 | XLVIII.
THE PROSECUTION. Lucy Arlyn |  |
48. XLVIII.
THE PROSECUTION.
THE long-dreaded day at last! Such days come
as punctually as any. We cannot perceive that
our misery makes any difference with them. The
great, dull, grinding wheel does not stop to consider what it is
crushing. Over hearts, or over flowers, it rolls the same.
Even the day of the crucifixion did not shirk its place in the
calendar; did not delay its awful coming; but rose and set
duly like the rest.
Lucy thinks of this, and with an inward prayer rises to
meet the inevitable. The day her baby was buried came and
went, remorseless. She knows, that, if Guy is soon to end
his career on the scaffold, the still sheeny morning of the
execution will arrive and smile upon it, and the night will
follow with its stars and dew. And this, the day of the trial,
when the secret she carries in her heart may be wrenched
from her by the torture of the law, — this day, now dawning,
will pass the same; and it cannot be shunned.
The forenoon is gloomy, drizzling, and chill. She takes
southward by this road, — when Guy made her flight from
him a flight with him, and, in spite of herself, she was glad!
How different that morning from this; that freshness and
splendor from this drizzle and gloom; the heart-beats then
from these heart-beats now!
Jehiel took her to the Mount-Solomon House; and, as if
by a fatality, she was given the same room she occupied on
her return thither with Guy from their journey. She sat down
by the window with a wrung heart, and looked for the summit
of the mountain, on whose glory she feasted her eyes that
day. But it was hidden now; plunged in stormy cloud, and
draped in lowering mist. And the streets she looked down
upon then, — the pleasant village streets, — they were wet
and gusty now, and traversed by the wheels and umbrellas
of people thronging to the court-house.
She was sitting near a door which separated her room from
the next, and which divided not the rooms only, but also, as
doors do so often, two worlds: on one side Lucy, gazing across
the rainy common towards the court-house, supposing that her
lover's fate was to be decided there, and not here so near her;
while on the other side, at that very moment, within six feet
of her, sat the district-attorney writing, every stroke of whose
swift pen was a thread in the black cordon he was twisting
for Guy's neck.
Presently somebody entered that other room, and Lucy
heard voices.
“It's my opinion it must be done. What we want is to
strike a deadly blow against spiritualism, which is at the bottom
of this whole affair.”
“That's true; and I mean to get Bannington convicted,
if the thing is possible.”
“It's sure, if we put in young Biddikin's evidence. Jinket
is sure he can swear to as straight a story as ever a witness
did; and it will tell with the jury better than any thing
else we can produce: for we don't want to risk the Arlyn
girl, unless we are obliged to; though there ain't much doubt
but that she knows about the gold. My advice is, that we
hold her in reserve, and use Biddikin. What do you think?”
So much, Lucy, terror-struck, could overhear; and the
speakers departed together.
How, after this, she got through the hours of that morning,
it would be hard to say. Jehiel, who had promised to bring
her the news from time to time, seemed to have forgotten her.
She could only watch the court-house through the dark wet
trees, and imagine what was doing within: the blood-thirsty
attorneys, the gaping crowd, and Guy in the midst, — Guy,
whom she had lost, but whom she loved still with undying
love.
At length, some one came. Faint with fear, she opened the
door, and let in Archy.
“I see Jehiel over t' the court; and, 's he 'xpects to have
to go on to the stand agin, he can't leave, and wanted me to
come and tell you.”
“You are not a witness!”
“Me? — no: guess they don't want nothin' of me; though
I guess, if they knew! I heard some men say the most that's
wanted is a clew to that gold” —
“'Sh!” said the terrified Lucy, thinking of the thin doors.
“Speak low! What are they doing?”
From what he had witnessed, Archy was convinced that it
was all going against Guy, This, as Lucy particularly questioned
him, he was compelled to admit. “But,” he added
to comfort her, “t'other side's to be heard next: then we'll
hear a different story.”
He returned to the court-room; and again she waited, —
waited. After long, dismal, rainy hours, Jehiel came in
with a countenance gloomy as the weather.
“Tell me at once — every thing — the worst!” she said
in a breath.
“The lawyers are having a battle about a witness the prosecution
wants, and the other side don't. Mad Biddikin —
he has offered to turn State's evidence.”
“And that will kill Guy! Oh, I know!”
“If the court rules that he can be admitted, then the jury
will take his testimony for what it appears to be worth; which
isn't much, in my judgment,” said Jehiel. “We'll know
to-morrow.”
So there was to be another day of terrible anxiety. Lucy
resolved not to pass it there in that room, lonely, waiting.
Any thing would be better than that.
Next morning, it was raining still. At an early hour she
entered the court-room with Jehiel, who placed her in the
witnesses' box. The places for spectators were already crowded,
and more without were trying to get in; for the public interest
in the trial was intense. Soon the judges appeared,
and gravely composed themselves on the bench; the jurymen
settled in their places, old-fashioned fellows mostly, joking
a little among themselves to show that they felt altogether
at their ease; the lawyers bustled within the bar; and Lucy,
unregarded and unknown, looked through her veil at the somehow
ghastly spectacle.
There were many faces she knew; and among them she
recognized, with a start of pain, Aunt Pinworth, unusually
pale and prim, and Sophy, unusually flushed, fanning themselves.
What had brought them here? And who was taking
leave of them, — the large-framed, gray-haired man, with his
back towards Lucy? She almost stifled where she sat, as he
turned, and she saw the changed face of her father. He was
haggard from his recent illness; his countenance stern, — was
it with resentment against her? In vain she had tried to see
him; in vain sent to him: and now, though he walked by
within arm's-reach of her, she could not even put out her hand
to him, but there she must sit, veiled and still, with her heart
swelling and contracting with anguish and yearning.
He took his seat within the bar. What business had he
there?
A commotion in the crowd, and whispers of “Bannington!”
herself for the sight. But there came a wheeled chair
instead, — the chair we know, with the sharp-faced invalid we
know, now sharper-faced than ever, as he came to witness his
son's trial. A place was made for him within the bar: Arlyn
rose for the purpose; and the two enemies, the two fathers,
looked at each other.
So intently was Lucy watching this scene, that she did not
know when Guy entered. He was composedly seated in the
prisoners' box when she saw him. Then came silence, and
the judge talked; but she hardly knew what he was saying,
or heeded any thing but Guy's interested calm face, till Madison
was brought in.
He was accompanied by an officer and the lantern-jawed
Mr. Jinket. He was extremely pale; but he carried his
head with a resolute brazen air, and mounted the platform
with something like a swagger.
He kissed the Book, after a brief exhortation from the judge;
and the examination commenced, Guy's counsel acquiescing
with discontented looks.
“Go on, now, and tell us what you know of the murder.”
“I was loading a pistol; when Mr. Murk he come to me,
and says he” —
“Never mind the says he till you tell us when and where
this was.”
Mad's eyes gleamed as they sought Jinket's face. Jinket
nodded softly; and, having given the desired information, he
they found Guy.
“What did you do with the pistol?” asked the State's
attorney.
“I took it along with me, — thought I might shoot some
robins. But Guy claimed it, and made me give it up to him;
said he might want it for something besides birds.”
A look of indignant astonishment ruffled Guy's features a
moment, then passed; and, amid a hush of intense expectation,
Mad continued: —
“I had brought a rope, which we stretched acrost the road
as soon as it was dark, and tied with a slip-knot to a tree.
When we heard a buggy coming, I stood ready to pull the
knot loose, and let it pass if it wasn't the right one. But we
happened to ketch Pelt the first time, as we knew by his talking
to his hoss; and he got out, just as we expected, to see
what had stopped him.”
Mad explained circumstantially the way the rope was
arranged, while every ear was strained to listen. Then he
went on: —
“It was awful dark. I was feeling in the wagon for the
money, — for we didn't know just where he would carry it, —
when all to once I heard a squabble, and Pelt screamed,
`Murder!' Then there was a flash of lightning, and I
saw Pelt on the ground, hanging on to somebody that was
trying to shake him off.”
“Who was that somebody?”
Mad hesitated, and cast his eyes restlessly about him for a
moment; then rubbed his forehead.
“Must I say who it was?”
“You have volunteered to take the oath, and you can keep
nothing back now.”
“It was Guy Bannington!” said Mad. “He was half on
his feet, trying to get rid of Pelt. Murk stood close by, with
the bag of gold in his hand. Then I heard Guy say, `Boys,
he knows us: what shall we do?' And Murk said, `Do
what is necessary to the brother!'”
“Go on. What next?”
“Next I heard the pistol go off. Pelt just give one groan,
and that was all. Then the horse was scaret, and broke the
rope, or else Pelt had got it untied. He knocked Guy over
as he run, and made him drop the pistol. He and Murk
tried to find it, but thought they heard somebody coming: so
we all run into the woods.”
“Was there anybody?”
“We concluded there wasn't, as we didn't hear any thing
more. Guy took the gold; and we went over with him by the
cross road to the south road, and down almost to Mrs. Brandle's,
when he told us to go home and keep quiet. Then he
got over the fence, and went towards the woods again; and,
supposing he was bound for Jehiel Hedge's, we turned round,
and went back.”
“Why did you think he was going there?”
“He was owing Jehiel money. Besides,” — Mad
and see sometimes.”
He paused. The audience moved and rustled with excitement.
The jury stirred in their seats, and looked sweaty
and convinced. The colonel was white as a sheet. Even
Lucy, who up to this time, notwithstanding every circumstance
against Guy, had cherished a secret faith that he was
not the murderer, was overwhelmed by the general conviction
of his guilt. For a time, all things looked dizzy and blurred
to her. She heard with ringing ears the sharp cross-examination,
by which the counsel for the defence vainly endeavored
to entangle Mad in his statements. She saw dimly, as
through a mist, her father conversing with one of the lawyers.
Then all seemed ended. Mad was placed in the prisoners'
box near Guy, and Mr. Jinket came and leaned over the rail
near him with a satisfied air; and the prosecuting-attorneys
smiled triumphant.
Well they might. They whispered together a moment, and
probably concluded not to “risk the Arlyn girl.” Accordingly,
one of them arose, and announced, that, although they
had other witnesses, they considered their case so well established,
that the production of further evidence on their part
would be superfluous.
Then the junior counsel for the defence leaped to his feet.
He congratulated the jury. They had already, he said, been
sufficiently nauseated with perjury.
“You have listened with patience; so have we, — although
on our hats, and walking out of a court where such a
gross outrage against justice and common sense was persisted
in by the learned counsel of the other side.
“They have called a dozen or more witnesses; and what
have they proved? First, that a murder has been committed;
which nobody denies. Second, that the prisoner laid claim
to the money, which was to be paid by the Germans for the
farm given him by his father; and that he was naturally
anxious about it, having good reason to distrust his agent,
whom he therefore wished to meet on his return home with
the proceeds of the sale. This is all they have proved; and
all this we readily admit. But that he did meet his agent as
alleged, or that the gold ever passed into his hands, has not
been proved, and cannot be proved.”
This was spoken with an emphasis which lighted a gleam
of satisfaction in the faces of all who sympathized with the
prisoner, — save one. Paler still under its veil grew that face.
Could not be proved? Lucy knew!
The speaker proceeded to state his case, promising the jury
that they should soon see the evidence of Biddikin's perjured
son completely demolished, and the innocence of the prisoner
as completely established.
He sat down, and the first witness for the defence was
called, —
“Benjamin Arlyn.”
And Lucy's father stepped upon the platform.
| XLVIII.
THE PROSECUTION. Lucy Arlyn | |