 | XLIX.
THE DEFENCE. Lucy Arlyn |  |
49. XLIX.
THE DEFENCE.
THE appearance of this most unexpected witness
was one of those surprises which thrill a court-room
of spectators with fresh interest, and have
upon the opposing counsel the effect of a masked battery suddenly
opened.
And Lucy and Guy — what was the effect on them?
After a hush of suspense, Arlyn's voice was heard, deep,
earnest, convincing. He related how he chanced to be travelling
up the road on the evening of the murder; how he
heard shrieks and a pistol-shot; how he saw by a lightning-flash
somebody running in the bushes; and how he afterwards
stumbled over Pelt's dead body.
Here he paused, wiping his brow, and leaning feebly on the
rail. The audience took breath. Thus far, he had curiously
corroborated Mad's evidence; and Lucy felt a dreadful apprehension
that he, too, was testifying against Guy.
“Go on, sir. What next?”
“I was overcome;” and the big-hearted Benjamin's voice
thoughts against that very man, and might have done him an
injury; and to find him dead there in the woods was a good
deal of a shock. I didn't raise any alarm, nor go for help,
as maybe I ought to've done. I just got into the woods a
little ways, and sat down by a tree. I was trying to collect
myself, — for my head was buzzing, — when I heard something
like a footstep. I hearkened, and was sure there was a man
treading pretty close to me.”
“Can you describe the lay of the land and your position
at the time?”
“I can give some idea of it. Here runs the main road
east and west,” — drawing an imaginary diagram on the platform:
“here's where the murder was. Two or three rods
above is the little cross-road, which runs south, and connects
with the road that runs south-east from the village, over the
mountains, that way. Here, maybe a couple of rods from
the main road, is a bridge, where the cross-road crosses the
brook. I was in this angle, between the bridge and the dead
man.”
“That will do. Now go on.”
“The man crept by me, and seemed to be groping about
the spot of the murder, as I could see by a faint glimmer of
lightning. Pretty soon he came back, and stood within six
foot of where I was, and gave a little whistle. `Find it?' I
heard somebody say just behind me. `No! cus the pistol!'
said the one that whistled. `I won't hunt any longer.' Just
wasn't more than three yards from me, I should say. The
one that was going from me showed a side-view of his face:
the other, a little farther off, was fronting me.”
“Did you know these men?” was asked amid profound
silence, broken only by the scratching of the legal pens.
“The one fronting me I didn't know: he struck me as a
lean sort of man, with a big nose. The other I knew well
enough.”
Arlyn looked towards the prisoners' box. There sat Guy,
with his scintillating, expectant eyes fixed on him. At his
side was Madison, uneasy and sullen.
“Let that young man stand up: I mean young Biddikin.”
Mad waited to be ordered by the court, then put his chin
a little on one side, inclined his head a little on the other, set
an arm akimbo, and with an arrogant and brazen stare stood
up.
“Turn him a little around,” said the witness. “So!
There's the profile I saw in the woods!”
“And you saw no third man there?”
“No third man, except him lying in the road.”
Mad was then permitted to sit down; and he sank into his
seat with a reckless and revengeful glare, which contrasted
strongly with Guy's beaming, almost gleeful expression. The
witness continued: —
“One of the men went down to the brook, — to wash himself,
made such a noise, I couldn't hear any more that they said.
But I got up, and watched after 'em; and, when it lightened
again, I saw the same two men going off on the cross-road
together. That was the last of 'em.”
A breath of relief heaved the packed audience; and just
then a procession of sunbeams, leaping from the clouds to the
mountain-top, and sweeping across the wet green valley like
a golden squadron of fairy knights, flung their yellow banners
into the court-room windows and upon the heads of the people.
Lucy saw the bright omen through joyous, blinding tears.
But it disappeared as suddenly as it came, leaving the
court-room gloomier than before; and a chill fell upon her
heart when the cross-examination began.
“What did you mean, sir, when you said your head was
buzzing?”
“I meant I had had my feelings wrought upon, so that it
had kind of confused my faculties for the time being.”
“You had just learned that the business you intrusted to
Mr. Pelt had gone wrong?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that a member of your family had gone wrong
too?”
Arlyn gasped and nodded.
“These discoveries, made suddenly on your return home,
when you anticipated finding your property safe and your
daughter happy and respected, — they had seriously disturbed
you, had they?”
“I — I was shaken!” faltered the old man, clutching
the rail.
“Then to find the man you were in pursuit of dead in the
woods, was, you say, a very great shock? — it produced a buzzing?
How long did it continue?”
“I can't say that my head was free and clear again that
night.”
“And you remained in the woods after losing sight of the
two men?”
“I was tired, — worn out in soul and body, I may say;
and I laid down in the woods.”
“Rather wet, wasn't it?”
“I didn't mind that. I've laid on the wet ground many a
time in California” —
“Never mind your California adventures now. How long
did you lie there?”
“I can't say exactly. It might have been an hour; it
might have been two or three hours.”
“You were not in a very clear state of mind, then?”
Arlyn wiped his face again, struggling with his feelings;
then answered with the sternness of a tortured but forbearing
man, —
“I have told you.”
“Well, what did you do then?”
“I wandered about till I came to Widow Brandle's house,
who took me in.”
“Widows are very kind; they do sometimes take in folks,”
while the latter frowned with dignified contempt. “Well,
what happened after she took you in?”
“I remember she and her son behaved like Christians to
me; which I can't say of everybody. But what happened
that day and some days after is still confused in my mind;
and I wouldn't like to swear to any thing.”
“You had a fever and delirium?”
“They tell me I was a little out of my head,” said Arlyn,
leaning tremblingly on the rail.
“You have hardly recovered yet, have you?”
“I ain't strong yet; but, when I heard last night that
young Biddikin was going to turn State's evidence, I made up
my mind” —
“Never mind how you made up your mind. A member
of your family has reason to feel a strong interest in the
prisoner's welfare: is it not so?”
The old man's chest heaved, and his eyes kindled; but he
was dumb. The question was objected to by Guy's counsel.
The prosecution insisted.
“What we wish to show is that the witness has a secret
bias in favor of the prisoner. Not that he means to perjure
himself, — we acquit him entirely of any such intention;
but the confused state of mind he has been in, by his own
account, ever since the evening of the murder, renders it probable
that he will give evidence according to what he imagines
or desires, but not at all according to facts.”
Then the old man answered, —
“I have not seen my daughter; and whatever she may
feel is nothing to me. As for myself, I have no reason to
love any of the name of Bannington.”
“Then how happens it that you come here and offer yourself
as a witness for the prisoner?”
“I set out to tell you once,” said the old man grimly;
“but you seem as afraid of a grain of truth as a Mexican is
of a bullet.”
“Well, tell us now.”
“I came here because I felt that Biddikin was going to
perjure himself; and because, though I may hate a man, I
love to see justice done.”
“Then why didn't you make known before what you heard
and saw — or imagined you heard and saw — with that buzzing
head of yours?”
“I told you, I have been sick. I have but just got out
again; and, with the feeling I had towards the Banningtons,
I was in no hurry to give myself up to be teased and worried
by lawyers.”
The laugh was against the attorney; and, finding that he
was on the wrong track, he made haste to come back to the
buzzing in the head; putting the most ingenious questions to
confuse the old man, and to prove by his own admissions
that he was not a competent witness in the case. Poor Lucy
listened with dismay and grief. In vain the defence interposed.
At length, Arlyn turned to the bench.
“I ask protection. I am not well. I came here to speak
the truth, like an honest man. I have done it, to the best
of my ability; and I hope I am not to be kept here to make
sport for the Philistines.”
There was a grandeur of sorrow about the shattered stalwart
man which suited well the comparison of himself to old Samson
bound and blind. After that, the prosecution let him go,
for very shame.
Colonel Bannington was called, lifted upon the platform in
his chair, and sworn. He testified respecting the gold which
was flung in at his window, and footsteps which were found
outside next morning. And now Archy turned ghastly
where he stood, and Lucy trembled.
“I knew the footsteps,” said the colonel. “I can swear
very positively about them. They were made by a pair of
boots which used to belong to me. They had very peculiar
heels;” which he proceeded to explain. “I never had but
two such pairs of boots, or saw any others like them.”
At this point, Archy would certainly have sunk to the floor
but that the crowd in which he was jammed held him up.
Guy looked more uneasy than he had at any moment during
the trial; and Lucy believed that all was over.
“The footsteps,” continued the colonel, “were made that
night, and made by a pair of those boots. I gave one pair
to Madison Biddikin last summer, when he worked for me:
I believe he stole the other pair; for they disappeared about
the same time.”
Mad gave a snort of angry contempt. It was well he did
not know — it was well the colonel did not know — that a
pair of those boots were pinching Archy's feet at the moment.
They had been presented to him by Guy, and worn by him
on the evening when he disposed of the gold for Lucy. Had
but his name been mentioned in connection with them, he
would have been summoned to the stand, and Mad would
have remembered seeing him near Bannington's orchard that
night, and the gold would have been traced back to Lucy
and to Guy. It was a narrow escape: his name was not
mentioned, — not even during the cross-examination, when the
colonel was asked if he had had no other person at work for him
to whom he might have given a pair of the boots, and forgotten
the circumstance. He swore very roundly on that point;
and Archy, squeezing himself out of the press, and gaining
the open air, felt like one delivered, weak and shaking, from
the jaws of lions. The first thing he did was to hurry home
and change his boots; thus missing the most exciting part of
the trial.
For, when the defence had got their evidence all in, then
came the rebutting testimony of the other side. Abner was
recalled; and Mrs. Pinworth was brought upon the stand to
testify to Arlyn's mental state the evening before and the
morning after the murder. Little was accomplished with
these witnesses. It then became highly important to refute
the evidence concerning the boots and the gold. The testimony
of Madison, on which so much reliance had been
prosecution, after a whispered conference, resolved, that, all
things considered, they ought to “risk the Arlyn girl.”
And Lucy's name was called in open court.
With a great bound of the heart, she heard. Every thing
turned dark to her for a minute; then a hand touched her
arm.
“You will have to go. Be strong,” said Jehiel.
He assisted her. She was conscious of rising in a sort of
stupor, and of walking blindly where he led and her mechanically-moving
feet carried her, but noted nothing distinctly
till she found herself on the platform, seated, veiled,
in a chair.
Then she knew what the noise was that sounded in her
ears like the rushing of waters. It was the stirring of the
multitude, — the human sea, upon which, like a weak weed,
she was momentarily heaved and tossed.
All round, from floor to gallery, and from wall to wall, in
windows and doors, and in spaces beyond windows and doors,
heads upon heads, and faces beyond faces, was one vast
staring, eager, tip-toe throng, devouring her with its thousand
eyes.
“Will you please remove your veil?” said a voice.
She uncovered her face. A shadow and a hush fell instantly
upon all that numerous assemblage. Especially those
were touched — and they were many — who had known her
in the bloom of her beauty, and now saw her first since the
spirit of herself, — lovely still, and all so white
and thin, that even strangers, who had never seen her till
then, were thrilled with pity and awe.
She did not look about her. She dared not see her father,
whose irrepressible groan she heard. She felt Colonel Bannington's
glittering eyes. One glimpse of Guy's anxious,
melting look of love was all she could bear. Chancing then,
she knew not why, to lift a glance to the gallery, she saw
fixed upon her Christina's burning gaze. Still less did she
know why, from that moment, strength flowed into her; or
why, when the Book was given her to kiss, and the memory
of the truth she must now speak came with a shock, she
grew so calm and firm.
She was asked, did she know the prisoner?
“I do,” she said; and her voice, though low, was so
clear, that it was heard to the farthest part of the house.
Did she see him on the night of the murder? And she
said, in the same silvery, distinct voice, —
“I cannot answer.”
The attorney smiled persuasively, reminding her that she
had taken an oath to utter the truth.
“Yes, sir, — the truth,” she said, and drew a long
breath.
“Then why cannot you answer?”
“Because” —
She paused, then lifted her eyes as if making a solemn
as she added, —
“A wife cannot give evidence concerning her husband.”
The attorney smiled incredulously.
“Do you mean to assert that you are the prisoner's wife?”
“I am his lawful wife.”
Guy dropped his face in his hands, and shook convulsively
an instant; then lifted it again, shining with joy and tears.
And now the spectators began to grasp the full significance
of her words, — HIS WIFE! They were buzzed from mouth
to mouth. The sensations awakened by the beauty and distress
of Lucy could no longer be repressed. The murmur
began simultaneously in all parts of the house: it was taken
up by the crowd without, and greeted with cheers; and
finally the entire multitude gave way to its enthusiasm in a
burst of applause.
This noisy and irregular demonstration was quickly hushed;
not by the officers, who bestirred themselves in vain, but by
an incident which changed the general joy and admiration
back again to pity and suspense. Lucy had risen to hand a
paper to the judge, — her marriage certificate. Then her
strength failed her; she reeled. With a cry, her father
sprang forward, and she fell fainting in his arms.
| XLIX.
THE DEFENCE. Lucy Arlyn | |