The Woman and the Law

BY MARGARET CAMERON

ARMODY stood in the doorway, hat in hand, while Lucia, his wife, limply leaning against the wall, surveyed him across a chaos of open trunks and bags, empty trays, and piles of scattered raiment.

"That's the honest way, isn't it?" he asked. "It's the quixotic way," she retorted. "Nobody else does it. It isn't as if we were importing things for sale, Bruce. They're just for ourselves—well, ourselves and one or two friends, then. Anyway, we're not going to make any profit on them, or anything like that, so—why should we pay the silly duties?"

"Because it happens to be the law of our country that if these things are imported they should be taxed."

"It's a stupid law!"

"Nevertheless," gravely, "it is the law, and as good citizens—"

"Well, I'm not a good citizen! In fact, I'm not a citizen at all; I'm a woman. You needn't look so solemn, either! You're tremendously proud of that stiff-necked old ancestor of yours who helped dump the tea into Boston Harbor, and you ought to be glad that I, at least, am going to live up to the family traditions and rebel against tyranny and oppression." "Then I'm to understand"—he closed the door again, and picked his way, between chairs top-heavy with clothing and over piles of cardboard boxes and underwear, to her side,—"I'm to understand that you intend to cast your silks and laces and curios into the waters of the Narrow's?"

"Not I! I don't know why you should infer anything so silly!"

"If the colonists didn't pay the tax, you must not forget that neither did they use the tea."

"Oh—well—maybe they didn't, but that's another story!"

"No, wife of mine, it's the same story. No tax, no tea,—and no trinkets. You pays your money and you takes your choice. Now, I'm perfectly willing to pay the money, but I do not choose that either you or I shall become a lawbreaker and go slinking home with our petty, illicit possessions, just to save a few dollars."

"Oh, it isn't that! I don't care so much about the money! It's the principle of the thing! It's stupid and silly—and tyrannical! A law like that is simply a 'dare' to any normal person, and I'd like to break it, just to prove I could!"

"Well, please don't!" He smiled amusedly down at her, abandoning argument. Promise you won't—for my sake?"

"Oh, of course, if you're going to take that ground!" She laughed a little as she ruefully admitted her defeat. "What is it I'm to promise?"

"That all the dutiable stuff in the trunks is to be packed together and listed."

"Yes, sir."

He laughed, but continued: "And you're not to conceal anything about your dress or in your bag."

"We-ell. But I do it under duress! I don't like it! I protest against the law and against the observance of it!"

"All right, little rebel; protest all you like,—but remember I have your promise."

He kissed her lightly and left her to the long task of packing. When he returned, some hours later, all the trunks were closed except one, before which she crouched, laboriously scribbling on her knee.

"Almost through, dear?"

"All but this miserable list. Suppose you write while I pack? It's so confusing to stop one to do the other. Then we'll be sure to get everything down—and incidentally, I'll finish much sooner."

So it was that they made the list together: and in the rediscovery of many thing's that he had forgotten buying, Bruce failed to note the absence of certain feminine adornments, filmy spoils of Brussels, Bruges, and Venice, in which his interest had been but vicarious at best. Nor was his attention arrested by the subdued but persistent twinkle in his wife's eye, a roguish gleam that recurred at frequent intervals during their breezy homeward voyage, as she lay in her chair and watched his overcoated figure vigorously tramping the decks.

When they landed in New York, one golden September morning, they were rapturously welcomed by Cecily Bradford, whose guests they were to be until their own house, closed during the year of their absence, should be ready for occupancy.

"Otis is desolated not to be here on the dock to meet you," she assured them, "but he said it was simply impossible for him to get away to-day. And he wants you to go directly to the office, Bruce, just as straight as you can march."

"What for?" demanded Carmody.

"Oh, I don't know. Something about a man from San Francisco, whom it is most important that you should see before he leaves for the West this afternoon. Otis 'phoned me that the steamer was sighted, and said you were not even to take time to go up to the house with us."

"What a bore! This is New York all right!" he exclaimed. "They don't give a man time to wash the salt off his face before they begin to unload business on him! Well—I suppose I'm in for it! There's no reason, then, why you girls shouldn't go right home. I'll attend to the trunks before I go off to the treadmill, anyhow."

"Thanks; I'd rather wait," objected his wife. "If they happen to take a fancy to pull everything out and hunt for false bottoms or dynamite bombs or the crown jewels or something, I prefer to do the repacking myself!"

"All right. Get into a carriage, then, and if there's any trouble, I'll come for you;—but there won't be. You haven't anything dutiable about you, Lucia?" He smiled into her eyes, and she laughed back:

"Not a thing."

The women, chattering disconnectedly, as do close friends in the first moments of reunion after long separation, had given no thought to the time of his absence when he rejoined them, cheerfully smiling.

"All serene!" he remarked. "No trouble at all. Very decent chap, that inspector. Here are the keys. You can take the steamer trunk and one of the others up with you on the carriage—here's the porter with them now,—and I'll send the rest later. Good-by. Oh! I'm not likely to need an overcoat, am I, Cecily?"

"Mercy, no! It's been positively hot for a week!"

"Then I'll just send this along with you. It won't be in your way, will it?"

He tossed the coat upon the bags piled on the seat in front of them, and they nodded brightly back to him from the open carriage as they drove away.

They were jogging along in the comparative quiet of West End Avenue before there was even the briefest lull in their brisk chat. In that instant Lucia's glance happened to fall observantly upon her husband's coat, from a pocket of which still protruded the soiled and dog-eared ends of a number of European railway folders, and she laughed gleefully, proclaiming:

"Oh, I have such a joke on Bruce! The only drawback is that I sha'n't dare to tell him about it for ten years or so—if I do even then."

"Europe seems to have had a meekening effect upon you," dryly commented her friend.

"H'm—well—I always did stand in awe of his principles, you know."

"The inference being that the rest of us haven't any?"

"Oh, of course everybody has principles, more or less. The disconcerting thing about Bruce is that he lives up to his."

"And makes you?"

"At any rate, he does his best. Angels could no more! This is a case in point. You remember that, among other things, he is truly patriotic? He respects law simply because it is law, quite regardless of whether it has the slightest basis of common sense or not?"

"I have a vivid recollection of his making me miss a train once," responded Cecily. "We could have made it if there hadn't been a bridge to cross. The sign said, 'Walk Your Horses'—and he did! I argued and begged and raved and all but wept—but the horse walked!"

"Precisely. That's Bruce. Therefore, he decreed, while I was packing in London, that we should 'pass the customs honestly.' You know what that would mean with him. Full duty on every single thing."

"Now, I call that distinctly unfair!" warmly protested Mrs. Bradford. "It's not only wanton extravagance, but it takes away half the fun of bringing things home!"

"That's what I told him. Moreover, it's a weak yielding to tyranny and brute force. All of which weighed not one pennyweight with Bruce when the law said we should pay. In the end he made me promise solemnly that I'd declare every dutiable thing in the trunks and that I wouldn't bring in one thing myself." "Alas and alack!" mournfully. "You didn't have any fun at all, did you?"

"Didn't I, though!" crisply retorted Mrs. Carmody. "Wait until I show you!" She leaned forward and took possession of the handful of railway time-tables. "These came into port in Bruce's overcoat pocket—Bruce's, mind you! Observe!"

There was not enough breeze to stir the languid and aging leaves of the trees bordering the avenue, and Lucia, unable longer to resist the desire to share her roguish triumph, spread open in her lap one of the broad sheets, disclosing an interlining of exquisite lace.

"O-o-oh!" broke so sharply from Cecily that the cabman shifted slightly in his seat that he might steal a glance at his passengers. What he saw brought a shrewd gleam to his eye, and he promptly turned an attentive ear in their direction, with results entirely satisfactory to himself. Mrs. Bradford's voice, a low vibrant contralto of wonderful carrying power, and Lucia's perfect enunciation made eavesdropping easy.

"Lucia—Hobart—Carmody!" The man winked genially at himself as he marked the name. "You little imp! How dared you? How dared you?"

"My dear," said her friend, dimpling complacently, "aside from his principles, Bruce is a perfectly normal man. And who ever heard of a man who would voluntarily—or even willingly—destroy a railway folder, no matter how old and tattered and antedated it might be?"

Mrs. Bradford nodded. "Our library table drawer is full of them, and every month or so Otis brings home a few more and asks me to 'keep them somewhere.' He's always sure he's going to need them, but when he does he gets new ones."

"And brings them home!"

"Of course. But even so, it was an awful risk!"

"There wasn't any risk at all," laughed Lucia. "That's the beauty of it. There never was anything so safe!"

"And do you mean to tell me that all these folders are—?" Cecily paused, fingering them inquiringly.

"Every one, my dear,—eight of them—full of lace. And such lace!" Just here the drivers of two passing grocers' wagons were engaged in a noisy altercation, and the cabman lost her concluding sentences. "Of course I didn't get it all for myself. Some of it is Aunt Bertha's, and some of it is Sue's."

"And you paid no duties on any of it?" Mrs. Bradford was asking when again the man caught the thread.

"Not one cent! We declared everything else—every single thing, down to the smallest detail. We made a most careful list, but somehow"—the twinkle in her eye might have been inferred from her droll little inflection—"these got—overlooked."

"Well, I call that genius!" enthusiastically declared Cecily. "Sheer genius! Mercy, here we are at home! I wasn't paying the slightest attention. Fold it up again, Lucia."

"Wait a minute," said Mrs. Carmody to the driver, as he was about to lift out the overcoat and bags. "I'll tuck these in there for the present." She hastily slipped the folders again into the yawning pocket, handed the coat to the maid who had come out for the wraps, and buoyantly followed her hostess into the house, where their rapid, drifting chat was immediately resumed.

Nor did the possibility occur to either of them that the unconsidered cabman—an honest fellow and the father of a numerous and hungry progeny—might thriftily betake himself in pursuit of the reward offered by a solicitous government to those worthy and patriotic persons reporting violations of the customs laws.

Once during the morning, as they sat on the bed beside a half-emptied trunk-tray, Lucia asked:

"Where is Bruce's overcoat?"

"Down-stairs in the hall, probably,—on the rack. Shall I have it brought up?"

"No; never mind now. But don't let me forget to bring those folders when we come up after lunch."

It was nearly four o'clock when she again exclaimed: "My land! I must get those folders!"

"They're perfectly safe," said Cecily.

"Oh, of course; but if I don't take the lace out of them before night, Bruce will surely be seized by a desire to show Otis a map or a time-table or something, and then pussy will be out of the bag!"

At that moment a maid appeared at the door.

"There's a gentleman down-stairs to see Mrs. Carmody," she announced.

"To see me?" questioned Lucia. "But nobody knows I'm here!"

"Didn't he send up a card?" asked Mrs. Bradford.

"No, ma'am. He says he has come on business."

"Business! Oh, it must be some one to see Bruce," easily assumed Lucia.

"He asked specially for Mrs. Carmody, ma'am."

"This is most mystifying! Certainly, no one has any business with me. Come down with me, Cecily; let's see what he wants."

They descended to the reception-room together and found a strange man standing near the window. He was a prosperous-looking person, alert and well brushed, and bowed courteously to them.

"Good afternoon," said Lucia. "You wished to see me?"

"You are Mrs. Carmody?" he asked, pleasantly. "Lucy Carmody?"

"Isn't there some mistake?" she suggested. "My name is Lucia." Then she saw that in his hand he held, a little behind him, so that at first she had not perceived it, a package of shabby, familiar papers, and demanded, somewhat sharply: "What are you doing with those folders?"

"Oh—these?" He regarded them thoughtfully, turning them over in his hands. "Why—I found them here somewhere and—they interested me, so I picked them up. Are they yours?"

"Yes, they're mine. Give them to me, please."

He handed them to her very civilly, only commenting: "They're all European folders, aren't they?"

"Yes." As she took them she pressed them slightly to assure herself that they were still thick with lace, and he watched her.

"You arrived on the Rubric this morning, didn't you? I suppose you brought all those back with you?" The quiet courtesy of his manner and his willingness to relinquish the folders made his possession of them the more unaccountable. The supposition that he had meant to steal them seemed altogether untenable, and both women were puzzled, uncertain how to take this man, whose dignity was as apparent as his conduct was inexplicable. "You brought them—just that way?"

"Ye— Why? What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Carmody, those folders are full of lace."

"Oh—are they? Well—what of it?" Blank surprise gave way to a palpitating sense of danger, and she fluttered helplessly. "How do you know they are?"

"I know because I have examined them."

"What does this mean?" now demanded Cecily, wrath glinting in her eye. "Who are you? By what right do you presume to enter my house and examine papers you chance to see?"

"By right of a search-warrant, madam."

"A search—warrant!"

"I'm a deputy United States marshal. I have received information that one Lucy—or Lucia, you say—Carmody, arriving this morning by the Rubric, has unlawfully imported into the United States eight packages of lace, wrapped in railway folders, and has wilfully evaded the payment of legal duties thereon. Here are the folders—"

"Where did you get them?" The inquiry was Cecily's; Lucia had apparently lost the power of speech. "I saw them sticking out of the pocket of an overcoat on the hall rack as I entered, and as I knew Mrs. Carmody had put them in an overcoat pocket this morning. I examined them. Here, as I said, are the folders. Mrs. Carmody has admitted in your presence that she brought them from Europe, and therefore it will be my duty to confiscate the goods and place her under arrest."

"Wha—what do you mean?" Lucia faltered, the one idea clear in her mind being that she must not let him see that she was frightened, "You're not—not going to—arrest—me!"

"Yes," quietly.

"Oh! Oh!" For a moment she closed her eyes on the reeling world and covered them with her hands.

"This—why, this is perfectly absurd!" cried Cecily, again to the front. "You've simply put your own interpretation on the fact that those laces were wrapped in folders! You simply assume that the duties were not paid! You have no right whatever—" She paused, checked by the peculiar penetration of his gaze.

"Madam," said he, succinctly, "affidavit has been made that certain laces were smuggled into this country this morning by Mrs. Carmody. We have a sworn statement that Mrs. Carmody declared she had paid full duty on everything she brought in except the laces. Therefore I came out here specifically to find the laces—and I found them. I have not thus far connected you with the matter in any way, nor made any attempt to examine Mrs. Carmody's rooms or luggage. I have no desire to make things unpleasant for you. But I have here"—significantly tapping a paper he held—"a warrant that will enable me to go through your house from garret to cellar, and if I have the slightest reason to suspect that you are deliberately trying to protect her, or to conceal smuggled goods, or that you—either of you—are trifling further with the law in this matter, I'll have the house—and you—searched—very thoroughly."

"Oh!" said Cecily, in quite a different tone. "Oh, I wish my husband was here!"

"So do I," said the marshal.

"What"—Lucia, staring at him uncertainly, put her hands to her throat as if to ease its aching—"what are you going to—do—with me?"

"You're not going to take her—!" began Cecily, and stopped.

"It will be necessary for her to go before the Commissioner at once," explained the deputy. "We'll make that as easy as we can. I have a carriage at the door, and—you may go with her, if you like."

"And—then?"

"The Commissioner will decide. If he finds the evidence sufficient to warrant holding her, he'll fix bail—"

"Then there is a chance—" exclaimed Cecily, and again stopped, impressed by his smile and by his slight negative gesture.

"Hardly. These are pretty definite." He indicated the folders.

"But I didn't smuggle them!" cried Lucia. "That is—I didn't mean—I didn't mean to sell them, or anything like that, you know! I—I—oh, what shall I do!"

"You should have thought of that before," he suggested. Then, addressing Mrs. Bradford: "I understand that Mrs. Carmody's husband returned with her."

"Yes, but he's not at home. He's down-town with Mr. Bradford. Oh, can't you wait until they come home?"

"I could, but— You see, she must go before the Commissioner to have bail fixed,—you understand that this will be merely a preliminary hearing—and it's getting pretty late." He looked at his watch. "If I 'phone that we're coming down, the Commissioner will probably wait for us—he's always very considerate of ladies, the Commissioner is,—and if your husband and hers could meet us there, it might simplify matters. You'll probably wish to arrange for bail at once, and I take it that you personally—ladies don't usually—"

"Oh, I don't know anything about it, of course!" Cecily's face showed how deeply she was troubled. "I'll telephone to Mr. Bradford."

She went up-stairs to the telephone, and Lucia followed, after a fluttering, terrified glance at her captor, very pale and trembling greatly.

"I suppose there's no—hope?" she whispered. "I—I'll have to go, won't I? And—oh, Cecily! Cecily! Bruce will have to know!"

"I'm afraid he will! Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry! But that's of no use now! It won't help you a bit. All we can do now is to keep our nerves steady and make the best of it."

She called up Bradford's office, and her face showed her increasing perturbation as her rapid questions were answered.

"Very well," she said, finally; "give me Mr. Clark's telephone number,—quickly, please." Then, in hasty explanation to Lucia, "The boys are not there. They went out with the San Francisco man about two o'clock, and said they would not be back to-day. Nobody in the office knows where they are, but they think they may have gone to Mr. Clark's office. He's Otis's lawyer. If they're not there, I'll ask him to meet us. Listen! What's that?"

The front door had opened and closed, and there was a cheerful sound of masculine voices in the lower hall. A moment later two white-faced women precipitated themselves down the stairs and into the arms of their laughing husbands.

"Jove! This is a welcome!" Carmody exclaimed.

"Oh, Bruce!" shuddered Lucia, hiding her face against his coat.

"Otis! Otis! We want you so!"

"Do you, now! Four minds with but a single thought! We saw our man safely on his train, and then we decided that instead of doing any more business we'd take the rest of the day off and play with you girls, provided you'd— What's the matter, dear? Anything wrong?"

Cecily silently indicated the waiting officer, who had considerately turned his face in the other direction. "To see me?"

"N-no. He—he's a deputy United States marshal."

"A deputy—well, what the deuce is he doing here?"

Carmody turned a startled glance upon his hostess, while his arms tightened about his trembling wife.

"He came—he says he came about some lace. He thinks it was smuggled."

"Oh," said Bruce, comprehensively. "I see! I guess that's my business."

"No—no, it isn't!" faltered his wife. "It's mine! I—I—oh, Bruce!"

"It's all right, dear. Don't worry," he whispered, while Cecily finished, at a gulp:

"He's come to arrest Lucia!"

"Arrest Lucia! Arres—!" Bradford had already wheeled toward the reception-room, when Carmody interrupted him.

"Hold on, Otis! This is my affair." Disengaging himself from his wife's clasp, he stepped quickly toward the marshal, followed by the others. "Good afternoon," he said, quietly. "My name is Carmody. There seems to be some misunderstanding here."

"I think not," replied the officer, measuring the newcomer with his glance. "We had information that Mrs. Carmody had smuggled certain laces through the customs, wrapped in railway folders. I came here with a search-warrant and found the folders, still filled with lace."

"Precisely. But you haven't found quite all the facts. To begin with, Mrs. Carmody didn't bring in those folders."

"No?"

"No. I brought them myself."

"Oh, Bruce! You didn't! You mustn't!" hysterically protested Lucia, fancying she read his chivalrous purpose, but Cecily silenced her with a little shake, and muttered:

"'Sh! Sit tight!"

"Indeed?" The deputy looked sceptical. He, also, fancied he saw the purpose of the defence. "You brought in the folders, eh?"

"I did. I've carried them for months in my pocket—as you can tell by the looks of them—and that's the way they came in; in my overcoat pocket."

"Filled with lace?"

"Filled with lace,—on every thread of which the duties have been paid."

Lucia drew her breath sharply. Never before in all the years she had known him had she suspected her husband of even the slightest deviation from the truth, and now for her sake—! She was about to protest against the sacrifice he would make, when he selected a paper from several he had taken from his pocket, and said: "There's the receipt. If you'll examine it, you'll find it entirely to your satisfaction, I think."

"H'm!" said the marshal. "This looks regular enough, but what proof have I that the laces here specified are the laces in these folders?"

"They are described pretty accurately."

"But we have a sworn statement that your wife declared the duties had not been paid on these—"

"Who made it?" interrupted Bradford. "That's what I want to know! Who made it?"

"The cabman who drove the ladies up from the dock."

Carmody laughed a little. "You remember," he suggested, "I said there had been a misunderstanding."

"That's all very well," said the marshal, "but if you meant to pay the duties, why did you conceal the lace in the folders?"

"Well, as to that—" Bruce hesitated a moment, glanced at Lucia's strained, colorless face, and slowly continued: "As to that, I was arranging a little surprise for my wife,—but it seems to have assumed proportions I had not foreseen."

"H'm!" said the sceptical marshal. Then he shook his head.

"You see," Carmody went on, "we agreed in London, my wife and I, that we would declare everything dutiable, to the smallest detail." Again he looked at Lucia, but she did not meet his glance. "So when she packed—she always does all the packing—she left all the dutiable stuff to be put in one trunk, and then we made a list of it—she and I together, you understand?—for declaration."

"Well?"

"Well, that's the reason the lace was concealed in folders in my pocket—because we made that list together."

"Oh—I see," said the marshal. "Did Mrs. Carmody also pack your bag?"

"Mrs. Carmody packed everything," gravely said her husband, whereat Bradford lifted a quick hand to his lips to cover an irrepressible smile.

"You're satisfied now that there's been a mistake, aren't you?" anxiously asked Cecily.

"Not entirely. Mr. Carmody, did you show these laces to the inspector exactly as they are now, wrapped in the folders?"

"Exactly as they are now,—and explained the matter to him just as I have to you."

"H'm!" The deputy thoughtfully rubbed the top of his head for a moment. Then said he: "Look here, gentlemen; the man who made this affidavit is out there on the box. I came up in his rig. Do you mind if I have him in here a minute?"

The cabman was promptly summoned, and the officer fixed a keen gaze upon him.

"You're sure," he sternly questioned, "that Mrs. Carmody specifically stated that the duties had not been paid on this lace?"

"Yis, sor!" The reply was emphatic. "Th' laady here ast her did she pay aany duties on it at all at all, and says Missus Caarmody, 'Not wan cint,' says she. 'We declared iverything ilse, to the smallest detale,' says she, just like that, 'but the laces seem to've been—overlooked,' says she, like that. 'The laces seem to've been—overlooked.'" His reproduction of Lucia's droll inflection was inimitable, and it was evident that he could have originated neither the phrases nor the manner in which they were delivered.

"There seems to he some confusion here still," suggested the deputy, eying Carmody.

"Not at all." Lucia's husband smiled. "Apparently Mrs. Carmody is not the only person to take it for granted that laces brought into this country concealed in folders must necessarily be smuggled. It is, perhaps, a not unnatural corollary to our peculiar customs regulations. I've already explained to you that I had not taken her into my confidence in this matter, for—reasons of my own. I left London with these laces concealed in my pocket; I brought them across the ocean in my pocket; when I made my declaration on the ship, I purposely chose a time when Mrs. Carmody was on deck; and I was careful to place her in a carriage with Mrs. Bradford on the dock before I had the luggage examined. I sent my coat home in the carriage with them, as I was detained down-town by business, and I've not seen my wife since until within ten minutes. Now, here are the laces, here is the receipt, and I've given you my explanation of what, I grant, is an unusual situation. If you're still unsatisfied, I'll gladly go down-town with you and do my best to clear the matter up. Perhaps we can find the inspector who examined the luggage. I think he'll remember the circumstances."

"No," said the deputy, slowly, "I guess you're all right. I've made no arrest here yet—and I won't. I'm satisfied there's nothing in this, though it certainly looked like a clear case. I'm sorry to have troubled you, ladies, but I hope you understand I had no choice in the matter. Good afternoon." He nodded to the bewildered cabman to precede him, and bowed himself out.

When the Carmodys were again alone, after the first moments of readjustment, Lucia said:

"You might have told me, dear!"

"?" He regarded her good-naturedly.

"Why do you say that?" she demanded, not wholly relishing the indulgent quality of his smile. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I'd said my say on the subject—pretty definitely, I thought—and when, the second day out, I found the lace, why—!" Whimsically he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not wholly without a sense of humor, dearie, so I held my peace. But just the same," he was serious again, "even if you don't respect law as law, you see now how dangerous it is to trifle with it."

"Oh, I don't know," she returned. "After all, what did it amount to? It was all fireworks. Nothing really happened."

To this her husband yielded one astonished stare; then he sat down on a chair and laughed.