THE DOCTOR'S EVIDENCE.
Out upon the steps of the court house were a couple of men who had been
Mrs. Allen's neighbors, and had known Katharine from childhood. There
they stood, unable to gain entrance to the court--talking one to the
other in subdued voices.
At last, a man from the same neighborhood forced his way through the
crowd upon the stairs and hurried up to the spot where they stood.
The men turned toward him with eager questions, while he wiped his face
with a huge silk pocket handkerchief, breathing hard, like a man who had
been engaged in some painful struggle.
"How do they get on, Mr. Amos?" asked one of the men.
"They've just had her mother up," he answered, in a low voice. "I
couldn't stand it a minit longer--I felt as if I was choking to death."
"What did she say?"
"Oh, it wasn't that. She went toward the stand quiet enough, but just as
they held the Bible out to her she looked up at Katharine, and begun to
shake so that one of the constables had to take hold of her."
"What did the girl do?"
"She kind o' raised herself and looked at her mother. I can't tell you
what it was like. I've seen a lamb look like it when the knife was at
its throat. The old woman tried to stand up firm, but when she saw that
poor cretur she just laid her head down on the railing and begun
shaking and sobbing like every thing, but she didn't shed a single tear.
When she lifted her head again, Katharine looked at her and smiled. She
did actually, but it was enough to break a man's heart. I'd rather a
seen her cry right out a thousand times."
The farmer paused here, took out his silk handkerchief again, and turned
his face away.
"Poor gal," muttered one of his listeners; "it seems as if it was only
yesterday I see her dancing about like a little poppet, with her curls
hanging down her shoulders. I can't believe she did it, I can't, in
spite of every thing; 'taint in natur."
"What's that they are saying?" cried one of the group. "The doctor's
called up; I want to hear his evidence. Come, let's try and crowd in."
The two men joined forces, and elbowed their way into the court room
again, not unfriendly to the poor girl, as our readers have seen, but
resolved against losing a single feature of the scene they had come ten
miles to witness.
It was, indeed, the doctor whose name had been called. He was enrolled
among the witnesses of the prosecution; but those who knew that
eccentric, but really great man, had an idea that, in attempting to
criminate the poor girl by that witness, the law would find its match.
The lawyers themselves partook somewhat of this feeling, and rather
shrunk from the keen sarcasm and sly wit with which he was likely to
retort upon any professional encroachment. As for his old neighbors, the
doctor's evidence was a point in the trial which engaged their keenest
interest. They held a sort of property right in the doctor's reputation
for curt eccentricity, and were anxious to pit him against the lawyers
in the most striking manner before the assembled wisdom of all
Connecticut.
Thus, hundreds of faces, familiar about Bungy, Falls Hill, and
Chewstown, brightened eagerly when the doctor's name was called out, and
murmurs ran through the crowd that now those city lawyers would find
their match. No mistake about it!
The doctor, who had been sitting in a corner of the court room, watching
the proceedings with vigilant attention, heard his name called, and
arose. You would hardly have known the man, as he made a slow progress
toward the witness stand. The usual quaint smile had left his lips, and
his eyes, always full of droll or sarcastic humor, were bright with the
dignity of an earnest purpose. He stood upon the witness stand, leaning
heavily on his crutches; but, notwithstanding this disadvantage, a
dignity was imparted to his presence that no one could resist--you would
not have believed that a droll saying had ever passed those lips.
The prisoner leaned forward, clasped her hands, and pressing them
heavily on her lap, looked at him in wild dismay. The change in all his
features struck her with terror; it seemed as if he had suddenly turned
her enemy.
The doctor observed this wild astonishment, and his face softened a
little; nay, those stern features began to quiver, and he was obliged to
look down a moment to recover himself.
"May it please the Court," he said at length, motioning the person away
who came forward to administer the oath. "I am a physician, and bound by
a professional oath not to reveal the secrets of my patient. I am not
sure that any knowledge which I have would bear against this poor girl,
and from the depths of my heart I believe her innocent, but I ask to be
excused from bearing evidence in the case."
There was a moment's consultation among the counsel. That for the
prosecution sprung up as if there had been high treason in the doctor's
speech, and insisted that no distinctions should be made in his favor. A
great crime had been committed against the Commonwealth, an unnatural
crime, and the ends of justice demanded that every means should be used
for obtaining the truth. The judge yielded to, or rather sustained his
argument, and the doctor was courteously desired to take the oath.
A gleam in the doctor's eye, and a keen glance at the prosecuting
attorney, prepared his friends for a sharp encounter of wits, but he was
a man to rise steadily with the occasion. Terrible interests were at
stake here, and his true character rose out of its eccentricity. He took
the oath reverently, and stated the facts already known to the reader,
in a clear, impressive manner that told greatly upon the jury, but
sheltering himself within the strict limits of the law, he volunteered
nothing, neither did he shrink from any question propounded to him; all
this struck his friends with a sort of awe. They were profoundly
impressed by the dignity of his course, but a little disappointed,
nevertheless. Once the doctor turned and looked anxiously on the
prisoner. It was when the lawyer asked if Katharine had exhibited any
anxiety to conceal the birth of her child from the neighbors--if, in
fact, she had not requested the doctor to keep it a secret.
The doctor hesitated, moved uneasily, and half wheeled around, as if
determined to leave the witness stand, for he knew what effect his
answer would have.
Katharine leaned more decidedly toward him, and while the court was
hushed under a general anxiety to hear his reply, her sweet, clear voice
penetrated through the silence.
"Speak, doctor; I did ask you not to tell--I was afraid of what they
would think."
The officer stepped forward to enforce silence, and the prisoner shrunk
back affrighted.
Now the doctor's stern lip began to quiver, and his keen eyes flashed
sharp as steel through the tears that shot into them, for the first
time, perhaps, since his manhood.
"Yes," he said, "if you will force me to it--she did make this request;
but it was only for a little delay. The poor child wished her secret
kept till some one should return."
"And who was that person?"
Katharine's lips parted, and she held her breath with keen interest till
the answer was given.
"I do not know."
"And she never told you?"
"She never did."
"And you have no suspicion who this person was?"
"Suspicion is not evidence. I have no knowledge."
The questions now took a professional turn, and the doctor's evidence
bore strongly in favor of the prisoner. His deep knowledge, and clear
elucidation of medical theories bearing on the case, made a deep
impression upon the jury, and threw out gleams of light that were
adopted with avidity by the defence.
Indeed, the doctor, acting himself under a clear conviction of the
prisoner's innocence, contributed more than any other person in
fastening the same idea upon the court. But one terrible fact remained
immovable--the burial of the child. The apparent forethought by which
this had been accomplished. The time seized upon during the absence of
the mother. What eloquence could sweep these fatal truths from the case?
None, none!