HERMIONE'S ADVOCATE
Durgan felt very curious to know whether Theodore Alden, the well-known
lawyer, would appear. He knew little about him except that his name was
always in the papers in connection with the law courts, with
philanthropic schemes and religious enterprise of an evangelical sort.
Report said various things--that he would plead in no case in which he
did not believe his cause to be right--that his integrity was in excess
of his brains, and was the only argument he offered worthy of a juror's
consideration--or, that the huge fees given him were often bribes to use
his reputation in the service of crime, and that his diabolical
cleverness was only equaled by his hypocrisy. These conflicting views
partly arose from the fact that he had gained some notorious cases in
the face of strong public opinion, and in one case, at least, it seemed
against all the weight of evidence.
Whatever Alden's character, it was certain that his hands would at any
time be more than full of affairs. Bertha had only given him half a day
and a night in which to prepare for the journey. Durgan had no sanguine
hope of having his curiosity satisfied as soon as she expected.
Yet, on the very next day, at evening, some twenty hours before the time
Bertha had set, a carriage from Hilyard drove up, and while the horses
were resting, a dapper, townbred Northerner jumped out to inspect his
surroundings.
The stranger was about sixty years of age. He had a pale face, a trim
gray beard, a brisk manner, a fineness of dress, which all carried a
whiff of New York atmosphere into the lateral mica cutting, which was as
yet but a shallow cave. As soon as he perceived the nature of Durgan's
work, he took an almost exhaustive interest in mica, although it was
probable that he had never even thought of the product in its rough
state before.
In vain Durgan tried to discern solitude or impatience in the face of
the stranger. He had no doubt heard of the deed with which the county
was ringing, on his way from Hilyard, but that could hardly have put his
mind at rest concerning Bertha's enigmatical telegram.
When the horses were ready, the traveler and his luggage went on. The
carriage soon returned empty. Durgan heard no more till the next day.
He had prevailed upon the old General to ride to Hilyard to try to
obtain Adam's release, and after waiting impatiently for the result,
heard by a messenger late that evening that Adam must abide his trial.
Durgan was proportionately angry and distressed.
In this mood Bertha found him the morning after the lawyer arrived. She
was somewhat less troubled than on the last occasion, but showed
confusion in explaining her errand. She said that Alden was coming at
once to see Durgan.
She added, "When I sent for him, and was so terribly frightened, I--I
thought I could tell him all that I feared."
"It matters less that you should tell him what you fear, but you must
tell him all that you know."
"Oh, Mr. Durgan, that is just what I cannot do--now that he is here."
"You must. One innocent man, at least, is most falsely accused. Do you
think poor Adam is not made of the same flesh as you are? Think of the
agony of being accused of killing one whom you fondly loved, whom you
were bound to protect. Even if he is not hanged, every hour that he lies
in jail is unutterable misery to him."
"Alas! who can know that better than I?" she asked.
There was conviction in her tone. She raised her face to his; then
suddenly flushed and covered it with her hands. "You don't know? We
thought you must have guessed; but Mr. Alden will tell you. Oh, Mr.
Durgan, try to think of us as we are, not as the world thinks,
and--there! he is coming."
They listened a moment to approaching footsteps.
Bertha took hold of Durgan's sleeve in her intensity. "Don't tell him
anything I have said," she whispered.
"Child!" he said a little sharply, "I must."
Her intensity grew. "For Hermie's sake, don't. I will do anything you
tell me in defense of Adam. I will--yes, I promise--I will tell you all
I know, all I fear, only promise me this." She was clinging to his arm
in tears.
He gave promise grudgingly. "Not before I see you again, then."
"In spite of whatever he may tell you?"
"I have promised," he said with displeasure.
She had gone on, and the lawyer tripped jauntily down the path. He
brought with him the suggestion of hope. He presented his card with an
almost quaint formality. His manner was old-fashioned. He admired the
superb view, paid a few compliments to old Georgian families and to the
Durgans in particular, and apologized for his unceremonious intrusion
the previous evening. He went on, in elegant and precise diction, to say
that he understood from his clients at the summit house that Durgan
could give him details concerning the recent deplorable death of a
colored woman who had been in their employment.
Durgan conducted him to the place where Eve was found, and to Adam's now
empty cabin. They discussed the facts that no knife had been found, that
the fern had taken no print of feet. Then Durgan described his first
sight of 'Dolphus and the interview. He was growing very tired of a
statement that he had already been obliged to make more than once.
Alden took notes and gave no sign of opinion.
"The mulatto did it," said Durgan, sternly.
"Very probably, my dear sir; but there is as yet no proof. In such a
place, whoever did it could throw the knife where it would remain hidden
forever. There is no proof that this mulatto committed the deed before
he went down the mountain; none that Adam did not do it when he returned
later."
"Adam is a better man than I am. I am as certain of him as of myself."
"I entirely take your word for it. I am convinced by what you say. But
men of the law, my dear sir, think only of what will convince the men in
the box."
Having told all this of his own accord, Durgan became aware that in the
course of conversation he was being questioned, and very closely.
Where had he gone when he left the sisters? How long had he rested?
Where did he go then? Why did he wait? Did he remember exactly the place
in which he waited? None of these questions were asked in categorical
form, yet he had soon rather reluctantly told his every movement, except
what he had seen of Miss Smith's actions when the moon rose, and the
location of the particular tree. He was wholly determined that what he
had so unexpectedly spied should never pass his lips.
"You were very kind in guarding the house. This colored man was
evidently a dangerous character. You had reason, no doubt, for
suspecting that he would be about at that hour, Mr. Durgan?"
"I knew nothing about his movements. I can tell you nothing more."
"Can you be sure that he made no attempt to enter the house that
evening?"
"He could hardly have done that?"
"You were in the house all the evening, and then watched it till you
heard the alarming sound of this poor woman's last breath. You are sure
that he did not come or go from the house in that time?"
"Have you any reason to suppose he did?"
"Suppose, merely for the sake of argument, that I had reason to suspect
he did, can you deny it?"
"I am sure he did not."
"Could you swear to it in a court of justice?"
"No. It was impossible for me to watch every door. I expected him from
one direction, and watched only that. I should have expected the dogs to
bark if he came within the paling."
"Ah! Then you could not swear that anyone who could silence the dogs
might have left the house." The lawyer relapsed into significant
silence.