell you the truth?
“I must. I can’t stand the lies. Yes, yes, I know they are merely forms, legal forms. My lawyer has explained that, and that we must respect the law and comply with its requirements. And we’ll do that, Judge; we have, and I’ll go through with it, if—I mean that it would help me if I could know that you were not deceived by the lies; if I could know that you knew the truth.
“And the truth is so much truer and more beautiful than the lies. Ours is. I loved him, Judge. I love him now. And he loved me. And it wasn’t his fault that he fell in love with her. And she didn’t mean to—to hurt me so. She was my friend. I brought them together. I was happy when I brought them together, her, my old chum, and him, my lover; and when I saw that they took to each other, I was glad. I never thought of their loving. I didn’t think of that till, by and by, I found that they were avoiding each other. I couldn’t get them to meet any more. That made me think—it was terrible what I thought.
“I thought—Judge, I knew that they had agreed not to meet any more because they had discovered that they loved each other. He admitted it, when I asked him, finally. So did she, later, when upon my demand, we all three met to speak what was in our hearts.
“That was when I refused to have it so. I wouldn’t keep a man who loved another woman. I couldn’t, could I? And so I said I would go away and get the divorce and let them be together and, by and by—marry.
“It was all to be clean and honourable and fine, Judge. We didn’t know then the requirements of the law. We didn’t know we shouldn’t have an honest understanding like that. And I—I didn’t know that I had to make charges against him that are not true, and that he had to write me letters to prove he had refused to support me; false letters; and coarse. He? Coarse? Judge, he——
“But I’m not complaining. We copied, my husband and I, the letters the lawyer wrote out for us to sign and date back and show to you. We have done our part. I have lived here, in this terrible place, among these other—people. I have been here the required length of time for the ‘residence.’ I have withstood the looks we get from men—and women. We have obeyed the law, yes, and I will come to your court and swear—I will swear falsely, Judge, to all you ask. I must, mustn’t I? I can’t go on this way loving a man who doesn’t love me. And I can’t keep two lovers apart, can I? When love is so beautiful, so right, so good. Don’t I know? And it must be pure.
“So I will do my duty, just as my lawyer does his, and as you do yours. Oh, I know; I know how conscientious you all are, and especially you, Judge. My lawyer has told me, again and again, that you know it’s all perjury. Every time I wanted to come to you and tell you the truth, he has said that you understood. He forbade me to come; he doesn’t know I am here now. But I had to come. I think I might not be able to go through with it if I had not told you the truth myself: How we three have agreed perfectly, he and I and she; how we are to pay each a third of the costs. They were so generous about it, begging to pay all. And I want you to be sure we are all perfectly reconciled to the change; all of us; I, too; perfectly.
“And, Judge, he, my husband, he couldn’t, he simply could not have written letters like that. Oh, I’ll swear to them; I’ll swear to anything, I’ll do anything, almost, if—if only you, Judge——”
The Judge rose.
“If,” he finished for her, “if only I will understand. Well, I will.”
And he went to the door, opened it wide and, as she passed, he bowed to the woman with the respect which, till that day, he had paid only to the Law.