THE ARREST.
Jack Percy had been lain to rest beside his father and mother and old
Roger in the family cemetery at Beechwood. The rain, which fell so
heavily in Oak City, extended as far as Washington, and the Percy party
were shivering with cold and drenched to the skin when they returned to
the hotel. Mrs. Percy’s house was rented for the summer, and Paul had
secured rooms at the Arlington,—the best the house could give him, for
he knew that the luxury of handsome surroundings would do much towards
comforting Clarice. It was to have been their wedding day, and the sharp
contrast was bitter and hard to bear. He had suggested that they be
married quietly at once and go away by themselves, but Clarice would not
listen.
“I was not so kind to Jack while living that I can afford to insult his
memory now,” she said. “Six months is as soon as I can possibly consider
it.”
In her heavy black she did not look much like the brilliant bride Paul
had hoped to have that day, and his stay at the Arlington was anything
but pleasant, and he was very glad when the day came to return home. Had
he known what was before him, he would have shrunk from it in fear; but
he did not know, and with every moment was drawing nearer to his fate.
Some of those who saw Paul pass Miss Hansford’s cottage just before the
shooting, and had heard what Elithe said, had told what they heard and
saw, while the revolver, with “P. R.” upon it, had been found in Miss
Hansford’s linen chest, and Oak City was in a ferment of excitement. At
first, the public talked in whispers behind closed doors,—then aloud in
the streets, where knots of people gathered to repeat and hear the last
bit of gossip and conjecture. The suicide theory had been exploded as
impossible, and the coroner and jury denounced as fools for their haste
and decision; but, if Jack did not do the shooting, who did? Hundreds
asked that question, and at first no one answered it, but repeated the
story going the rounds so fast. Jack had knocked Paul Ralston down in
the morning at the hotel. In the afternoon he had started, presumably,
to see his sister. He had been traced to the Baptist Tabernacle and had
taken a short cut through the woods. He was probably intoxicated and had
fallen or lain down behind a clump of scrub oaks and been shot, the
assassin firing low, as if he knew he was there. Paul Ralston had been
very indignant at being knocked down and had used some threatening
language. He had passed Miss Hansford’s cottage not long before the shot
was fired and was known to have been in search of Jack. Miss Hansford
and others had spoken with him. Elithe had seen him fire and throw the
revolver away, and then hurry off in the direction of the woods. Jack
had been found a few minutes later weltering in his blood. Seth Walker
had found the revolver with “P. R.” upon it and handed it to Miss
Hansford, who acted like a crazy woman, while Elithe, who saw the
shooting, refused to be interviewed.
This story was followed by the news that the revolver had been hidden in
Miss Hansford’s chest and that the bullet extracted from Jack’s head
fitted one of the chambers. After this those who had said the whole was
a lie, held their peace. There could be but one conclusion as to the
guilty party and his name was spoken sadly, for Paul Ralston was the
most popular man in Oak City, and it seemed like sacrilege to associate
him with the tragedy. That he did not intend it everybody was certain,
though how he could take deliberate aim and hit the mark so sure was a
question. Had he at once come forward and said, “It was an accident; I
didn’t know he was there,” nearly everybody would have believed him; but
he had kept quiet and never seemed conscious of the danger threatening
him.
“What ought we to do?” was asked many times a day during the time Paul
was in Washington, and the answer was always the same, “The law must
take its course were he ten times Paul Ralston.”
A few there were, as in all communities, who, jealous of Paul’s position
or money, or, fancying some slight put upon them when none was intended,
were open in their denunciations.
“If he were a poor man you would have no hesitancy as to what you should
do. He’d be arrested at once, but because he is a big bug you are
disposed to let him go.”
Tom was furious when he heard such remarks. He was ready to swear that
Paul could not have been near the place where the shooting occurred, but
there was the testimony of Miss Hansford’s lodgers, who saw and spoke
with him, and of Elithe, and Tom’s bare word went for nothing. He kept
the rumors from the judge and Mrs. Ralston, who were expecting Paul on
the 4 o’clock Wednesday boat and would have gone to meet him but for
Mrs. Ralston’s indisposition. Two or three times while harnessing the
horses Tom decided to tell the judge and ask him to go with him in case
there should be trouble. Then he changed his mind, saying, “Maybe they
won’t do anything. I’ll not trouble the judge till I see what they mean
to do.”
He had not much doubt of their intentions when he saw the crowd waiting
for the boat just coming to the wharf, and setting his teeth together he
clenched his fists and waited. From the deck Paul had seen the swarm of
human beings, greater than when he went away, and called Clarice’s
attention to it, wondering why the whole town was out and if some noted
personage were expected.
“They expect _us_,” Clarice said, feeling somewhat gratified by this
attention and never guessing why it was paid to them.
Their long crape veils covered her and her mother entirely, and between
the two black figures, Paul left the boat among the first and walked
across the pier lined with curious spectators, to whom he bowed and
smiled in his old familiar way, noticing the expression of their faces
and thinking how sorry they were for him and Clarice. She did not see
them, but it was impossible that the intense feeling pervading the crowd
should not communicate itself to her in some small degree, and she was
very nervous by the time the Ralston carriage was reached. Tom Drake was
standing there, more alarmed and anxious than he had ever been in his
life, as he saw the people pressing around Paul, who was coming towards
him with a smile on his face as if glad to be home. Standing close to
the carriage steps was Max Allen, the young constable, new to the
office, which Paul had helped him get by giving him money for the
campaign. He was shaking like a leaf and scarcely able to respond to
Paul’s cheery “How are you, Max?”
Now was the supreme moment for which the gaping crowd were waiting and
over it there fell a hush of expectancy,—a silence so profound that Paul
looked round inquiringly and saw those on the outer edge of the jam
elbowing their way nearer to him.
“This is attention with a vengeance,” he thought. “I dare say Clarice
will feel gratified when it is over and she has time to realize it, but
it must annoy her now.”
It was anything but gratifying to the young lady when she felt her black
bombazine dress stepped on behind and herself pulled back with a jerk.
“This is too much. Let’s get out of it,” she said, grasping the skirt of
her dress and springing into the carriage before her mother and without
Paul’s help.
He was offering his hand to Mrs. Percy, when Max touched his arm and
with a thickness of speech which made his words nearly unintelligible,
began: “Mr. Ralston, I want to speak with you a minute. But no,—I’ll be
darned if I can now. Take the ladies home first, and come back to the
church. I’ll wait for you.”
“All right,” Paul said, wondering what Max had to say to him, and why he
was so excited.
Entering the carriage and taking off his hat he bowed right and left to
the people, feeling some like a conquering hero as he drove through
their midst, knowing for a surety now that they were there to see him
and Clarice.
“Careful, Tom, you’ll run over somebody,” he said, as Tom gave the
horses a smart cut, which set them into a gallop.
“I wish I might kill ’em,” Tom muttered, slackening his speed when out
on the avenue and away from the crowd.
He was in no hurry to get back to it again and sat very patiently while
Paul accompanied the ladies into the house and said a few loving words
to Clarice, who sank down in a fit of sobbing, saying she could not bear
it.
“Yes you can, darling. Try and be brave,—for your mother’s sake and
mine. You have me left, you know, and by and by we shall be very happy,”
Paul said, himself removing her bonnet and making her lie down upon the
couch.
Then, kissing her and promising to see her again after dinner, he left
her and bade Tom drive to the church to see what Max Allen wanted.
“Your mother is sick. Hadn’t we better go straight home and let Max
run?” Tom suggested, but Paul said, “No, it won’t take long to see what
he wants;” and they started in the direction of the church, where some
of the crowd still waited.
They had expected some demonstration,—handcuffs, perhaps,—and a scene,
and when the carriage drove away with Paul in it the murmur of their
voices was like the sound of a wind sweeping over a plain. Max was
questioned as to what it meant, and replied, “No, by George, I couldn’t
do it right before his gal. I’d rather be licked than do it at all, and
if I’s you I’d go home. He don’t want you gapin’ at him when he’s took.”
Most of the people followed Max’s advice, and went home. A few, with
less delicacy, staid to see what Paul would say and how he would look.
Would he resist? Would he try to get away?
“No, sir,” some one replied. “He’ll face it like a man. He’s innocent as
you be of meanin’ to do it.”
“Then why don’t he own up and say ’twas a mistake? It looks bad for him
to keep mum,” was the answer, and the battle of words went on till the
carriage was seen coming towards the church green, where Max was
waiting, dripping with perspiration and whiter than his shirt color.
Tom saw that quite a number of people still remained, and thought of the
old gladiatorial fights when men and women went to see human beings and
wild beasts tear each other to pieces. There were germs of the same
nature in this crowd, which he would like to have annihilated as he
drove past it and stopped before the church steps.
“Now, Max, what is it? What can I do for you? Want some more money?”
Paul said, going up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Set down,” Max answered stammeringly, moving along.
But Paul did not sit down. He was in a hurry to get home and see his
mother, and anxious for Max to finish his business.
It must have something to do with the people still waiting there, and
who he saw at a glance were largely of the lower class, reputed robbers
of gardens and hen roosts. Probably some of their friends had been
prowling on the Ralston premises, and Max wanted to know what to do with
them.
“I shall tell him to let the poor devils go,” he was thinking, when Max
began: “It’s the all-firedest, meanest thing I ever had anything to do
with, and if I’d ’er known I’d have to do it, I’d never been so crazy
for the office. No, sir! You must not blame me, I’d rather be thrashed.
Yes, sir,—and I feel awfully sick at the pit of my stomach. Didn’t eat a
thing for dinner, thinking of it, and not much for breakfast, I don’t
believe a word of it, neither; none of us does. It’s a lie out of whole
cloth.”
He was mopping his wet face with his soiled hands and leaving streaks of
dirt on it while Paul looked at him in amazement and Tom stood looking
on as if ready to strike when the time came.
“For Heaven’s sake, Max, what are you talking about. Come to the point.
I’m in a hurry,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Tom growled. “Come to the point and not act like a cat playing
with a mouse.”
“I wish I was a cat, or anything but the blooming fool I am,” Max
gasped, and then nerving himself with a mighty effort, he said, “I’ve
orders to arrest you. Oh, my Lord, my Lord.”
The last words were wrung from him by the pallor on Paul’s face, as he
grasped the carriage wheel for support.
“Arrest me! For what?” he asked, his voice sounding to himself a hundred
miles away.
“You see,” Max continued, still husky and shaky, “it’s for shooting Mr.
Percy.”
He did not use the ugly word _murder_ and it was a singular fact that it
was never used during the trying scenes which followed Paul’s arrest. It
was sometimes killing, oftener shooting, but never murder. One could not
associate that word with Paul, whose face was spotted with astonishment,
but not with fear. How could he be afraid, knowing his own innocence? It
had never occurred to him that Jack came to his death by any other hand
than his own, and the intimation that he was to be arrested struck him
like a thunderbolt.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Jack shot himself. The coroner’s inquest
said so. I didn’t do it. I was not near there. I didn’t know it till
some one told me. Who was it, Tom? Do you remember?”
His chin and lips quivered as he asked the question and he leaned more
heavily against the wheel of the carriage. Tom did not reply, and Max
went on: “Lord bless you, that’s so. You didn’t do it, but somebody did,
and the law must be vin-_di_-ca-ted, they say. Somebody must be
arrested, and so they took you. You see, it’s this way. That coroner
didn’t know beans, nor the jury neither, hurryin’ up things before
anybody had time to think, or tell what they seen and heard. When they
did begin to talk, didn’t it go like chain lightnin’;—the inquest and
verdict was knocked into a cocked hat,—more’s the pity; better of let it
stood and not get me inter this scrape, arrestin’ _you_. This is what
they say. Mr. Percy knocked you down, and made you mad. You was heard to
say you’d like to kill him. You was lookin’ for him. The folks at Miss
Hansford’s seen you go by. Miss Elithe seen you shoot and throw the
pistol away and cut for the woods. Seth Walker found it with your
initials on it and give it to Miss Hansford the mornin’ Mr. Percy died.
She hid it in her chist with sheets and things. Seth told his wife and
she told all creation and they’ve made the old lady give it up, and the
bullet fits it exactly. Quite a case of circumstantial, but I don’t
believe a word of it. Nobody does. Mebby you shot him, but ’twas an
accident, and all you have to do is to say so and explain. Folks thought
you would when you got back. Anyway I’ve got to do my duty and it makes
me sweat like a butcher. Oh, Lord, Lord!”
Max had finished his speech, which covered the whole ground, and
advanced a step towards Paul still clinging to the wheel into the spokes
of which he had thrust his arm as he listened. At the beginning of Max’s
story he had held his head high, conscious of his own innocence and that
no evidence could be brought against him. But as Max went on he felt the
ground slipping from under his feet and saw by inspiration the chain of
circumstances which was to encircle him.
“Elithe saw me shoot, and Miss Hansford hid my revolver! Oh, Max,—Oh,
Tom, what does it mean?” he said, shaking until his knees bent under
him.
“Don’t blame the old lady,” Max said. “She’s madder ‘n a hen, and ready
to fight everybody. Last night at prayer meetin’ she hollered so loud
for the Lord to save the innocent, you could hear her all over the
island. Some thought ’twas a fire alarm and was goin’ to call out the
department. They say the amens was powerful. As for the little girl,
what she seen slipped out before she thought, and you can’t get a word
from her now. I’ll bet there’s been forty reporters there to see her.
She’s cryin’ her eyes out, they say, and won’t see a soul.”
Here was a grain of comfort and Paul pulled himself up, but put out a
hand to Tom. “Did you know all this?” he asked, and Tom replied, “I knew
something of it, but don’t take it so hard. You shall not be harmed.
Lean on me and sit down on the steps.”
He passed his arm around his master, who was weak as a baby and glad to
sit where Tom put him.
“Does father know it?” Paul asked, and Tom replied, “No, I kept it from
him, hoping nothing would happen. He ought to know it now. Shall I go
for him?”
“Yes, yes. Go for father. Max will wait,” Paul answered eagerly, bowing
his head and resting his face in his hands.
Several boys had come close up to him, wondering why Max did not produce
handcuffs, as they supposed he would. These Tom dispersed with his whip
and then the two black horses went tearing across the causeway towards
the Ralston House, their feet striking fire on the pavement and their
mouths white with foam. Mrs. Ralston was lying down in her room with
something which threatened to be the Grippe, but the judge was sitting
upon the side piazza waiting for Tom. The boat had been gone nearly an
hour. It was surely time unless something had happened. Perhaps they
didn’t come, he was thinking, when he saw the horses running at their
utmost speed, the carriage rocking from side to side, and Tom evidently
having some trouble to keep his seat.
“Is he drunk, or what?” the judge said, hastening out to meet him and
asking with some severity: “What’s to pay, that you are driving like
this? I never saw the off-horse sweat so.”
“The Old Harry’s to pay,” Tom answered. “They are arresting Mr. Paul
down by the church for shooting Mr. Percy. You must go quick and stop
it.”
“Arresting my son for shooting Jack Percy! Are you crazy? The thing is
preposterous,—impossible!” the judge exclaimed, with the voice and
manner of one who does not think any great calamity can come to him
because it never has.
“It’s true, though, and the town’s alive with it. Jump in! don’t wait a
minute.”
The judge had come out without his hat, which, in his excitement, he
forgot entirely as he sprang into the carriage and was driven
bare-headed, with his white hair blowing in the wind, to the church
where Paul was sitting on the steps, with Max beside him, a picture of
perplexity and despair.
“Oh, father, I am so glad you have come. You know it is not true,” Paul
said, lifting his face, across which there flashed a ray of hope that
with his father near no harm could befall him.
“What does this mean? I don’t understand it,” the judge asked Max, who
began to tell his story with a great many apologies for being mixed up
in it and saying he didn’t believe it, but had to do his duty.
Something the judge said made Paul exclaim, “Oh, father, you do not
believe I did it either by mistake or otherwise!”
During the rapid ride the judge had learned all Tom knew of the matter.
Max had added a good deal which Tom had not told, and just for one
instant the father wavered, not with a thought that the act was
premeditated, but that it was an accident which could be explained.
Before he was elected judge he had been a prominent criminal lawyer,
with a wide reputation for his skill in cross-questioning, and now he
said to his son, “Tom tells me you were not near the spot,—that you had
no firearms about you,—that you knew nothing of the shooting until some
time after it happened. Is this true?”
“Yes, it is true, and true, too, that I was looking for Jack when I
passed Miss Hansford’s cottage. I wanted to give him a message from
Clarice. I must have passed near where he was lying, but did not see
him. I made a detour in the woods thinking to find him. I went as far as
the old brick kiln and turned back another way and came across Tom
coming from Still Haven. We heard some one had been shot and I went at
once to see who it was. That is all I know. I am as innocent as you. Max
says they think it a mistake which I can explain and it will not go hard
with me. There is no mistake. I cannot explain. God knows I didn’t do
it, and you believe me, father.”
There was dumb entreaty in Paul’s face, and putting his arm around him
the judge said, “My boy is innocent, and please God, we will prove him
so.”
“Must you do this dirty work?” he added, in an aside to Max, who was
again wiping the sweat from his face, this time with a handkerchief more
soiled than his hands.
It was Paul who answered, “Yes, father, he must. Max isn’t to blame. He
and I are good friends,—have played hide and coop together many a
time,—haven’t we, Max?”
“Ye-es,” Max blubbered, “I wish I wasn’t so tarnal tender-hearted.”
“Never mind your heart. You must do your duty, so go ahead and do it in
ship-shape style,—but omit the bracelets,” Paul said with a laugh. “Must
I go to the lock-up?” he continued, shrinking from the dreary place, not
often used, and at which when a boy he had often looked curiously,
especially if there were a prisoner in it.
He was the prisoner now, and with some difficulty he rose to his feet,
supported by Tom and his father, the latter of whom said to him,
“Courage, my boy. Everything which can be done to save you shall be done
and you will soon be free. I shall come and see you this evening. Don’t
cry,—don’t,” he continued, as Paul broke down and sobbed like a little
child. This was so different from anything he had expected. Over the
hill to his right was his pleasant home, where his mother waited for
him;—up the avenue to the left was Clarice, who would be expecting him
that night,—and before him the terrible lock-up. He was in the carriage
now, seated on the back seat with Max and trying to hide from the eyes
of those who still lingered in the street to see the end. At these Tom
swore lustily as he gathered up the reins and drove up the avenue, not
rapidly as he had driven to the Ralston House, but slowly, as if going
to a burial.
As he crossed the causeway he met Miss Hansford, excited and angry. She
had heard all the rumors and that it was thought Paul would be arrested
on his return from Washington. Stationing herself on her upper balcony
she watched the boat as it came in and waited anxiously for the return
of the Ralston carriage. She knew it would first take Mrs. Percy and
Clarice home and she allowed ample time for that; still it did not come.
She could see the church with her far-seers and the people gathering
there. Beside her on the floor was Elithe, her younger eyes taking in
everything her aunt’s spectacles might fail to see.
“The carriage is there,” she said at last, and in a few minutes they saw
it dashing across the causeway and over the hills towards the Ralston
House.
In less time than they thought it possible for it to do so, it returned
with the judge in it.
“What does it mean?” Elithe asked, but her aunt did not reply until she
saw it start again, and this time towards the lock-up.
“It means they’ve took him and are carrying him to that pen,” she cried
hurrying down stairs. Seizing her oldest and worst-looking sun-bonnet
she ran down the path and across the causeway, until she met the
carriage crossing it.
“Stop,” she said, throwing up her arms at the horses.
Tom stopped, glad of an excuse.
“What are you doing ridin’ in a carriage as if you was a gentleman?” she
said to Max, who cowered as if afraid of bodily harm.
“Taking me for a little change of air,” Paul answered for him, trying to
laugh, but failing dismally.
“Not to the lock-up! He shall not go there,” Miss Hansford continued.
“Them’s my orders,” Max said timidly.
“D—— the orders!” Tom muttered under his breath, while Paul rejoined, “I
can stand it awhile. It can’t be for long. Drive on, Tom, let’s see what
the accommodations are.”
They were worse than anyone of the party anticipated. One or two men
arrested for incendiarism and a few tramps were all who had occupied the
place for a long time. No one had been in it for months. Consequently
but little attention had been paid to it and the room was close and
damp.
“Smells enough to knock you down,” Miss Hansford said, holding her nose
as she put her head inside the door, which had been unlocked by an
official waiting for the party.
Hundreds of spiders’ webs filled with dead flies festooned the walls and
the small barred windows. The floor was littered with sticks and
shavings and stained with tobacco juice.
Miss Hansford held her skirts high as he stepped into the room, and
taking up the pillow from the bunk pronounced it “hen’s feathers and bad
ones at that.”
“Oh, father,” Paul said, “I can’t go in there. I should die before
morning with the smells and the spiders and the rats. See that big one
scurrying across the floor.”
Miss Hansford’s shriek would have called attention to it if Paul had
not. The long, lank creature had run across her feet, and with the
agility of a young girl she had leaped into the wooden chair to get out
of its way.
“Take me to the jail at once. It is better than this,” Paul continued,
and “Yes, to the jail,” was repeated by those who had gathered outside
and were looking on with pity for the young man who had fallen so
suddenly from a palace, as it were, to a prison.
The jail stood about a mile from the town, near the shore, and at some
little distance from the road. It was a large frame building, old and
dilapidated, but answering every purpose for the few occasions when it
was called in requisition. The jailer and his wife occupied the front
rooms, and those in the rear were reserved for prisoners when any were
there. As it had once been a dwelling house the so-called cells were
larger and pleasanter every way than are usually found in country jails.
After some necessary preliminaries and orders Paul was taken there and
the best and airiest room assigned him. It was very bare of furniture,
but it was scrupulously clean, and a great improvement on the lock-up.
But there were iron bars across the window and a heavy padlock on the
door outside. It was a prison and Paul was a prisoner. Sitting down in
the hard chair, and, leaning his head against his father, he began to
realize what it would be when he was alone and they were all gone.
“Keep up, my boy, keep up,” his father kept saying. “We’ll soon have you
out. I’ll come again to-night and bring your mother to-morrow, if she is
able.”
Max was looking on and wishing he had never been elected constable,
while Tom was quietly taking note of the bars at the window and the
decayed condition of the casings.
“Good-bye, Paul, for a few hours,” the judge said, stooping down and
kissing his boy, a thing he had not done in years.
Max was quite unstrung and kept stroking Paul’s arm as he said: “I’ll be
darned if I hadn’t rather stay here myself than leave you. Yes, I
would.”
Tom was silent, but he wrung Paul’s hand with a strength as if he were
testing the iron bars. Then they went out and Paul heard his father
speaking to the jailer and knew he was being commended to his care.
“Be kind to him, Stevens. Give him all the privileges you can,” the
judge said, slipping a bill into the man’s hand.
“No need to tell me that,” Stevens replied. “I’ll treat him as I would
my brother.”
Then the carriage drove away, and before bedtime the news spread through
the city that Paul was in jail,—that his mother was going from one
fainting fit into another, with three doctors in attendance,—that
Clarice was in convulsions with two, Elithe in hysterics with one,—that
Miss Hansford was crazy and Judge Ralston was to offer $10,000 for the
capture of the man who killed Jack Percy.