THE STRANGER'S ARRIVAL
On taking his seat at the opening of court the next morning, the judge
at once announced his decision.
"I have given such thought as I have been able to the question raised
by counsel last evening, and have examined authorities cited by him,
and others, bearing upon the question, and have reached the conclusion
that his motion must be overruled. It is true that a conviction for
murder cannot rest alone upon the extra-judicial admission of the
accused. And in the present case I must remind the court and the jury
that thus far the identity of the prisoner has not yet been
established, as it is not determined whether or not he is the man whom
the witness, Nels Nelson, heard make the admission. It is true there
must be distinct proof, sufficient to satisfy the jury, beyond a
reasonable doubt, that homicide has been committed by some one, before
the admission of the accused that he did the act can be considered.
But I think that fact can be established by circumstantial evidence,
as well as any other fact in the case, and I shall so charge the jury.
I will give you an exception. Mr Nathan Goodbody, you may go on with
your defense after the hearing of the next witness, which is now in
order."[1]
The decision of the court was both a great surprise and a disappointment
to the defendant's young counsel. Considering the fact that the body of
the man supposed to have been murdered had never been found, and that
his death had been assumed from his sudden disappearance, and the
finding of his personal articles scattered on the river bluff,
together with the broken edge of the bluff and the traces of some
object having been thrown down the precipice at that point, and the
fact that the State was relying upon the testimony of the eavesdropping
Swede to prove confession by the prisoner, he still had not been
prepared for the testimony of this witness that he had heard the
accused say that he had killed his cousin, and that it had been his
intention to kill him. He was dismayed, but he had not entirely lost
confidence in his legal defense, even now that the judge had ruled
against him. There was still the Supreme Court.
He quickly determined that he would shift his attack from the court,
where he had been for the time repulsed, and endeavor to convince the
jury that the fact that Peter Junior was really dead had not "been
proven beyond a reasonable doubt."
Applying to the court for a short recess to give him time to consult
with his client, he used the time so given in going over with the
prisoner the situation in which the failure of his legal defense had
left them. He had hoped to arrest the trial on the point he had made
so as to eliminate entirely the hearing of further testimony,--that of
Betty Ballard,--and also to avoid the necessity of having his client
sworn, which last was inevitable if Betty's testimony was taken.
He had never been able to rid himself of the impression left upon his
mind when first he heard the story from his client's lips, that there
was in it an element of coincidence--too like dramatic fiction, or
that if taken ideally, it was above the average juryman's head.
He admonished the prisoner that when he should be called upon for his
testimony, he must make as little as possible of the fact of their
each being scarred on the hip, and scarred on the head, the two
cousins dramatically marked alike, and that he must in no way allude
to his having seen Betty Ballard in the prison alone.
"That was a horrible mistake. You must cut it out of your testimony
unless they force it. Avoid it. And you must make the jury see that
your return was a matter of--of--well, conscience--and so forth."
"I must tell the truth. That is all that I can do," said the prisoner,
wearily. "The judge is looking this way,--shall we--"
Nathan Goodbody rose quickly. "If the court please, we are ready to
proceed."
Then at last Betty Ballard was called to the witness stand. The hour
had come for which all the village had waited, and the fame of the
trial had spread beyond the village, and all who had known the boys in
their childhood and in their young manhood, and those who had been
their companions in arms--men from their own regiment--were there. The
matter had been discussed among them more or less heatedly and now the
court room could not hold the crowds that thronged its doors.
At this time, unknown to any of the actors in the drama, three
strangers, having made their way through the crowd outside the door,
were allowed to enter, and stood together in the far corner of the
court room unnoticed by the throng, intently watching and listening.
They had arrived from the opposite sides of the earth, and had met at
the village hotel. Larry had spied the younger man first, and,
scarcely knowing what he was doing, or why, he walked up to him, and
spoke, involuntarily holding out his hand to him.
"Tell me who you are," he said, ere Richard could surmise what was
happening.
"My name is Kildene," said Richard, frankly. "Have you any reason for
wishing to know me?"
For the moment he thought his interlocutor might be a detective, or
one who wished to verify a suspicion. Having but that moment arrived,
and knowing nothing of the trial which was going on, he could think
only of his reason for his return to Leauvite, and was glad to make an
end of incognito and sorrowful durance, and wearisome suspense, and he
did not hesitate, nor try any art of concealment. He looked directly
into Larry's eyes, almost defiantly for an instant, then seeing in
that rugged face a kindly glint of the eye and a quiver about the
mouth, his heart lightened and he grasped eagerly the hand held out to
him.
"Perhaps you will tell me whom you are? I suppose I ought to know, but
I've been away from here a long time."
Then the older man's hand fell a-trembling in his, and did not release
him, but rather clung to him as if he had had a shock.
"Come over here and sit beside me a moment, young man--I--I've--I'm
not feeling as strong as I look. I--I've a thing to tell you. Sit
down--sit down. We are alone? Yes. Every one's gone to the trial. I'm
on here from the West myself to attend it."
"The trial! What trial?"
"You've heard nothing of it? I was thinking maybe you were also--were
drawn here--you've but just come?"
"I've been here long enough to engage a room--which I shan't want
long. No, I've come for no trial exactly--maybe it might come to
that--? What have you to tell me?"
But Larry Kildene sat silent for a time before replying. An eager joy
had seized him, and a strange reticence held his tongue tied, a fear
of making himself known to this son whom he had never seen since he
had held him in his arms, a weak, wailing infant, thinking only of his
own loss. This dignified, stalwart young man, so pleasant to look
upon--no wonder the joy of his heart was a terrible joy, a hungering,
longing joy akin to pain! How should he make himself known? In what
words? A thousand thoughts crowded upon him. From Betty's letter he
knew something of the contention now going on in the court room, and
from the landlord last evening he had heard more, and he was impatient
to get to the trial.
Now this encounter with his own son,--the only one who could set all
right,--and who yet did not know of the happenings which so
imperatively required his presence in the court room, set Larry
Kildene's thoughts stammering and tripping over each other in such a
confusion of haste, and with it all the shyness before the great fact
of his unconfessed fatherhood, so overwhelmed him, that for once his
facile Irish nature did not help him. He was at a loss for words,
strangely abashed before this gentle-voiced, frank-faced, altogether
likable son of his. So he temporized and beat about the bush, and did
not touch first on that which was nearest his heart.
"Yes, yes. I've a thing to tell you. You came here to be at
a--a--trial--did you say, or intimate it might be? If--if--you'll tell
me a bit more, I maybe can help you--for I've seen a good bit of the
world. It's a strange trial going on here now--I've come to hear."
"Tell me something about it," said Richard, humoring the older man's
deliberation in arriving at his point.
"It's little I know yet. I've come to learn, for I'm interested in the
young man they're trying to convict. He's a sort of a relative of
mine. I wish to see fair play. Why are you here? Have you done
anything--what have you done?"
The young man moved restlessly. He was confused by the suddenness of
the question, which Larry's manner deprived of any suggestion of
rudeness.
"Did I intimate I had done anything?" He laughed. "I'm come to make a
statement to the proper ones--when I find them. I'll go over now and
hear a bit of this trial, since you mention it."
He spoke sadly and wearily, but he felt no resentment at the older
man's inquisitiveness. Larry's face expressed too much kindliness to
make resentment possible, but Richard was ill at ease to be talking
thus intimately with a stranger who had but just chanced upon him. He
rose to leave.
"Don't go. Don't go yet. Wait a bit--God, man! Wait! I've a thing to
tell you." Larry leaned forward, and his face worked and tears
glistened in his eyes as he looked keenly up into his son's face.
"You're a beautiful lad--a man--I'm--You're strong and fine--I'm
ashamed to tell it you--ashamed I've never looked on you since
then--until now. I should have given all up and found you. Forgive me.
Boy!--I'm your father--your father!" He rose and stood looking levelly
in his son's eyes, holding out both shaking hands. Richard took them
in his and held them--but could not speak.
The constraint of witnesses was not upon them, for they were quite
alone on the piazza, but the emotion of each of them was beyond words.
Richard swallowed, and waited, and then with no word they both sat
down and drew their chairs closer together. The simple act helped
them.
"I've been nigh on to a lifetime longing for you, lad."
"And I for you, father."
"That's the name I've been hungering to hear--"
"And I to speak--" Still they looked in each other's eyes. "And we
have a great deal to tell each other! I'm almost sorry--that--that--that
I've found you at last--for to do my duty will be harder now. I had no
one to care--particularly before--unless--"
"Unless a lass, maybe?"
"One I've been loving and true to--but long ago given up--we won't
speak of her. We'll have to talk a great deal, and there's so little
time! I must--must give myself up, father, to the law."
"Couldn't you put it off a bit, lad?"
Larry could not have told why he kept silent so long in regard to the
truth of the trial. It might have been a vague liking to watch the
workings of his son's real self and a desire to test him to the full.
From a hint dropped in Betty's letter he guessed shrewdly at the truth
of the situation. He knew now that Richard and his young friend of the
mountain top were actuated by the same motives, and he understood at
last why Harry King would never accept his offer of help, nor would
ever call him father. Because he could not take the place of the son,
of whom, as he thought, he had robbed the man who so freely offered
him friendship--and more than friendship. At last Larry understood why
Peter Junior had never yielded to his advances. It was honor, and the
test had been severe.
"Put it off a little? I might--I'm tempted--just to get acquainted
with my father--but I might be arrested, and I would prefer not to be.
I know I've been wanted for three years and over--it has taken me that
long to learn that only the truth can make a man free,--and now I
would rather give myself up, than to be taken--"
"I'm knowing maybe more of the matter than you think--so we'll drop
it. We must have a long talk later--but tell me now in a few words
what you can."
Then, drawn by the older man's gentle, magnetic sympathy, Richard
unlocked his heart and told all of his life that could be crowded in
those few short minutes,--of his boyhood's longings for a father of
his own--of his young manhood's love, of his flight, and a little of
his later life. "We'd be great chums, now, father,--if--if it weren't
for this--that hangs over me."
Then Larry could stand it no longer. He sprang up and clapped Richard
on the shoulder. "Come, lad, come! We'll go to this trial together. Do
you know who's being tried? No. They'll have to get this off before
they can take another on. I'm thinking you'll find your case none so
bad as it seems to you now. First there's a thing I must do. My
brother-in-law's in trouble--but it is his own fault--still I'm a mind
to help him out. He's a fine hater, that brother-in-law of mine, but
he's tried to do a father's part in the past by you--and done it well,
while I've been soured. In the gladness of my heart I'll help him
out--I'd made up my mind to do it before I left my mountain. Your
father's a rich man, boy--with money in store for you--I say it in
modesty, but he who reared you has been my enemy. Now I'm going to his
bank, and there I'll make a deposit that will save it from ruin."
He stood a moment chuckling, with both hands thrust deep in his
pockets. "We'll go to that trial--it's over an affair of his, and he's
fair in the wrong. We'll go and watch his discomfiture--and we'll see
him writhe. We'll see him carry things his own way--the only way he
can ever see--and then we'll watch him--man, we'll watch him--Oh, my
boy, my boy! I doubt it's wrong for me to exult over his chagrin, but
that's what I'm going for now. It was the other way before I met you,
but the finding of you has given me a light heart, and I'll watch that
brother-in-law's set-down with right good will."
He told Richard about Amalia, and asked him to wait until he fetched
her, as he wished her to accompany them, but still he said nothing to
him about his cousin Peter. He found Amalia descending the long flight
of stairs, dressed to go out, and knew she had been awaiting him for
the last half hour. Now he led her into the little parlor, while
Richard paced up and down the piazza, and there, where she could see
him as he passed the window to and fro, Larry told her what had come
to him, and even found time to moralize over it, in his gladness.
"That's it. A man makes up his mind to do what's right regardless of
all consequences or his prejudices, or what not,--and from that
moment all begins to grow clear, and he sees right--and things come
right. Now look at the man! He's a fine lad, no? They're both fine
lads--but this one's mine. Look at him I say. Things are to come right
for him, and all through his making up his mind to come back here and
stand to his guns. The same way with Harry King. I've told you the
contention--and at last you know who he is--but mind you, no word yet
to my son. I'll tell him as we walk along. I'm to stop at the bank
first, and if we tell him too soon, he'll be for going to the
courthouse straight. The landlord tells me there's danger of a run on
the bank to-morrow and the only reason it hasn't come to-day is that
the bank's been closed all the morning for the trial. I'm thinking
that was policy, for whoever heard of a bank's being closed in the
morning for a trial--or anything short of a death or a holiday?"
"But if it is now closed, why do we wait to go there? It is to do
nothing we make delay," said Amalia, anxiously.
"I told Decker to send word to the cashier to be there, as a deposit
is to be made. If he can't be there for that, then it's his own fault
if to-morrow finds him unprepared." Larry stepped out to meet Richard
and introduced Amalia. He had already told Richard a little of her
history, and now he gave her her own name, Manovska.
After a few moments' conversation she asked Larry: "I may keep now my
own name, it is quite safe, is not? They are gone now--those for whom
I feared."
"Wait a little," said Richard. "Wait until you have been down in the
world long enough to be sure. It is a hard thing to live under
suspicion, and until you have means of knowing, the other will be
safer."
"You think so? Then is better. Yes? Ah, Sir Kildene, how it is
beautiful to see your son does so very much resemble our friend."
They arrived at the bank, and Larry entered while Richard and Amalia
strolled on together. "We had a friend, Harry King,"--she paused and
would have corrected herself, but then continued--"he was very much
like to you--but he is here in trouble, and it is for that for which
we have come here. Sir Kildene is so long in that bank! I would go in
haste to that place where is our friend. Shall we turn and walk again
a little toward the bank? So will we the sooner encounter him on the
way."
They returned and met Larry coming out, stepping briskly. He too was
eager to be at the courthouse. He took his son's arm and rapidly and
earnestly told him the situation as he had just heard it from the
cashier. He told him that which he had been keeping back, and
impressed on him the truth that unless he had returned when he did,
the talk in the town was that the trial was likely to go against the
prisoner. Richard would have broken into a run, in his excitement, but
Larry held him back.
"Hold back a little, boy. Let us keep pace with you. There's really no
hurry, only that impulse that sent you home--it was as if you were
called, from all I can learn."
"It is my reprieve. I am free. He has suffered, too. Does he know yet
that I too live? Does he know?"
"Perhaps not--yet, but listen to me. Don't be too hasty in showing
yourself. If they did not know him, they won't know you--for you are
enough different for them never to suspect you, now that they have, or
think they have, the man for whom they have been searching. See here,
man, hold back for my sake. That man--that brother-in-law of mine--has
walked for years over my heart, and I've done nothing. He has despised
me, and without reason--because I presumed to love your mother, lad,
against his arrogant will. He--he--would--I will see him down in the
dust of repentance. I will see him willfully convict his own son--he
who has been hungering to see you--my son--sent to a prison for
life--or hanged."
Richard listened, lingering as Larry wished, appalled at this
revelation, until they arrived at the edge of the crowd around the
door, eagerly trying to wedge themselves in wherever the chance
offered.
"Oh! Sir Kildene--we are here--now what to do! How can we go in
there?" said Amalia.
Larry moved them aside slowly, pushing Amalia between Richard and
himself, and intimating to those nearest him that they were required
within, until a passage was gradually made for the three, and thus
they reached the door and so gained admittance. And that was how they
came to be there, crowded in a corner, all during the testimony of
Betty Ballard, unheeded by those around them--mere units in the throng
trying to hear the evidence and see the principals in the drama being
enacted before them.
[1] The ruling of the court upon this point was afterwards justified
by the Supreme Court of Wisconsin in the case of Buel _v._
State, 104 Wis. 132, decided in 1899.