The Eye of Dread Part 59

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

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 ident.i.ty 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 circ.u.mstantial 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 a.s.sumed 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--G.o.d, 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 la.s.s, 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."