Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it lay on a chair at Hester's side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert, and as young as Peter Junior's father, for all she was his aunt, and now she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: "Ye mind he's mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to play together—Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was like a sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we're auld noo."

Her sister looked at her fondly. "Ye're no so auld, Jean, but ye might be aulder. It's like I might have been the mither of her, for I mind the time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell't me I was to aye care for her like my ain, an' but for her I would na' be livin' noo."

"And why for no?" asked Jean, quickly.

"I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no' understand?"

Jean laughed merrily. "She's been callin' me child for saxty-five years," she said.

Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean's was a little braver with ribbons than Ellen's. Small lavender bows were set in the frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not tied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossed over her bosom.

"I mind when Peter married ye, Hester," said Ellen. "I was fair wild to have him bring ye here on his weddin' journey, and he should have done so, for we'd not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years I've been waitin' to see ye."

"Weel, 'twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an' go home without ye," said Jean.

"It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it." Hester's eyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world, the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knew the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since the disappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovingly watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical restraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for her comfort,—studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing thoughtfulness to gratify them.

"And why for no allow it? There's naething so good for a man as lettin' him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I'm thinkin' Peter's ain o' them that such as that is good for—Hester! What ails ye! Are oot of ye're mind? Gi'e her a drap of whuskey, Jean. Hester!"

While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straight before her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, with her eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight.

"Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o' bad news for ye' in the letter? Here, tak' a sip o' this, dear. Tak' it, Hester; 'twill hairten ye up for whatever's intil't," cried Jean, holding to Hester's lips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall cupboard behind her and poured out in a glass.

Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help, did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into the broader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way with both the women. "Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it's no so bad. Gie me the letter, Jean, an' I'll see what's intil't. Ring the bell for Tillie an' we'll get her to the couch."

But Hester caught Jean's gown and would not let her go to the bell cord which hung in the far corner of the room. "No, don't call her. I'll lie down a moment, and—and—we'll talk—this—over." She clung to the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and walked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes. "After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I'll tell you. I must think, I must think." So she lay quietly, gathering all her force to consider and meet what she must, as her way was, while Jean sat beside, stroking her hand and saying sweet, comforting words in her broad Scotch.

"There's neathin' so guid as a drap of whuskey, dear, for strengthnin' the hairt whan ye hae a bit shock. It's no yer mon, Peter? No? Weel, thank the Lord for that. Noo, tak ye anither bit sup, for ye ha'e na tasted it. Wull ye no gie Ellen the letter, love? 'Twill save ye tellin' her."

Hester passively took the whisky as she was bid, and presently sat up and finished reading the letter. "Peter has been hiding—something from me for—three years—and now—"

"Yes, an' noo. It's aye the way wi' them that hides—whan the day comes they maun reveal—it's only the mair to their shame," exclaimed Ellen.

"Oh, but it's all mixed up—and my best friend doesn't know the truth. Yes, take the letter, Aunt Ellen, and read it yourself." She held out the pages with a shaking hand, and Jean took them over to her sister, who slowly read them in silence.

"Ah, noo. As I tell't ye, it's no so bad," she said at last.

"Wha's the trouble, Ellen? Don't keep us waitin'."

"Bide ye in patience, child. Ye're always so easily excitet. I maun read the letter again to get the gist o't, but it's like this. The Elder's been of the opeenion noo these three years that his son was most foully murder't, an—"

"He may ha'e been kill't, but he was no' murder't," cried Jean, excitedly. "I tell ye 'twas purely by accident—" she paused and suddenly clapped both hands over her mouth and rocked herself back and forth as if she had made some egregious blunder, then: "Gang on wi' yer tellin'. It's dour to bide waitin'. Gie me the letter an' lat me read it for mysel'."

"Lat me tell't as I maun tell't. Ye maun no keep interruptin'. Jean has no order in her brain. She aye pits the last first an' the first last. This is a hopefu' letter an' a guid ain from yer friend, an' it tells ye yer son's leevin' an' no murder't—"

"Thank the Lord! I ha'e aye said it," ejaculated Jean, fervently.

"Ye ha'e aye said it? Child, what mean ye? Ye ha'e kenned naethin' aboot it."

But Jean would not be set down. She leaned forward with glistening eyes. "I ha'e aye said it. I ha'e aye said it. Gie me the letter, Ellen."

But Ellen only turned composedly and resumed her interpretation of the letter to Hester, who sat looking with dazed expression from one aunt to the other.

"It all comes about from Peter's bein' a stubborn man, an' he'll no change the opeenion he's held for three years wi'oot a struggle. Here comes his boy back an' says, 'I'm Peter Junior, and yer son.' An' his feyther says till him, 'Ye're no my son, for my son was murder't—an' ye're Richard Kildene wha' murder't him.' And noo, it's for ye to go home, Hester, an' bring Peter to his senses, and show him the truth. A mither knows her ain boy, an' if it's Peter Junior, it's Peter Junior, and Richard Kildene's died."

"I tell ye he's no dead!" cried Jean, springing to her feet.

"Hush, child. He maun be dead, for ain of them's dead, and this is Peter Junior."

"Read it again, Aunt Ellen," said Hester, wearily. "You'll see that the Elder brings a fearful charge against Richard. He thinks Richard is making a false claim that he is—Peter—my boy."

Jean sat back in her chair crying silently and shrinking into herself as if she were afraid to say more, and Ellen went on. "Listen, now, what yer frien' says. 'The Elder is wrong, for Bertrand'—that's her husband, I'm thinkin'—?"

"Yes."

"'Bertrand and Betty,—' Who's Betty, noo?"

"Betty is their daughter. She was to—have—married my son."

"Good. So she would know her lover. 'Betty and I have seen him,' she says, 'and have talked with him, and we know he is Peter Junior,' she says. 'Richard Kildene has disappeared,' she says, 'and yet we know he is living somewhere and he must be found. We fear the Elder will not withdraw the charge until Richard is located'—An' that will be like Peter, too—'and meanwhile your son Peter will have to lie in jail, where he is now, unless you can clear matters up here by coming home and identifying him, and that you can surely do.'—An' that's all vera weel. There's neathin' to go distraught over in the like o' that. An' here she says, 'He's a noble, fine-looking man, and you'll be proud of him when you see him.' Oh, 'tis a fine letter, an' it's Peter wi' his stubbornness has been makin' a boggle o' things. If I were na lame, I'd go back wi' ye an' gie Peter a piece o' my mind."

"An' I'll locate Richard for ye!" cried Jean, rising to her feet and wiping away the fast-falling tears, laughing and weeping all in the same moment. "Whish't, Ellen, it's ye'rsel' that kens neathin' aboot it, an' I'll tell ye the truth the noo—that I've kept to mysel' this lang time till my conscience has nigh whupped me intil my grave."

"Tak' a drap o' whuskey, Jean, ye're flyin' oot o' yer heid. It's the hystiricks she's takin'."

"Ah, no! What is it, Aunt Jean? What is it?" cried Hester, eagerly, drawing her to the seat by her side again.

"It's no the hystiricks," cried Jean, rocking back and forth and patting her hands on her knees and speaking between laughing and crying. "It's the truth at last, that I've been lyin' aboot these three lang years, thank the Lord!"

"Jean, is it thankin' the Lord ye are, for lyin'?"

"Ellen, ye mind whan ye broke ye'r leg an' lay in the south chamber that lang sax months?"

"Aye, weel do I mind it."

"Lat be wi' ye're interruptin' while I tell't. He came here."

"Who came here?"

"Richard—the poor lad! He tell't me all aboot it. How he had a mad anger on him, an' kill't his cousin Peter Junior whan they'd been like brithers all their lives, an' hoo he pushed him over the brink o' a gre't precipice to his death, an' hoo he must forever flee fra' the law an' his uncle's wrath. Noo it's—"

"Oh, Aunt Jean!" cried Hester, despairingly. "Don't you see that what you say only goes to prove my husband right? Yet how could he claim to be Peter—it—it's not like the boy. Richard never, never would—"

"He may ha' been oot o' his heid thinkin' he pushed him over the brink. I ha'e na much opeenion o' the judgment o' a man ony way. They never know whan to be set, an' whan to gie in. Think shame to yersel', Jean, to be hidin' things fra me the like o' that an' then lyin' to me."

"He was repentit, Ellen. Ye can na' tak the power o' the Lord in yer ain han's an' gie a man up to the law whan he's repentit. If ye'd seen him an' heard the words o' him and seen him greet, ye would ha' hid him in yer hairt an' covered wi' the mantle o' charity, as I did. Moreover, I saved ye from dour lyin' yersel'. Ye mind whan that man that Peter sent here to find Richard came, hoo ye said till him that Richard had never been here? Ye never knew why for that man wanted Richard, but I knew an' I never tell't ye. An' if ye had known what I knew, ye never could ha' tell't him what ye did so roundly an' sent him aboot his business wi' a straight face."

"An' noo whaur is Richard?"

"He's awa' in Paris pentin' pictures. He went there to learn to be a penter."

"An' whaur gat he the money to go wi'? There's whaur the new black silk dress went ye should ha' bought yersel' that year. Ye lat me think it went to the doctor. Child! Child!"

"Yes, sister; I lee'd to ye. It's been a heavy sin on my soul an' ye may well thank the Lord it's no been on yer ain. But hark ye noo. It's all come back to me. Here's the twenty pun' I gave him. It's come back wi' interest." Proudly Jean drew from her bosom an envelope containing forty pounds in bank notes. "Look ye, hoo he's doubl't it?" Again she laughed through her tears.

"And you know where he is—and can find him?"

"Yes, Hester, dear, I know. He took a new name. It was Robert Kater he called himsel'. So, there he's been pentin' pictures. Go, Hester, an' find yer son, an' I'll find Richard. Ellen, ye'll have to do wi' Tillie for a week an' a bit,—I'm going to Paris to find Richard."

"Ye'll do nae sic' thing. Ye'll find him by post."

"I'll trust to nae letter the noo, Ellen. Letters aften gang astray, but I'll no gang astray."

"Oh, child, child! It's a sorrowful thing I'm lame an' can na' gang wi' ye. What are ye doin', Hester?"

"I'm hunting for the newspaper. Don't they put the railroad time-tables in the paper over here, or must I go to the station to inquire about trains?"

"Ye'd better ask at the station. I'll go wi' ye. Ye might boggle it by yersel'. Ring for Tillie, Jean. She can help me oot o' my chair an' get me dressed, while ye're lookin' after yer ain packin', Jean."

So the masterful old lady immediately began to superintend the hasty departure of both Hester and Jean. The whole procedure was unprecedented and wholly out of the normal course of things, but if duty called, they must go, whether she liked the thought of their going or not. So she sent Tillie to call a cab, and contented herself with bewailing the stubbornness of Peter, her nephew.

"It was aye so, whan he was a lad playin' wi' Jean an' Katherine, whiles whan his feyther lat his mither bring Katherine and him back to Scotland on a veesit. Jean and Katherine maun gie in til him if they liket it or no. I've watched them mony's the time, when he would haud them up in their play by the hour together, arguyin' which should be horse an' which should be driver, an' it was always Peter that won his way wi' them. Is the cab there, Tillie? Then gie me my crutch. Hester, are you ready? Jean, I'll find oot for ye all aboot the trains for Dover. Ye maun gang direc' an' no loiter by the way. Come, Hester. I doot she ought not to be goin' aboot alone. Paris is an' awfu' like place for a woman body to be goin' aboot alone. But it canna' be helpit. What's an old woman like me wi' only one sound leg and a pair o' crutches, to go on sic' like a journey?"

"If I could, I'd take you home with me, Aunt Ellen; if I were only sure of the outcome of this trouble, I would anyway—but to take you there to a home of sorrow—"

"There, Hester, dear. Don't ye greet. It's my opeenion ye're goin' to find yer son an' tak him in yer arms ance mair. Ye were never the right wife for Peter. I can see that. Ye're too saft an' gentle."

"I'm thinking how Peter has borne this trouble alone, all these years, and suffered, trying to keep the sorrow from me."

"Yes, dear, yes. Peter told us all aboot it whan he was here, an' he bade us not to lat ye ken a word aboot it, but to keep from ye all knowledge of it. Noo it's come to ye by way of this letter fra yer frien', an' I'm thinkin' it's the best way; for noo, at last ye ha'e it in ye're power to go an' maybe save an innocent man, for it's no like a son of our Katherine would be sic' like a base coward as to try to win oot from justice by lyin' himsel' intil his victim's own home. I'll no think it."

"Nor I, Aunt Ellen. It's unbelievable! And of Richard—no. I loved Richard. He was like my own son to me—and Peter Junior loved him, too. They may have quarreled—and even he might—in a moment of anger, he might have killed my boy,—but surely he would never do a thing like this. They are making some horrible mistake, or Mary Ballard would never have written me."

"Noo ye're talkin' sense. Keep up courage an' never tak an' affliction upo' yersel' until it's thrust upo' ye by Providence."

Thus good Aunt Ellen in her neat black bonnet and shawl and black mits, seated at Hester's side in the cab holding to her crutches, comforted and admonished her niece all the way to the station and back, and the next day she bravely bade Jean and Hester both good-by and settled herself in her armchair to wait patiently for news from them.



CHAPTER XXXIV

JEAN CRAIGMILE'S RETURN

When at last Jean Craigmile returned, a glance at her face was quite enough to convince Ellen that things had not gone well. She held her peace, however, until her sister had had time to remove her bonnet and her shawl and dress herself for the house, before she broke in upon Jean's grim silence. Then she said:—

"Weel, Jean. I'm thinkin' ye'd better oot wi' it."

"Is Tillie no goin' to bring in the tea? It's past the hour. I see she grows slack, wantin' me to look after her."

"Ring for it then, Jean. I'm no for leavin' my chair to ring for it." So Jean pulled the cord and the tea was brought in due time, with hot scones and the unwonted addition of a bowl of roses to grace the tray.

"The posies are a greetin' to ye, Jean; I ordered them mysel'. Weel? An' so ye ha'na' found him?"

"Oh, sister, my hairt's heavy an' sair. I canna' thole to tell ye."

"But ye maun do't, an' the sooner ye tell't the sooner ye'll ha'e it over."

"He was na' there. Oh, Ellen, Ellen! He'd gone to America! I'm afraid the Elder is right an' Hester has gone home to get her death blow. Why were we so precipitate in lettin' her go?"

"Jean, tell me all aboot it, an' I'll pit my mind to it and help ye think it oot. Don't ye leave oot a thing fra' the time ye left me till the noo."

Slowly Jean poured her sister's tea and handed it to her. "Tak' yer scones while they're hot, Ellen. I went to the place whaur he'd been leevin'. I had the direction all right, but whan I called, I found anither man in possession. The man was an Englishman, so I got on vera weel for the speakin'. It's little I could do with they Frenchmen. He was a dirty like man, an' he was daubin' away at a picture whan I opened the door an' walked in. I said to him, 'Whaur's Richard'—no, no, no. I said to him, calling Richard by the name he's been goin' by, I said, 'Whaur's Robert Kater?' He jumped up an' began figitin' aboot the room, settin' me a chair an' the like, an' I asked again, 'Is this the pentin' room o' Robert Kater?' an' he said, 'It was his room, yes.' Then he asked me was I any kin to him, an' I told him, did he think I would come walkin' into his place the like o' that if I was no kin to him? An' then he began tellin' me a string o' talk an' I could na' mak' head nor tail o't, so I asked again, 'If ye're a friend o' his, wull ye tell me whaur he's gone?' an' then he said it straight oot, 'To Ameriky,' an' it fair broke my hairt."

For a minute Jean sat and sipped her tea, and wiped the tears from her eyes; then she took up the thread of her story again.

"Then he seemed all at once to bethink himsel' o' something, an' he ran to his coat that was hangin' behind the door on a nail, an' he drew oot a letter fra the pocket, an' here it is.

"'Are ye Robert's Aunt Jean?' he asked, and I tell't him, an', 'Surely,' he said, 'an' I did na' think ye old enough to be his Aunt Jean.' Then he began to excuse himsel' for forgettin' to mail that letter. 'I promised him I would,' he said, 'but ye see, I have na' been wearin' my best coat since he left, an' that's why. We gave him a banket,' he says, 'an' I wore my best coat to the banket, an' he gave me this an' told me to mail it after he was well away,' an' he says, 'I knew I ought not to put it in this coat pocket, for I'd forget it,'—an' so he ran on; but it was no so good a coat, for the lining was a' torn an' it was gray wi' dust, for I took it an' brushed it an' mended it mysel' before I left Paris."

Again Jean paused, and taking out her neatly folded handkerchief wiped away the falling tears, and sipped a moment at her tea in silence.

"Tak' ye a bit o' the scones, Jean. Ye'll no help matters by goin' wi'oot eatin'. If the lad's done a shamefu' like thing, ye'll no help him by greetin'. He maun fall. Ye've done yer best I doot, although mistakenly to try to keep it fra me."

"He was sae bonny, Ellen, and that like his mither 'twould melt the hairt oot o' ye to look on him."

"Ha'e ye no mair to tell me? Surely it never took ye these ten days to find oot what ye ha'e tell't."

"The man was a kind sort o' a body, an' he took me oot to eat wi' him at a cafy, an' he paid it himsel', but I'm thinkin' his purse was sair empty whan he got through wi' it. I could na' help it. Men are vera masterfu' bodies. I made it up to him though, for I bided a day or twa at the hotel, an' went to the room,—the pentin' room whaur I found him—there was whaur he stayed, for he was keepin' things as they were, he said, for the one who was to come into they things—Robert Kater had left there—ye'll find oot aboot them whan ye read the letter—an' I made it as clean as ye'r han' before I left him. He made a dour face whan he came in an' found me at it, but I'm thinkin' he came to like it after a', for I heard him whustlin' to himsel' as I went down the stair after tellin' him good-by.

"Gin ye had seen the dirt I took oot o' that room, Ellen, ye would a' held up ye'r two han's in horror. There were crusts an' bones behind the pictures standin' against the wa' that the rats an' mice had been gnawin' there, an' there were bottles on a shelf, old an' empty an' covered wi' cobwebs an' dust, an' the floor was so thick wi' dirt it had to be scrapit, an' what wi' old papers an' rags I had a great basket full taken awa—let be a bundle o' shirts that needed mendin'. I took the shirts to the hotel, an' there I mended them until they were guid enough to wear, an' sent them back. So there was as guid as the price o' the denner he gave me, an' naethin said. Noo read the letter an' ye'll see why I'm greetin'. Richard's gone to Ameriky to perjure his soul. He says it was to gie himsel' up to the law, but from the letter to Hester it's likely his courage failed him. There's naethin' to mak' o't but that—an' he sae bonny an' sweet, like his mither."

Jean Craigmile threw her apron over her head and rocked herself back and forth, while Ellen set down her cup and reluctantly opened the letter—many pages, in a long business envelope. She sighed as she took them out.

"It's a waefu' thing how much trouble an' sorrow a man body brings intil the world wi' him. Noo there's Richard, trailin' sorrow after him whaurever he goes."

"But ye mind it came from Katherine first, marryin' wi' Larry Kildene an' rinnin' awa' wi' him," replied Jean.

"It was Larry huntit her oot whaur she had been brought for safety."

They both sat in silence while Ellen read the letter to the very end. At last, with a long, indrawn sigh, she spoke.

"It's no like a lad that could write sic a letter, to perjure his soul. No won'er ye greet, Jean. He's gi'en ye everything he possesses, wi' one o' the twa pictures in the Salon! Think o't! An' a' he got fra' the ones he sold, except enough to take him to America. Ye canna' tak' it."

"No. I ha'e gi'en them to the Englishman wha' has his room. I could na' tak them." Jean continued to sway back and forth with her apron over her head.

"Ye ha'e gi'en them awa'! All they pictures pented by yer ain niece's son! An' twa' acceptit by the Salon! Child, child! I'd no think it o' ye." Ellen leaned forward in her chair reprovingly, with the letter crushed in her lap.

"I told him to keep them safe, as he was doin', an' if he got no word fra' me after sax months,—he was to bide in the room wi' them—they were his."

"Weel, ye're wiser than I thought ye."

For a long time they sat in silence, until at last Ellen took up the letter to read it again, and began with the date at the head.

"Jean," she cried, holding it out to her sister and pointing to the date with shaking finger. "Wull ye look at that noo! Are we both daft? It's no possible for him to ha' gotten there before that letter was written to Hester. Look ye, Jean! Look ye! Here 'tis the third day o' June it was written by his own hand."

"Count it oot, Ellen, count it oot! Here's the calendar almanac. Noo we'll ha'e it. It's twa weeks since Hester an' I left an' she got the letter the day before that, an' that's fifteen days—"

"An' it takes twa weeks mair for a boat to cross the ocean, an' that gives fourteen days mair before that letter to Hester was written, an' three days fra' Liverpool here, pits it back to seventeen days,—an' fifteen days—mak's thirty-two days,—an' here' it's nearin' the last o' June—"

"Jean! Whan Hester's frien' was writin' that letter to Hester, Richard was just sailin' fra France! Thank the Lord!"

"Thank the Lord!" ejaculated her sister, fervently. "Ellen, it's you for havin' the head to think it oot, thank the Lord!" And now the dear soul wept again for very gladness.

Ellen folded her hands in her lap complaisantly and nodded her head. "Ye've a good head, yersel', Jean, but ye aye let yersel' get excitet. Noo, it's only for us to bide in peace an' quiet an' know that the earth is the Lord's an' the fullness thereof until we hear fra' Hester."

"An' may the Lord pit it in her hairt to write soon!"

While the good Craigmiles of Aberdeen were composing themselves to the hopeful view that Ellen's discovery of the date had given them, Larry Kildene and Amalia were seated in a car, luxurious for that day, speeding eastward over the desert across which Amalia and her father and mother had fled in fear and privation so short a time before. She gazed through the plate-glass windows and watched the quivering heat waves rising from the burning sands. Well she knew those terrible plains! She saw the bleaching bones of animals that had fallen by the way, even as their own had fallen, and her eyes filled. She remembered how Harry King had come to them one day, riding on his yellow horse—riding out of the setting sun toward them, and how his companionship had comforted them and his courage and help had saved them more than once,—and how, had it not been for him, their bones, too, might be lying there now, whitening in the heat. Oh, Harry, Harry King! She who had once crossed those very plains behind a jaded team now felt that the rushing train was crawling like a snail.

Larry Kildene, seated facing her and watching her, leaned forward and touched her hand. "We're going at an awful pace," he said. "To think of ever crossing these plains with the speed of the wind!"

She smiled a wan smile. "Yes, that is so. But it still is very slowly we go when I measure with my thoughts the swiftness. In my thoughts we should fly—fly!"

"It will be only three days to Chicago from here, and then one night at a hotel to rest and clean up, and the next day we are there—in Leauvite—think of it! We're an hour late by the schedule, so better think of something else. We'll reach an eating station soon. Get ready, for there will be a rush, and we'll not have a chance for a good meal again for no one knows how long. Maybe you're not hungry, but I could eat a mule. I like this, do you know, traveling in comfort! To think of me—going home to save Peter's bank!" He chuckled to himself a moment; then resumed: "And that's equivalent to saving the man's life. Well, it's a poor way for a man to go through life, able to see no way but his own way. It narrows his vision and shortens his reach—for, see, let him find his way closed to him, and whoop! he's at an end."

Again Larry sat and watched her, as he silently chuckled over his present situation. Again he reached out and patted her hand, and again she smiled at him, but he knew where her thoughts were. Harry King had been gone but a short time when Madam Manovska, in spite of Amalia's watchfulness, wandered away for the last time. On this occasion she did not go toward the fall, but went along the trail toward the plains below. It was nearly evening when she eluded Amalia and left the cabin. Frantically they searched for her all night, riding through the darkness, carrying torches and calling in all directions, as far as they supposed her feet could have carried her, but did not find her until early morning, lying peacefully under a little scrub pine, far down the trail. By her side lay her husband's worn coat, with the lining torn away, and a small heap of ashes and charred papers. She had been destroying the documents he had guarded so long. She would not leave them to witness against him. Tenderly they took her up and carried her back to the cabin and laid her in her bunk, but she only babbled of "Paul," telling happily that she had seen him, and that he was coming up the trail after her, and that now they would live on the mountain in peace and go no more to Poland—and quickly after that she dropped to sleep again and never woke. She was with "Paul" at last. Then Amalia dressed her in the black silk Larry had brought her, and they carried her down the trail and laid her in a grave beside that of her husband, and there Larry read the prayers of the English church over the two lonely graves, while Amalia knelt at his side. When they went down the trail to take the train, after receiving Betty's letter, they marked the place with a cross which Larry had made.

Truth to tell, as they sat in the car, facing each other, Larry himself was sad, although he tried to keep Amalia's thoughts cheerful. At last she woke to the thought that it was only for her he maintained that forced light-heartedness, and the realization came to her that he also had cause for sorrow on leaving the spot where he had so long lived in peace, to go to a friend in trouble. The thought helped her, and she began to converse with Larry instead of sitting silently, wrapped in her own griefs. Because her heart was with Harry King,—filled with anxiety for him,—she talked mostly of him, and that pleased Larry well; for he, too, had need to speak of Harry.

"Now there is a character for you, as fine and sweet as a woman and strong, too! I've seen enough of men to know the best of them when I find them. I saw it in him the moment I got him up to my cabin and laid him in my bunk. He—he—minded me of one that's gone." His voice dropped to the undertone of reminiscence. "Of one that's long gone—long gone."

"Could you tell me about it, a little—just a very little?" Amalia leaned toward him pleadingly. It was the first time she had ever asked of Larry Kildene or Harry King a question that might seem like seeking to know a thing purposely kept from her. But her intuitive nature told her the time had now come when Larry longed to speak of himself, and the loneliness of his soul pleaded for him.

"It's little indeed I can tell you, for it's little he ever told me,—but it came to me—more than once—more than once—that he might be my own son."

Amalia recoiled with a shock of surprise. She drew in her breath and looked in his eyes eloquently. "Oh! Oh! And you never asked him? No?"

"Not in so many words, no. But I—I—came near enough to give him the chance to tell the truth, if he would, but he had reasons of his own, and he would not."

"Then—where we go now—to him—you have been to that place before? Not?"

"I have."

"And he—he knows it? Not?"

"He knows it well. I told him it was there I left my son—my little son—but he would say nothing. I was not even sure he knew the place until these letters came to me. He has as yet written me no word, only the message he sent me in his letter to you—that he will some time write me." Then Larry took Betty's letter from his pocket and turned it over and over, sadly. "This letter tells me more than all else, but it sets me strangely adrift in my thoughts. It's not at all like what I had thought it might be."

Amalia leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, tell me more—a little, what you thought might be."

"This letter has added more to the heartache than all else that could be. Either Harry King is my son—Richard Kildene—or he is the son of the man who hated me and brought me sorrow. There you see the reason he would tell me nothing. He could not."

"But how is it that you do not know your own son? It is so strange."

Larry's eyes filled as he looked off over the arid plains. "It's a long story—that. I told it to him once to try to stir his heart toward me, but it was of no use, and I'll not tell it now—but this. I'd never looked on my boy since I held him in my arms—a heartbroken man—until he came to me there—that is, if he were he. But if Harry King is my son, then he is all the more a liar and a coward—if the claim against him is true. I can't have it so."

"It is not so. He is no liar and no coward." Amalia spoke with finality.

"I tell you if he is not my son, then he is the son of the man who hated me—but even that man will not own him as his son. The little girl who wrote this letter to me—she pleads with me to come on and set them all right: but even she who loved him—who has loved him, can urge no proof beyond her own consciousness, as to his identity; it is beyond my understanding."

"The little girl—she—she has loved your son—she has loved Harry—Harry King? Whom has she loved?" Amalia only breathed the question.

"She has not said. I only read between the lines."

"How is it so—you read between lines? What is it you read?"

Larry saw he was making a mistake and resumed hurriedly: "I'll tell you what little I know later, and we will go there and find out the rest, but it may be more to my sorrow than my joy. Perhaps that's why I'm taking you there—to be a help to me—I don't know. I have a friend there who will take us both in, and who will understand as no one else."

"I go to neither my joy nor my sorrow. They are of the world. I will be no more of the world—but I will live only in love—to the Christ. So may I find in my heart peace—as the sweet sisters who guarded me in my childhood away from danger when that my father and mother were in fear and sorrow living—they told me there only may one find peace from sorrow. I will go to them—perhaps—perhaps—they will take me—again—I do not know. But I will go first with you, Sir Kildene, wherever you wish me to go. For you are my friend—now, as no one else. But for you, I am on earth forever alone."



CHAPTER XXXV

THE TRIAL

After Mr. Ballard's visit to the jail, he took upon himself to do what he could for the young man, out of sympathy and friendship toward both parties, and in the cause of simple justice. He consulted the only available counsel left him in Leauvite, a young lawyer named Nathan Goodbody, whom he knew but slightly.

He told him as much of the case as he thought proper, and then gave him a note to the prisoner, addressing him as Harry King. Armed with this letter the young lawyer was soon in close consultation with his new client. Despite Nathan Goodbody's youth Harry was favorably impressed. The young man was so interested, so alert, so confident that all would be well. He seemed to believe so completely the story Harry told him, and took careful notes of it, saying he would prepare a brief of the facts and the law, and that Harry might safely leave everything to him.

"You were wounded in the hip, you say," Nathan Goodbody questioned him. "We must not neglect the smallest item that may help you, for your case needs strengthening. You say you were lamed by it—but you seem to have recovered from that. Is there no scar?"

"That will not help me. My cousin was wounded also, but his was only a flesh wound from which he quickly recovered and of which he thought nothing. I doubt if any one here in Leauvite ever heard of it, but it's the irony of fate that he was more badly scarred by it than I. He was struck by a spent bullet that tore the flesh only, while the one that hit me went cleanly to the bone, and splintered it. Mine laid me up for a year before I could even walk with crutches, while he was back at his post in a week."

"And both wounds were in the same place—on the same side, for instance?"

"On the same side, yes; but his was lower down. Mine entered the hip here, while he was struck about here." Harry indicated the places with a touch of his finger. "I think it would be best to say nothing about the scars, unless forced to do so, for I walk as well now as I ever did, and that will be against me."

"That's a pity, now, isn't it? Suppose you try to get back a little of the old limp."

Harry laughed. "No, I'll walk straight. Besides they've seen me on the street, and even in my father's bank."

"Too bad, too bad. Why did you do it?"

"How could I guess there would be such an impossible development? Until I saw Miss Ballard here in this cell I thought my cousin dead. Why, my reason for coming here was to confess my crime, but they won't give me the chance. They arrest me first of all for killing myself. Now that I know my cousin lives I don't seem to care what happens to me, except for—others."

"But man! You must put up a fight. Suppose your cousin is no longer living; you don't want to spend the rest of your life in the penitentiary because he can't be found."

"I see. If he is living, this whole trial is a farce, and if he is not, it's a tragedy."

"We'll never let it become a tragedy, I'll promise you that." The young man spoke with smiling confidence, but when he reached his office again and had closed the door behind him, his manner changed quickly to seriousness and doubt.

"I don't know," he said to himself, "I don't know if this story can be made to satisfy a jury or not. A little shady. Too much coincidence to suit me." He sat drumming with his fingers on his desk for a while, and then rose and turned to his books. "I'll have a little law on this case,—some point upon which we can go to the Supreme Court," and for the rest of that day and long into the night Nathan Goodbody consulted with his library.

In anticipation of the unusual public interest the District Attorney directed the summoning of twenty-five jurors in addition to the twenty-five of the regular panel. On the day set for the trial the court room was packed to the doors. Inside the bar were the lawyers and the officers of the court. Elder Craigmile sat by Milton Hibbard. In the front seats just outside the bar were the fifty jurors and back of them were the ladies who had come early, or who had been given the seats of their gentlemen friends who had come early, and whose gallantry had momentarily gotten the better of their judgment.

The stillness of the court room, like that of a church, was suddenly broken by the entrance of the judge, a tall, spare man, with gray hair and a serious outlook upon life. As he walked toward his seat, the lawyers and officers of the court rose and stood until he was seated. The clerk of the court read from a large book the journal of the court of the previous day and then handed the book to the judge to be signed. When this ceremony was completed, the judge took up the court calender and said,—

"The State v. Richard Kildene," and turning to the lawyers engaged in the case added, "Gentlemen, are you ready?"

"We are ready," answered the District Attorney.

"Bring in the prisoner."

When Harry entered the court room in charge of the sheriff, he looked neither to the right nor to the left, and saw no one before him but his own counsel, who arose and extended a friendly hand, and led him to a seat beside himself within the bar.

Nathan Goodbody then rose, and, addressing the court with an air of confident modesty, as if he were bringing forward a point so strong as to require nothing more than the simple statement to give it weight, said:—

"If the court please, the defense is ready, but I have noticed, as no doubt the court has noticed, a distinguished member of this bar sitting with the District Attorney as though it were intended that he should take part in the trial of this case, and I am advised that he intends to do so. I am also advised that he is in the employ of the complaining witness who sits beside him, and that he has received, or expects to receive, compensation from him for his services. I desire at the outset of this case to raise a question as to whether counsel employed and paid by a private person has a right to assist in the prosecution of a criminal cause. I therefore object to the appearance of Mr. Hibbard as counsel in this case, and to his taking any part in this trial. If the facts I have stated are questioned, I will ask Elder Craigmile to be sworn."

The court replied: "I shall assume the facts to be as stated by you unless the counsel on the other side dissent from such a statement. Considering the facts to be as stated, your objection raises a novel question. Have you any authorities?"

"I do not know that the Supreme Court of this State has passed upon this question. I do not think it has, but my objection finds support in the well-established rule in this country, that a public prosecutor acts in a quasi-judicial capacity. His object, like that of the court, should be simple justice. The District Attorney represents the public interest which can never be promoted by the conviction of the innocent. As the District Attorney himself could not accept a fee or reward from private parties, so, I urge, counsel employed to assist him must be equally disinterested."

"The court considers the question an interesting one, but the practice in the past has been against your contention. I will overrule your objection, and give you an exception. Mr. Clerk, call a jury!"[1]

Then came the wearisome technicalities of the empaneling of a jury, with challenges for cause and peremptory challenges, until nearly the entire panel of fifty jurors was exhausted.

In this way two days were spent, with a result that when counsel on both sides expressed themselves as satisfied with the jury, every one in the court room doubted it. As the sheriff confided to the clerk, it was an even bet that the first twelve men drawn were safer for both sides than the twelve men who finally stood with uplifted hands and were again sworn by the clerk. Harry King, who had never witnessed a trial in his life, began to grow interested in these details quite aside from his own part therein. He watched the clerk shaking the box, wondering why he did so, until he saw the slips of paper being drawn forth one by one from the small aperture on the top, and listened while the name written on each was called aloud. Some of the names were familiar to him, and it seemed as if he must turn about and speak to the men who responded to their roll call, saying "here" as each rose in his place behind him. But he resisted the impulse, never turning his head, and only glancing curiously at each man as he took his seat in the jury box at the order of the judge.

During all these proceedings the Elder sat looking straight before him, glancing at the prisoner only when obliged to do so, and coldly as an outsider might do. The trial was taking more time than he had thought possible, and he saw no reason for such lengthy technicalities and the delay in calling the witnesses. His air was worn and weary.

The prisoner, sitting beside his counsel, had taken less and less interest in the proceedings, and the crowds, who had at first filled the court room, had also lost interest and had drifted off about their own affairs until the real business of the taking of testimony should come on, till, at the close of the second day, the court room was almost empty of visitors. The prisoner was glad to see them go. So many familiar faces, faces from whom he might reasonably expect a smile, or a handshake, were it possible, or at the very least a nod of recognition, all with their eyes fixed on him, in a blank gaze of aloofness or speculation. He felt as if his soul must have been in some way separated from his body, and then returned to it to find all the world gazing at the place where his soul should be without seeing that it had returned and was craving their intelligent support. The whole situation seemed to him cruelly impossible,—a sort of insane delusion. Only one face never failed him, that of Bertrand Ballard, who sat where he might now and then meet his eye, and who never left the court room while the case was on.

When the time arrived for the introduction of the witnesses, the court room again filled up; but he no longer looked for faces he knew. He held himself sternly aloof, as if he feared his reason might leave him if he continued to strive against those baffling eyes, who knew him and did not know that they knew him, but who looked at him as if trying to penetrate a mask when he wore no mask. Occasionally his counsel turned to him for brief consultation, in which his part consisted generally of a nod or a shake of the head as the case might be.

While the District Attorney was addressing the jury, Milton Hibbard moved forward and took the District Attorney's seat.

Then followed the testimony of the boys—now shy lads in their teens, who had found the evidences of a struggle and possible murder so long before on the river bluff. Under the adroit lead of counsel, they told each the same story, and were excused cross-examination. Both boys had identified the hat found on the bluff, and testified that the brown stain, which now appeared somewhat faintly, had been a bright red, and had looked like blood.

Then Bertrand Ballard was called, and the questions put to him were more searching. Though the manner of the examiner was respectful and courteous, he still contrived to leave the impression on those in the court room that he hoped to draw out some fact that would lead to the discovery of matters more vital to the case than the mere details to which the witness testified. But Bertrand Ballard's prompt and straightforward answers, and his simple and courteous manner, were a full match for the able lawyer, and after two hours of effort he subsided.

Then the testimony of the other witnesses was taken, even to that of the little housemaid who had been in the family at the time, and who had seen Peter Junior wear the hat. Did she know it for his? Yes. Why did she know it? Because of the little break in the straw, on the edge of the brim. But any man's hat might have such a break. What was there about this particular break to make it the hat of Peter Junior? Because she had made it herself. She had knocked it down one day when she was brushing up in the front hall, and when she hung it up again, she had seen the break, and knew she had done it.

And thus, in the careful scrutiny of small things, relating to the habits, life, and manner of dressing of the two young men,—matters about which nobody raised any question, and in which no one except the examiner took any interest,—more days crept by, until, at last, the main witnesses for the State were reached.

[1] The question raised by the prisoner's counsel was ruled in favor of his contention in Biemel v. State. 71 Wis. 444, decided in 1888.



CHAPTER XXXVI

NELS NELSON'S TESTIMONY

The day was very warm, and the jury sat without their coats. The audience, who had had time to debate and argue the question over and over, were all there ready to throng in at the opening of the doors, and sat listening, eager, anxious, and perspiring. Some were strongly for the young man and some were as determined for the Elder's views, and a tension of interest and friction of minds pervaded the very atmosphere of the court room. It had been the effort of Milton Hibbard to work up the sentiment of those who had been so eagerly following the trial, in favor of his client's cause, before bringing on the final coup of the testimony of the Swede, and, last of all, that of Betty Ballard.

Poor little Betty, never for a moment doubting her perception in her recognition of Peter Junior, yet fearing those doubting ones in the court room, sat at home, quivering with the thought that the truth she must tell when at last her turn came might be the one straw added to the burden of evidence piled up to convict an innocent man. Wordlessly and continually in her heart she was praying that Richard might know and come to them, calling him, calling him, in her thoughts ceaselessly imploring help, patience, delay, anything that might hold events still until Richard could reach them, for deep in her heart of faith she knew he would come. Wherever in all the universe he might be, her cry must find him and bring him. He would feel it in his soul and fly to them.

Bertrand brought Betty and her mother news of the proceedings, from day to day, and always as he sat in the court room watching the prisoner and the Elder, looking from one set face to the other, he tried to convince himself that Mary and Betty were right in their firm belief that it was none other than Peter Junior who sat there with that steadfast look and the unvarying statement that he was the Elder's son, and had returned to give himself up for the murder of his cousin Richard, in the firm belief that he had left him dead on the river bluff.

G. B. Stiles sat at the Elder's side, and when Nels Nelson was brought in and sworn, he glanced across at Milton Hibbard with an expression of satisfaction and settled himself back to watch the triumph of his cause and the enjoyment of the assurance of the ten thousand dollars. He had coached the Swede and felt sure he would give his testimony with unwavering clearness.

The Elder's face worked and his hands clutched hard on the arms of his chair. It was then that Bertrand Ballard, watching him with sorrowful glances, lost all doubt that the prisoner was in truth what he claimed to be, for, under the tension of strong feeling, the milder lines of the younger man's face assumed a set power of will,—immovable,—implacable,—until the force within him seemed to mold the whole contour of his face into a youthful image of that of the man who refused even to look at him.

Every eye in the court room was fixed on the Swede as he took his place before the court and was bade to look on the prisoner. Throughout his whole testimony he never varied from his first statement. It was always the same.

"Do you know the prisoner?"

"Yas, I know heem. Dot is heem, I seen heem two, t'ree times."

"When did you see him first?"

"By Ballards' I seen heem first—he vas horse ridin' dot time. It vas nobody home by Ballards' dot time. Eferybody vas gone off by dot peek-neek."

"At that time did the prisoner speak to you?"

"Yas, he asket me where is Ballards' folks, und I tol' heem by peek-neek, und he asket me where is it for a peek-neek is dey gone, und I tol' heem by Carter's woods by der river, und he asket me is Mees Betty gone by dem yet or is she home, und I tol' heem yas she is gone mit, und he is off like der vind on hees horse already."

"When did you see the prisoner next?"

"By Ballards' yard dot time."

"What time?"

"It vas Sunday morning I seen heem, talkin' mit her."

"With whom was he talking?"

"Oh, he talk mit Ballards' girl—Mees Betty. Down by der spring house I seen heem go, und he kiss her plenty—I seen heem."

"You are sure it was the prisoner you saw? You are sure it was not Peter Craigmile, Jr.?"

"Sure it vas heem I saw. Craikmile's son, he vas lame, und valk by der crutch all time. No, it vas dot man dere I saw."

"Where were you when you saw him?"

"I vas by my room vere I sleep. It vas a wine growin' by der vindow up, so dey nefer see me, bot I seen dem all right. I seen heem kiss her und I seen her tell heem go vay, und push heem off, und she cry plenty."

"Did you hear what he said to her?"

Bertrand Ballard looked up at the examiner angrily, and counsel for the prisoner objected to the question, but the judge allowed it to pass unchallenged, on the ground that it was a question pertaining to the motive for the deed of which the prisoner was accused.

"Yas, I hear it a little. Dey vas come up und stand dere by de vindow under, und I hear dem talkin'. She cry, und say she vas sorry he vas kiss her like dot, und he say he is goin' vay, und dot is vot for he done it, und he don't come back no more, und she cry some more."

"Did he say anything against his cousin at that time?"

"No, he don' say not'ing, only yust he say, 'dot's all right bouts heem,' he say, 'Peter Junior goot man all right, only he goin' vay all same.'"

"Was that the last time you saw the prisoner?"

"No, I seen heem dot day und it vas efening."

"Where were you when you saw him next?"

"I vas goin' 'long mit der calf to eat it grass dere by Ballards' yard, und he vas goin' 'long mit hees cousin, Craikmile's son, und he vas walkin' slow for hees cousin, he don' got hees crutch dot day, he valk mit dot stick dere, und he don' go putty quvick mit it." Nels pointed to the heavy blackthorn stick lying on the table before the jury.

"Were the two young men talking together?"

"No, dey don' speak much. I hear it he say, 'It iss better you valk by my arm a little yet, Peter,' und Craikmile's son, he say, 'You go vay mit your arm, I got no need by it,' like he vas little mad yet."

"You say you saw him in the morning with Miss Ballard. Where were the family at that time?"

"Oh, dey vas gone by der church already."

"And in the evening where were they?"

"Oh, dey vas by der house und eat supper den."

"Did you see the prisoner again that day?"

"No, I didn' see heem dot day no more, bot dot next day I seen heem—goot I seen heem."

Harry King here asked his counsel to object to his allowing the witness to continually assert that the man he saw was the prisoner.

"He does not know that it was I. He is mistaken as are you all." And Nathan Goodbody leaped to his feet.

"I object on behalf of my client to the assumption throughout this whole examination, that the man whom the witness claims to have seen was the prisoner. No proof to that effect has yet been brought forward."

The witness was then required to give his reasons for his assertion that the prisoner was the man he saw three years before.

"By what marks do you know him? Why is he not the man he claims to be, the son of the plaintiff?"

"Oh, I know heem all right. Meester Craikmile's son, he vos more white in de face. Hees hair vas more—more—I don' know how you call dot—crooked on hees head yet." Nels put his hand to his head and caught one of his straight, pale gold locks, and twisted it about. "It vas goin round so,—und it vas more lighter yet as dot man here, und hees face vas more lighter too, und he valked mit stick all time und he don' go long mit hees head up,—red in hees face like dis man here und dark in hees face too. Craikmile's son go all time limpin' so." Nels took a step to illustrate the limp of Peter Junior when he had seen him last.

"Do you see any other points of difference? Were the young men the same height?"

"Yas, dey vas yust so high like each other, but not so vide out yet. Dis man he iss vider yet as Meester Craikmile's son, he iss got more chest like von goot horse—Oh, I know by men yust de same like horses vat iss der difference yet."

"Now you tell the court just what you saw the next day. At what time of the day was it?"

"It vas by der night I seen heem."

"On Monday night?"

"Yas."

"Late Monday night?"

"No, not so late, bot it vas dark already."

"Tell the court exactly where you saw him, when you saw him, and with whom you saw him, and what you heard said."

"It vas by Ballards' I seen heem. I vas comin' home und it vas dark already yust like I tol' you, und I seen dot man come along by Ballards' house und stand by der door—long time I seen heem stan' dere, und I yust go by der little trees under, und vatching vat it is for doin' dere, dot man? Und I seen heem it iss der young man vat iss come dot day askin' vere iss Ballards' folks, und so I yust wait und look a little out, und I vatchin' heem. Und I seen heem stand und vaitin' minute by der door outside, und I get me low under dem little small flowers bushes Ballards is got by der door under dot vindow dere, und I seen heem, he goin' in, and yust dere is Mees Betty sittin', und he go quvick down on hees knees, und dere she yump lak she is scairt. Den she take heem hees head in her hands und she asket heem vat for is it dat blud he got it on hees head, und so he say it is by fightin' he is got it, und she say vy for is he fightin', und he say mit hees cousin he fight, und hees cousin he hit heem so, und she asket heem vy for is hees cousin hit heem, und vy for iss he fightin' mit hees cousin any vay, und den dey bot is cryin'. So I seen dot—und den she go by der kitchen und bring vater und vash heem hees head und tie clots round it so nice, und dere dey is talkin', und he tol' her he done it."

"What did he tell her he had done?"

"Oh, he say he keel heem hees cousin. Dot vat I tol' you he done it."

"How did he say he killed him?"

The silence in the court room was painful in its intensity. The Elder leaned forward and listened with contorted face, and the prisoner held his breath. A pallor overspread his face and his hands were clenched.

"Oh, he say he push heem in der rifer ofer, und he do it all right for he liket to do it, but he say he goin' run vay for dot."

"You mean to say that he said he intended to push him over? That he tried to do it?"

"Oh, yas, he say he liket to push heem ofer, und he liket to do dot, but he sorry any vay he done it, und he runnin' vay for dot."

"Tell the court what happened then."

"Den she get him somedings to eat, und dey sit dere, und dey talk, und dey cry plenty, und she is feel putty bad, und he is feel putty bad, too. Und so—he go out und shut dot door, und he valkin' down der pat', und she yust come out der door, und run to heem und asket heem vere he is goin' und if he tell her somedings vere he go, und he say no, he tell her not'ing yet. Und den she say maybe he is not keel heem any vay, bot yust t'inkin' he keel him, und he tol' her yas, he keel heem all right, he push heem ofer und he is dead already, und so he kiss her some more, und she is cry some more, und I t'ink he is cry, too, bot dot is all. He done it all right. Und he is gone off den, und she is gone in her house, und I don't see more no."

As the witness ceased speaking Mr. Hibbard turned to counsel for the prisoner and said: "Cross-examine."

Rising in his place, and advancing a few steps toward the witness, the young lawyer began his cross-examination. His task did not call for the easy nonchalance of his more experienced adversary, who had the advantage of knowing in advance just what his witness would testify. It was for him to lead a stubborn and unwilling witness through the mazes of a well-prepared story, to unravel, if possible, some of its well-planned knots and convince the jury if he could that the witness was not reliable and his testimony untrustworthy.

But this required a master in the art of cross-examination, and a master begins the study of his subject—the witness—before the trial. In subtle ways with which experience has made him familiar, he studies his man, his life, his character, his habits, his strength, his weakness, his foibles. He divines when he will hesitate, when he will stumble, and he is ready to pounce upon him and force his hesitation into an attempt at concealment, his stumble into a fall.

It is no discredit to Nathan Goodbody that he lacked the skill and cunning of an astute cross-examiner. Unlike poets, they are made, not born, and he found the Swede to be a difficult witness to handle to his purpose. He succeeded in doing little more than to get him to reaffirm the damaging testimony he had already given.

Being thus baffled, he determined to bring in here a point which he had been reserving to use later, should Milton Hibbard decide to take up the question of Peter Junior's lameness. As this did not seem to be imminent, and the testimony of Nels Nelson had been so convincing, he wished of all things to delay the calling of the next witness until he could gain time, and carry the jury with him. Should Betty Ballard be called to the stand that day he felt his cause would be lost. Therefore, in the moment's pause following the close of his cross-examination of the last witness, he turned and addressed the court.

"May it please the Court. Knowing that there is but one more witness to be called, and that the testimony of that witness can bring forward no new light on this matter, I have excellent reason to desire at this time to move the Court to bring in the verdict of not guilty."

At these words the eyes of every one in the court room were turned upon the speaker, and the silence was such that his next words, though uttered in a low voice, were distinctly heard by all present.

"This motion is based upon the fact that the State has failed to prove the corpus delicti, upon the law, which is clear, that without such proof there can be no conviction of the crime of murder. If the testimony of the witness Nels Nelson can be accepted as the admission of the man Richard Kildene, until the State can prove the corpus delicti, no proof can be brought that it is the admission of the prisoner at the bar. I say that until such proof can be brought by the State, no further testimony can convict the prisoner at the bar. If it please the Court, the authorities are clear that the fact that a murder has been committed cannot be established by proof of the admissions, even of the prisoner himself that he has committed the crime. There must be direct proof of death as by finding and identification of the body of the one supposed to be murdered. I have some authorities here which I would like to read to your honor if you will hear them."

The face of the judge during this statement of the prisoner's counsel was full of serious interest. He leaned forward with his elbow on the desk before him, and with his hand held behind his ear, intent to catch every word. As counsel closed the judge glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and said:—

"It is about time to close. You may pass up your authorities, and I will take occasion to examine them before the court opens in the morning. If counsel on the other side have any authorities, I will be pleased to have them also."



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE STRANGER'S ARRIVAL

On taking his seat at the opening of court the next morning, the judge at once announced his decision.

"I have given such thought as I have been able to the question raised by counsel last evening, and have examined authorities cited by him, and others, bearing upon the question, and have reached the conclusion that his motion must be overruled. It is true that a conviction for murder cannot rest alone upon the extra-judicial admission of the accused. And in the present case I must remind the court and the jury that thus far the identity of the prisoner has not yet been established, as it is not determined whether or not he is the man whom the witness, Nels Nelson, heard make the admission. It is true there must be distinct proof, sufficient to satisfy the jury, beyond a reasonable doubt, that homicide has been committed by some one, before the admission of the accused that he did the act can be considered. But I think that fact can be established by circumstantial evidence, as well as any other fact in the case, and I shall so charge the jury. I will give you an exception. Mr Nathan Goodbody, you may go on with your defense after the hearing of the next witness, which is now in order."[1]

The decision of the court was both a great surprise and a disappointment to the defendant's young counsel. Considering the fact that the body of the man supposed to have been murdered had never been found, and that his death had been assumed from his sudden disappearance, and the finding of his personal articles scattered on the river bluff, together with the broken edge of the bluff and the traces of some object having been thrown down the precipice at that point, and the fact that the State was relying upon the testimony of the eavesdropping Swede to prove confession by the prisoner, he still had not been prepared for the testimony of this witness that he had heard the accused say that he had killed his cousin, and that it had been his intention to kill him. He was dismayed, but he had not entirely lost confidence in his legal defense, even now that the judge had ruled against him. There was still the Supreme Court.

He quickly determined that he would shift his attack from the court, where he had been for the time repulsed, and endeavor to convince the jury that the fact that Peter Junior was really dead had not "been proven beyond a reasonable doubt."

Applying to the court for a short recess to give him time to consult with his client, he used the time so given in going over with the prisoner the situation in which the failure of his legal defense had left them. He had hoped to arrest the trial on the point he had made so as to eliminate entirely the hearing of further testimony,—that of Betty Ballard,—and also to avoid the necessity of having his client sworn, which last was inevitable if Betty's testimony was taken.

He had never been able to rid himself of the impression left upon his mind when first he heard the story from his client's lips, that there was in it an element of coincidence—too like dramatic fiction, or that if taken ideally, it was above the average juryman's head.

He admonished the prisoner that when he should be called upon for his testimony, he must make as little as possible of the fact of their each being scarred on the hip, and scarred on the head, the two cousins dramatically marked alike, and that he must in no way allude to his having seen Betty Ballard in the prison alone.

"That was a horrible mistake. You must cut it out of your testimony unless they force it. Avoid it. And you must make the jury see that your return was a matter of—of—well, conscience—and so forth."

"I must tell the truth. That is all that I can do," said the prisoner, wearily. "The judge is looking this way,—shall we—"

Nathan Goodbody rose quickly. "If the court please, we are ready to proceed."

Then at last Betty Ballard was called to the witness stand. The hour had come for which all the village had waited, and the fame of the trial had spread beyond the village, and all who had known the boys in their childhood and in their young manhood, and those who had been their companions in arms—men from their own regiment—were there. The matter had been discussed among them more or less heatedly and now the court room could not hold the crowds that thronged its doors.

At this time, unknown to any of the actors in the drama, three strangers, having made their way through the crowd outside the door, were allowed to enter, and stood together in the far corner of the court room unnoticed by the throng, intently watching and listening. They had arrived from the opposite sides of the earth, and had met at the village hotel. Larry had spied the younger man first, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, or why, he walked up to him, and spoke, involuntarily holding out his hand to him.

"Tell me who you are," he said, ere Richard could surmise what was happening.

"My name is Kildene," said Richard, frankly. "Have you any reason for wishing to know me?"

For the moment he thought his interlocutor might be a detective, or one who wished to verify a suspicion. Having but that moment arrived, and knowing nothing of the trial which was going on, he could think only of his reason for his return to Leauvite, and was glad to make an end of incognito and sorrowful durance, and wearisome suspense, and he did not hesitate, nor try any art of concealment. He looked directly into Larry's eyes, almost defiantly for an instant, then seeing in that rugged face a kindly glint of the eye and a quiver about the mouth, his heart lightened and he grasped eagerly the hand held out to him.

"Perhaps you will tell me whom you are? I suppose I ought to know, but I've been away from here a long time."

Then the older man's hand fell a-trembling in his, and did not release him, but rather clung to him as if he had had a shock.

"Come over here and sit beside me a moment, young man—I—I've—I'm not feeling as strong as I look. I—I've a thing to tell you. Sit down—sit down. We are alone? Yes. Every one's gone to the trial. I'm on here from the West myself to attend it."

"The trial! What trial?"

"You've heard nothing of it? I was thinking maybe you were also—were drawn here—you've but just come?"

"I've been here long enough to engage a room—which I shan't want long. No, I've come for no trial exactly—maybe it might come to that—? What have you to tell me?"

But Larry Kildene sat silent for a time before replying. An eager joy had seized him, and a strange reticence held his tongue tied, a fear of making himself known to this son whom he had never seen since he had held him in his arms, a weak, wailing infant, thinking only of his own loss. This dignified, stalwart young man, so pleasant to look upon—no wonder the joy of his heart was a terrible joy, a hungering, longing joy akin to pain! How should he make himself known? In what words? A thousand thoughts crowded upon him. From Betty's letter he knew something of the contention now going on in the court room, and from the landlord last evening he had heard more, and he was impatient to get to the trial.

Now this encounter with his own son,—the only one who could set all right,—and who yet did not know of the happenings which so imperatively required his presence in the court room, set Larry Kildene's thoughts stammering and tripping over each other in such a confusion of haste, and with it all the shyness before the great fact of his unconfessed fatherhood, so overwhelmed him, that for once his facile Irish nature did not help him. He was at a loss for words, strangely abashed before this gentle-voiced, frank-faced, altogether likable son of his. So he temporized and beat about the bush, and did not touch first on that which was nearest his heart.

"Yes, yes. I've a thing to tell you. You came here to be at a—a—trial—did you say, or intimate it might be? If—if—you'll tell me a bit more, I maybe can help you—for I've seen a good bit of the world. It's a strange trial going on here now—I've come to hear."

"Tell me something about it," said Richard, humoring the older man's deliberation in arriving at his point.

"It's little I know yet. I've come to learn, for I'm interested in the young man they're trying to convict. He's a sort of a relative of mine. I wish to see fair play. Why are you here? Have you done anything—what have you done?"

The young man moved restlessly. He was confused by the suddenness of the question, which Larry's manner deprived of any suggestion of rudeness.

"Did I intimate I had done anything?" He laughed. "I'm come to make a statement to the proper ones—when I find them. I'll go over now and hear a bit of this trial, since you mention it."

He spoke sadly and wearily, but he felt no resentment at the older man's inquisitiveness. Larry's face expressed too much kindliness to make resentment possible, but Richard was ill at ease to be talking thus intimately with a stranger who had but just chanced upon him. He rose to leave.

"Don't go. Don't go yet. Wait a bit—God, man! Wait! I've a thing to tell you." Larry leaned forward, and his face worked and tears glistened in his eyes as he looked keenly up into his son's face. "You're a beautiful lad—a man—I'm—You're strong and fine—I'm ashamed to tell it you—ashamed I've never looked on you since then—until now. I should have given all up and found you. Forgive me. Boy!—I'm your father—your father!" He rose and stood looking levelly in his son's eyes, holding out both shaking hands. Richard took them in his and held them—but could not speak.

The constraint of witnesses was not upon them, for they were quite alone on the piazza, but the emotion of each of them was beyond words. Richard swallowed, and waited, and then with no word they both sat down and drew their chairs closer together. The simple act helped them.

"I've been nigh on to a lifetime longing for you, lad."

"And I for you, father."

"That's the name I've been hungering to hear—"

"And I to speak—" Still they looked in each other's eyes. "And we have a great deal to tell each other! I'm almost sorry—that—that—that I've found you at last—for to do my duty will be harder now. I had no one to care—particularly before—unless—"

"Unless a lass, maybe?"

"One I've been loving and true to—but long ago given up—we won't speak of her. We'll have to talk a great deal, and there's so little time! I must—must give myself up, father, to the law."

"Couldn't you put it off a bit, lad?"

Larry could not have told why he kept silent so long in regard to the truth of the trial. It might have been a vague liking to watch the workings of his son's real self and a desire to test him to the full. From a hint dropped in Betty's letter he guessed shrewdly at the truth of the situation. He knew now that Richard and his young friend of the mountain top were actuated by the same motives, and he understood at last why Harry King would never accept his offer of help, nor would ever call him father. Because he could not take the place of the son, of whom, as he thought, he had robbed the man who so freely offered him friendship—and more than friendship. At last Larry understood why Peter Junior had never yielded to his advances. It was honor, and the test had been severe.

"Put it off a little? I might—I'm tempted—just to get acquainted with my father—but I might be arrested, and I would prefer not to be. I know I've been wanted for three years and over—it has taken me that long to learn that only the truth can make a man free,—and now I would rather give myself up, than to be taken—"

"I'm knowing maybe more of the matter than you think—so we'll drop it. We must have a long talk later—but tell me now in a few words what you can."

Then, drawn by the older man's gentle, magnetic sympathy, Richard unlocked his heart and told all of his life that could be crowded in those few short minutes,—of his boyhood's longings for a father of his own—of his young manhood's love, of his flight, and a little of his later life. "We'd be great chums, now, father,—if—if it weren't for this—that hangs over me."

Then Larry could stand it no longer. He sprang up and clapped Richard on the shoulder. "Come, lad, come! We'll go to this trial together. Do you know who's being tried? No. They'll have to get this off before they can take another on. I'm thinking you'll find your case none so bad as it seems to you now. First there's a thing I must do. My brother-in-law's in trouble—but it is his own fault—still I'm a mind to help him out. He's a fine hater, that brother-in-law of mine, but he's tried to do a father's part in the past by you—and done it well, while I've been soured. In the gladness of my heart I'll help him out—I'd made up my mind to do it before I left my mountain. Your father's a rich man, boy—with money in store for you—I say it in modesty, but he who reared you has been my enemy. Now I'm going to his bank, and there I'll make a deposit that will save it from ruin."

He stood a moment chuckling, with both hands thrust deep in his pockets. "We'll go to that trial—it's over an affair of his, and he's fair in the wrong. We'll go and watch his discomfiture—and we'll see him writhe. We'll see him carry things his own way—the only way he can ever see—and then we'll watch him—man, we'll watch him—Oh, my boy, my boy! I doubt it's wrong for me to exult over his chagrin, but that's what I'm going for now. It was the other way before I met you, but the finding of you has given me a light heart, and I'll watch that brother-in-law's set-down with right good will."

He told Richard about Amalia, and asked him to wait until he fetched her, as he wished her to accompany them, but still he said nothing to him about his cousin Peter. He found Amalia descending the long flight of stairs, dressed to go out, and knew she had been awaiting him for the last half hour. Now he led her into the little parlor, while Richard paced up and down the piazza, and there, where she could see him as he passed the window to and fro, Larry told her what had come to him, and even found time to moralize over it, in his gladness.

"That's it. A man makes up his mind to do what's right regardless of all consequences or his prejudices, or what not,—and from that moment all begins to grow clear, and he sees right—and things come right. Now look at the man! He's a fine lad, no? They're both fine lads—but this one's mine. Look at him I say. Things are to come right for him, and all through his making up his mind to come back here and stand to his guns. The same way with Harry King. I've told you the contention—and at last you know who he is—but mind you, no word yet to my son. I'll tell him as we walk along. I'm to stop at the bank first, and if we tell him too soon, he'll be for going to the courthouse straight. The landlord tells me there's danger of a run on the bank to-morrow and the only reason it hasn't come to-day is that the bank's been closed all the morning for the trial. I'm thinking that was policy, for whoever heard of a bank's being closed in the morning for a trial—or anything short of a death or a holiday?"

"But if it is now closed, why do we wait to go there? It is to do nothing we make delay," said Amalia, anxiously.

"I told Decker to send word to the cashier to be there, as a deposit is to be made. If he can't be there for that, then it's his own fault if to-morrow finds him unprepared." Larry stepped out to meet Richard and introduced Amalia. He had already told Richard a little of her history, and now he gave her her own name, Manovska.

After a few moments' conversation she asked Larry: "I may keep now my own name, it is quite safe, is not? They are gone now—those for whom I feared."

"Wait a little," said Richard. "Wait until you have been down in the world long enough to be sure. It is a hard thing to live under suspicion, and until you have means of knowing, the other will be safer."

"You think so? Then is better. Yes? Ah, Sir Kildene, how it is beautiful to see your son does so very much resemble our friend."

They arrived at the bank, and Larry entered while Richard and Amalia strolled on together. "We had a friend, Harry King,"—she paused and would have corrected herself, but then continued—"he was very much like to you—but he is here in trouble, and it is for that for which we have come here. Sir Kildene is so long in that bank! I would go in haste to that place where is our friend. Shall we turn and walk again a little toward the bank? So will we the sooner encounter him on the way."

They returned and met Larry coming out, stepping briskly. He too was eager to be at the courthouse. He took his son's arm and rapidly and earnestly told him the situation as he had just heard it from the cashier. He told him that which he had been keeping back, and impressed on him the truth that unless he had returned when he did, the talk in the town was that the trial was likely to go against the prisoner. Richard would have broken into a run, in his excitement, but Larry held him back.

"Hold back a little, boy. Let us keep pace with you. There's really no hurry, only that impulse that sent you home—it was as if you were called, from all I can learn."

"It is my reprieve. I am free. He has suffered, too. Does he know yet that I too live? Does he know?"

"Perhaps not—yet, but listen to me. Don't be too hasty in showing yourself. If they did not know him, they won't know you—for you are enough different for them never to suspect you, now that they have, or think they have, the man for whom they have been searching. See here, man, hold back for my sake. That man—that brother-in-law of mine—has walked for years over my heart, and I've done nothing. He has despised me, and without reason—because I presumed to love your mother, lad, against his arrogant will. He—he—would—I will see him down in the dust of repentance. I will see him willfully convict his own son—he who has been hungering to see you—my son—sent to a prison for life—or hanged."

Richard listened, lingering as Larry wished, appalled at this revelation, until they arrived at the edge of the crowd around the door, eagerly trying to wedge themselves in wherever the chance offered.

"Oh! Sir Kildene—we are here—now what to do! How can we go in there?" said Amalia.

Larry moved them aside slowly, pushing Amalia between Richard and himself, and intimating to those nearest him that they were required within, until a passage was gradually made for the three, and thus they reached the door and so gained admittance. And that was how they came to be there, crowded in a corner, all during the testimony of Betty Ballard, unheeded by those around them—mere units in the throng trying to hear the evidence and see the principals in the drama being enacted before them.

[1] The ruling of the court upon this point was afterwards justified by the Supreme Court of Wisconsin in the case of Buel v. State, 104 Wis. 132, decided in 1899.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

BETTY BALLARD'S TESTIMONY

Betty Ballard stood, her slight figure drawn up, poised, erect, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed on the Elder's face. The silence of the great audience was so intense that the buzzing of flies circling around and around near the ceiling could be heard, while the people all leaned forward as with one emotion, their eyes on the principals before them, straining to hear, vivid, intent.

Richard saw only Betty, heeding no one but her, feeling her presence. For a moment he stood pale as death, then the red blood mounted from his heart, staining his neck and his face with its deep tide and throbbing in his temples. The Elder felt her scrutiny and looked back at her, and his brows contracted into a frown of severity.

"Miss Ballard," said the lawyer, "you are called upon to identify the prisoner in the box."

She lifted her eyes to the judge's face, then turned them upon Milton Hibbard, then fixed them again upon the Elder, but did not open her lips. She did not seem to be aware that every eye in the court room was fastened upon her. Pale and grave and silent she stood thus, for to her the struggle was only between herself and the Elder.

"Miss Ballard, you are called upon to identify the prisoner in the box. Can you do so?" asked the lawyer again, patiently.

Again she turned her clear eyes on the judge's face, "Yes, I can." Then, looking into the Elder's eyes, she said: "He is your son, Elder Craigmile. He is Peter. You know him. Look at him. He is Peter Junior." Her voice rang clear and strong, and she pointed to the prisoner with steady hand. "Look at him, Elder Craigmile; he is your son."

"You will address the jury and the court, Miss Ballard, and give your reasons for this assertion. How do you know he is Peter Craigmile, Jr.?"

Then she turned toward the jury, and holding out both hands in sudden pleading action cried out earnestly: "I know him. He is Peter Junior. Can't you see he is Peter, the Elder's son?"

"But how do you know him?"

"Because it is he. I know him the way we always know people—by just—knowing them. He is Peter Junior."

"Have you seen the prisoner before since his return to Leauvite?"

"Yes, I went to the jail and I saw him, and I knew him."

"But give a reason for your knowledge. How did you know him?"

"By—by the look in his eyes—by his hands—Oh! I just knew him in a moment. I knew him."

"Miss Ballard, we have positive proof that Peter Junior was murdered and from the lips of his murderer. The witness just dismissed says he heard Richard Kildene tell you he pushed his cousin Peter Junior over the bluff into the river. Can you deny this statement? On your sacred oath can you deny it?"

"No, but I don't have to deny it, for you can see for yourselves that Peter Junior is alive. He is not dead. He is here."

"Did Richard Kildene ever tell you he had pushed his cousin over the bluff into the river? A simple answer is required, yes, or no!"

She stood for a moment, her lips white and trembling. "Yes!"

"When did he tell you this?"

"When he came to me, just after he thought he had done it—but he was mistaken—he did not—he only thought he had done it."

"Did he tell you why he thought he had done it? Tell the court all about it."

Then Betty lifted her head and spoke rapidly—eagerly. "Because he was very angry with Peter Junior, and he wanted to kill him, and he did try to push him over, but Peter struck him, and Richard didn't truly know whether he really pushed him over or not,—for he lay there a long time before he even knew where he was, and when he came to himself again, he could not find Peter there and only his hat and things—he thought he must have done it, because that was what he was trying to do, just as everyone else has thought it—because when Peter saw him lying there, he thought he had killed Richard, and so he pushed a great stone over to make every one think he had gone over the bluff and was dead, too, and he left his hat there and the other things, and now he has come back to give himself up, just as he has said, because he could not stand it to live any longer with the thought on his conscience that he had killed Richard when he struck him. But you would not let him give himself up. You have kept on insisting he is Richard. And it is all your fault, Elder Craigmile, because you won't look to see that he is your son." She paused, panting, flushed and indignant.

"Miss Ballard, you are here as a witness," said the judge. "You must restrain yourself and answer the questions that are asked you and make no comments."

Here the Elder leaned forward and touched his attorney, and pointed a shaking hand at the prisoner and said a few words, whereat the lawyer turned sharply upon the witness.

"Miss Ballard, you have visited the prisoner since he has been in the jail?"

"Yes, I said so."

"Your Honor," said the examiner, "we all know that the son of the plaintiff was lame, but this young man is sound on both his feet. You have been told that Richard Kildene was struck on the head and this young man bears the scar above his temple—"

Richard started forward, putting his hand to his head and lifting his hair as he did so. He tried to call out, but in his excitement his voice died in his throat, and Larry seized him and held him back.

"Watch him,—watch your uncle," he whispered in his ear. "He thinks he has you there in the box and he wants you to get the worst the law will give you. Watch him! The girl understands him. See her eyes upon him. Stand still, boy; give him a chance to have his will. He'll find it bitter when he learns the truth, and 'twill do him good. Wait, man! You'll have it all in your hands later, and they'll be none the worse for waiting a bit longer. Hold on for my sake, son. I'll tell you why later, and you'll not be sorry you gave heed to me."

In these short ejaculated sentences, with his arm through Richard's, Larry managed to keep him by his side as the examiner talked on.

"Your Honor, this young lady admits that she has visited the prisoner in the jail, and can give adequate reason for her assertion that he is the man he claims to be. She tells us what occurred in that fight on the bluff—things that she was not there to see, things she could only learn from the prisoner: is there not reason to believe that her evidence has been arranged between them?"