He knew that it was all
due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself,
and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant.
But if Sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was
tenfold greater.
Simon Craft was in a most unenviable mood. At times, indeed, he grew
fairly desperate. The golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight
years had burst and vanished. He had told the truth, he had been
honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's
mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict
of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. This was the
burden of his complaint. But aside from this he was filled with bitter
regret. If he had only closed his bargain with Robert Burnham on the
day it had been made! If he had only made his proposition to Mrs.
Burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild
scheme with this visionary lawyer! This was his silent sorrow. His
misery was deep and apparent. He had grown to be ten years older in a
day. This misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to
be honest and to do good. This was the reward of virtue, these the
wages of charity.
Tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned
his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. The
judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a
share of his malignant hatred and abuse. For Mrs.
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