READY FOR THE TRIAL.
Every preliminary in the way of examination, indictment and committal
had been gone through. Bail had been offered and refused. The $10,000
offered to any one who would capture the slayer had failed to find the
slightest clue to any one but Paul, who was still in jail awaiting his
trial. Fortunately he had not long to wait, as the court opened soon
after his arrest and examination. But every day was an eternity, and the
nights were longer still. It seemed to him they would never end. His
stars, Clarice and Elithe, were some little comfort to him,—that of
Clarice still glowing like fire,—that of Elithe pale and blurred as if
with many tears. When he could not see them he would cover up his head
and cry, he was so weak from close confinement and so hopeless as to the
future.
When daylight came, he felt better, for before night shut down again
there might be news of the man for whom detectives were hunting
everywhere. But there was never any news, and the days went by, bringing
him nearer to the dreaded ordeal from which he shrank as a martyr might
shrink from the rack which was to torture him. Everything which could be
done to ameliorate his condition as a prisoner was done. No room in that
jail or in any other had ever been furnished as his was. Tom was always
bringing something until the place was overcrowded. Letters of sympathy
came to him from every city and town where he had acquaintances.
Flowers, fruit, delicacies of every kind were showered upon him. His
table was filled with books and magazines and papers. Every day his
father and mother visited him, cheering and encouraging him to the
utmost, although they had little courage themselves, the outlook was so
dark. Tom alone was hopeful. He hovered around the building constantly,
often going inside and telling Paul any items he thought would interest
him,—who had gone,—who were going,—who had come,—how the grounds were
looking,—what flowers were in blossom, and how Sherry the dog,—named for
the old Sherry,—missed his master. This interested Paul, who was very
fond of Sherry, a big Newfoundland,—whom he had bought when a puppy.
“He stays by your door nearly all day,” Tom said, “and we couldn’t get
him away at night until I took one of your old coats and put it in his
kennel. He almost talked when he smelled it and gamboled round it like a
kitten. I’d bring him to see you, but your father thinks I’d better not,
he’d tear round so and be here every day if he knew where you were. We
tie him up when the carriage comes, and the way he howls is a caution.”
Tom was a great comfort to Paul,—the friend who never failed. At night,
after every one had retired and the lights in the city were out, he was
often at the prison.
“It’s I,—Tom. There’s a big stone here and I’m sitting on it to keep you
company,” he would call through the window, and Paul felt glad, knowing
that he was not alone.
More than once, when the nights were at their darkest and the wind and
rain were sweeping over the sea with a sullen roar, Paul could hear his
tread and knew Tom was out in the storm like a faithful watch-dog. If
Stevens, the jailer, suspected these vigils, he made no sign. Indeed, he
would scarcely have interfered if he had known Paul was trying to
escape. He might not have helped him, but he would have kept silent and
wished him godspeed. Popular sympathy was all with Paul. That he shot
Jack Percy people believed, but shot him either by mistake, or in
self-defense, and great was the surprise at his emphatic denial of any
complicity in the matter. He had told a straightforward story at the
first and adhered to it ever after. He was angry with Jack and looking
for him,—not to do him harm,—but to give him a message from his sister.
He didn’t find him, but must have passed near him as he remembered
thinking there was some dark object under the clump of bushes, but did
not stop to investigate. As he left the woods he could see the path and
the bridge leading in the direction of Oceanside. Jack was not on
either. Thinking he heard footsteps to the right, he turned that way and
went as far as the brick kiln without meeting any one, until he struck
into Highland Avenue, where he met Tom returning from Still Haven and
walked with him towards home, hearing before he reached there of the
shooting. That was all he knew. The revolver was his, but how it came
where it was found he did not know. He had no theory; he suspected no
one. This was his story, from which he never varied. He knew that nearly
everybody believed he shot Jack except his parents and Tom. The latter,
who was oftenest seen, stood firm as a rock for entire innocence,
corroborating what Paul said of joining him on the Highland Avenue and
walking with him till they heard somebody had been shot and carried into
Miss Hansford’s cottage. He, Tom, had gone to the stable to attend to
the horses, and Paul had started at once for Miss Hansford’s.
This was Tom’s story, to which he stood firm, and when asked who did it,
if Paul did not, answered, “Only two know,—the one who did it and the
Lord, who, if worst comes to worst, will make it plain.”
That Paul would never be convicted, he said hundreds of times, and
succeeded in infusing some of his hopefulness into the minds of the
wretched parents, notwithstanding the evidence against their son, both
circumstantial and direct, if that of Elithe could be called so. Every
day Miss Hansford sent him some message and once she went to see him,
taking with her some little apple pies, such as she used to make for him
every Saturday when he was a boy. At the sight of them, and her pitiful
eyes looking at him so sorrowfully, Paul broke down, remembering the
many times when he had eaten pies like these at her round table in the
kitchen and then ran off to play with Sherry, his dog,—and Jack who was
waiting in the woods and was never invited to eat a little pie. Paul
thought they would choke him with the memories they brought, but to
please Miss Hansford he ate one, while she told him what he already
knew,—that she and Elithe had been subpoenaed by the People, that she
did not want to appear against him, and should say everything in his
favor that she could say, and flout the District Attorney who was to
conduct the case.
Paul laughed and took a second little pie, while Miss Hansford went on
to speak of Elithe, and of the miners’ testimonial, with their queerly
written signatures, some mere marks, with the names written round them,
but all suggestive of sympathy for Elithe and liking for Jack.
“He must have met with a change, or else he was always better than I
supposed, and had now and then a good streak in him,” she said.
“He had a great many,” Paul rejoined, and then asked if Elithe had seen
the paper in which she was said to have been engaged to Jack.
He had read it with a feeling of indignation and torn the article in
shreds, wondering if Elithe would see it and what effect it would have
upon her. She had seen it. Your best friend is very apt to bring you an
uncomplimentary notice of your book or an unkind criticism on yourself,
and one of her best friends had shown her this, with the result of a two
days headache and darker rings around her eyes. This Miss Hansford told
Paul, who, though he knew the story was false, felt so relieved by
Elithe’s reception of it that he took a third little pie and ate it
without seeming to know that he was doing so. There was but one left,
and this he put aside as if for future use, knowing it would please Miss
Hansford.
It was nearly time for her to go, and as she tied her bonnet-strings,
she said, “Wouldn’t you like me to pray with you?”
She had seen a Prayer Book on a table by his bed and knew there was a
good deal in it concerning the Visitation of Prisoners, but Paul’s was
an exceptional case, and she was glad when he answered readily, “I wish
you would, for if ever a poor wretch needed prayer, I do.”
Falling upon her knees and putting her hands on Paul’s head she prayed
earnestly that if there were a God in Heaven he would make it right. She
did not say “find the man who killed Jack.” She felt she had him in her
grasp, but he was to clear Paul somehow, and make him free again.
Through the window came the words “You bet he will.” Tom was there and
stayed there that night until the dawn was breaking and his clothes were
wet with the heavy dew. As the day of the trial drew near he was oftener
at the jail, speaking comfort to Paul, telling him that the best talent
in the State was engaged for the defence and hinting that if that failed
he knew a sure way out of it. Paul could not help feeling hopeful after
Tom had been with him, and still his sky was very dark and made darker
by Clarice’s continual silence and refusal to visit him.
Her first excitement was over, but she took refuge behind nervous
prostration as a reason for receiving no one except Mrs. Ralston and a
few of her most intimate friends. When those last tried to comfort her
she would turn from them almost angrily and say, “Don’t speak to me of
happiness, as if it could ever be mine again. Think of all I was
anticipating; all the preparations made for nothing. Do you think I can
ever forget that I was to have been a bride, and now I am in black for
my brother killed, and Paul, who was to have been my husband, is in
prison for killing him?”
It was very sad for the girl. The wedding, with all its attendant
grandeur, given up,—her bridal trousseau, for which so much had been
expended, useless,—herself in black, and worse than all, a growing
belief that the shooting had not been wholly accidental; that there had
been a quarrel, provoked most likely by Jack, who had paid the penalty
with his life. Why Paul did not tell the truth she could not guess. It
would go easier with him if he confessed, but in either case it was all
over between them. Her mother had counseled silence in this respect and
she was keeping silent except so far as actions were concerned. These
were eloquent as words and told Mrs. Ralston the real state of her mind.
She could not, however, report this to Paul, who asked every day for
Clarice and if she were not yet able to come and see him.
“She is very weak and nervous, and the excitement would make her worse,”
his mother told him.
“But she could write just a line,—a word,—if only ‘Dear Paul,’ it would
help me some,” Paul said, and at last Clarice did write.
“Dear Paul,” she began, “I am heart broken, and can never be happy
again. Neither of us can, whichever way it turns. If you are convicted,
it must be over with us, of course. If you are not, we can never live
down the disgrace. Oh, Paul, why not tell exactly how it happened?
People say that most likely nothing would be done to you if you would. I
can’t come to you. I couldn’t bear to see you in prison. It would kill
me. I am nearly killed now. My head aches all the time, I can’t sleep,
and everything is so dreadful and so different from what it was to have
been. What have I done that this should come upon me, and why was Elithe
permitted to come here? If she had staid in Samona, Jack would have
staid there, too. Has it ever occurred to you that if it were some one
beside Jack whom you shot Elithe’s memory would not be quite so good?
She must have liked him better than she pretended. Poor Jack. It is
dreadful, and I am so unhappy. So is mamma. Bills are coming in and they
are awful, and we have no good of them. I am so tired and must stop.
They have kindly arranged it that I need not appear at the trial, and I
am glad. I should die if I had to go on the stand. I believe I shall die
as it is. Good-bye. From your wretched Clarice.”
She could scarcely have written a more heartless letter if she had
tried. Everything about herself and her own unhappiness and nothing of
pity or comfort for Paul, who took her letter eagerly when his mother
brought it to him and tearing it open read it almost at a glance. Then
his head began to droop lower and lower, and his chest to heave with the
emotions he could not keep back.
“What is it, Paul?” his mother asked, but he did not answer. He could
not tell her that the letter had brought him more pain than pleasure.
Indeed, it was all pain, and to himself he said, “She never loved me as
I did her.”
This hurt him cruelly, though scarcely more than the knowledge that she
believed he shot Jack, and that Elithe’s testimony would be biased
because it was Jack. Still it was something to hear from Clarice at all,
and he kept her letter in his hand and looked at the “Dear Paul” many
times and tried to find excuses for her.
It was Saturday when he received Clarice’s letter and Monday was to be
the first day of the trial. That night just before dark Tom came to him
with the evening papers and a note from Elithe. As the day of the trial
came nearer she grew more nervous and frightened. The band, which she
said was pressing against her forehead, tightened its hold until it
seemed to her it was cutting into her flesh. Her head above it grew hot,
and her head below it so cold that her teeth sometimes chattered with
the chill oppressing her.
“How can I face that crowd and him, and tell what I saw, and what will
he think of me,” she said, as she remembered all Paul’s kindness to her
and thought of the return she was to make. “I’ll write and tell him how
sorry I am,” she determined at last, and without waiting to consider,
wrote the note, which was as follows:
“Mr. Ralston: If I could keep from appearing against you next Monday I
would. I have prayed so many times that God would take away my memory
so that I could not remember what I saw and heard, but the more I pray
the more distinctly I see it all before me. Not a thing is missing. I
hear your voice, I see your face just as you looked at me and spoke to
me when I leaned from the window. If I fall asleep I dream about it
and I think of it all day with a feeling in my head which I cannot
describe. It is like a band of hot iron across my forehead and I
sometimes look in the glass to see if there is not a big dent there. I
wish I had never come here, so much that is dreadful has happened; and
oh, the awful things the papers say! I was never engaged to Mr.
Percy,—never could have been,—and my testimony will not be influenced
by any prepossession in that direction. My cheeks burn when I think of
it. How could I be prejudiced against you,—one of the kindest friends
I have ever had. I wish it were right to tell a lie, but I dare not.
Forgive me, and do not hate me when you see me stand up and swear
against you. You will get clear some way, I am sure. Everybody hopes
it; everybody is sorry for you, and except your father and mother and
Miss Percy, no one so sorry as I,—
ELITHE.”
It was too dark for Paul to read this note when it was brought to him,
and for a time he sat talking with, or rather listening to Tom, who told
him of the general gloom pervading the town as the trial drew near. He
did not say that the shops were closed and there was crape on every
door, but he did intimate that there was neither bathing, nor wheeling,
nor dancing, nor sailing, nor playing on the tennis court; and this in
part was true, for the social atmosphere was clouded with apprehension,
and there was but little interest in anything of a festive nature. Only
the children were light hearted and happy. They played on the beach and
in the water and in the parks as usual, but when their voices grew very
loud and hilarious they were as quickly hushed as if the sound could
reach Paul in his prison and add to his cup of bitterness. All this and
more Tom repeated, and Paul could not help feeling cheered as he
listened.
“Thank you, Tom,” he said, when the latter rose to go. “You can never
know all you have been to me these last few weeks, and I know there is
nothing you would not do to save me if you could.”
“Nothing, so help me God, nothing!” Tom answered with a choking voice
and holding fast to Paul’s hand as if loath to let it go.
The jailer found them standing there together when he brought in the
lamp, Tom the whiter and more agitated of the two, as he released Paul’s
hand and said good-bye.
“That’s a good fellow. I almost believe he’d die for you,” the jailer
said, as Tom went out.
Paul did not reply. He was anxious to be alone to read Elithe’s note. It
was very different from Clarice’s and the difference struck him
forcibly. Elithe’s thought was all for him. What she was suffering was
for him. There was no self in it, and he involuntarily pressed the note
to his lips and whispered, “Poor little Elithe, I am so sorry for her.”
He had kissed Clarice’s letter many times, but not exactly as he kissed
Elithe’s. The first had brought him only pain and disappointment. The
last had brought him comfort in some way, he hardly knew how, and he put
it with Clarice’s under his pillow, and dreamed that night of the waltz
in the moonlight which Elithe had wished might go on forever. Clarice’s
star and Elithe’s were out of sight, but other stars looked in upon him
with a kind of benediction us as he slept more peacefully and quietly
than he had done since he became a prisoner.