Mr. Moffat, satisfied so far, put his next question with equal

directness:

“Mr. Cumberland, you have mentioned seeing your sister in her coffin.

When was this?”

“At the close of her funeral, just before she was carried out.”

“Was that the first and only time you had seen her so placed?”

“It was.”

“Had you seen the casket itself prior to this moment of which you

speak?”

“I had not.”

“Had you been near it? Had you handled it in any way?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Cumberland, you have heard mention made of a ring worn by your

sister in life, but missing from her finger after death?”

“I have.”

“You remember this ring?”

“I do.”

“Is this it?”

“It is, so far as I can judge at this distance.”

“Hand the ring to the witness,” ordered the judge.

The ring was so handed.

He glanced at it, and said bitterly: “I recognise it. It was her

engagement ring.”

“Was this ring on her finger that night at the dinner-table?”

“I cannot say, positively, but I believe so. I should have noticed its

absence.”

“Why, may I ask?”

For the first time the prisoner flushed and the look he darted at his

counsel had the sting of a reproach in it. Yet he answered: “It was

the token of an engagement I didn’t believe in or like. I should have

hailed any proof that this engagement was off.”

Mr. Moffat smiled enigmatically.

“Mr. Cumberland, if you are not sure of having seen this ring then,

when did you see it and where?”

A rustle from end to end of that crowded court-room. This was an

audacious move. What was coming? What would be the answer of the man

who was believed not only to have made himself the possessor of this

ring, but to have taken a most strange and uncanny method of disposing

of it afterward? In the breathless hush which followed this first

involuntary expression of feeling, Arthur’s voice rose, harsh but

steady in this reply:

“I saw it when the police showed it to me, and asked me if I could

identify it.”

“Was that the only time you have seen it up to the present moment?”

Instinctively, the witness’s right hand rose; it was as if he were

mentally repeating his oath before he uttered coldly and with emphasis,

though without any show of emotion:

“It is.”

The universal silence gave way to a universal sigh of excitement and

relief. District Attorney Fox’s lips curled with an imperceptible

smile of disdain, which might have impressed the jury if they had been

looking his way; but they were all looking with eager and interested

eyes at the prisoner, who had just uttered this second distinct and

unequivocal denial.

Mr. Moffat noted this, and his own lip curled, but with a very

different show of feeling from that which had animated his

distinguished opponent. Without waiting for the present sentiment to

cool, he proceeded immediately with his examination:

“You swear that you have seen this ring but once since the night

of your sister’s death, and that was when it was shown you in the

coroner’s office?”

“I do.”

“Does this mean that it was not in your possession at any time during

that interim?”

“It certainly does.”

“Mr. Cumberland, more than one witness has testified to the fact of

your having been seen to place your hand in the casket of your sister,

before the eyes of the minister and of others attending her funeral. Is

this true?”

“It is.”

“Was not this a most unusual thing to do?”

“Perhaps. I was not thinking about that. I had a duty to perform, and I

performed it.”

“A duty? Will you explain to the jury what duty?”

The witness’s head rose, then sank. He, as well as every one else,

seemed to be impressed by the solemnity of the moment. Though the

intensity of my own interest would not allow my eyes to wander from his

face, I could imagine the strained look in Ella’s, as she awaited his

words.

They came in another instant, but with less steadiness than he had

shown before. I even thought I could detect a tremor in his muscles, as

well as in his voice:

“I had rebelled against my sister’s wishes; I had grieved and deceived

her up to the very night of her foul and unnatural death--and all

through _drink_.”

Here his eye flashed, and for that fleeting moment he looked a man.

“I wished to take an oath--an oath I would remember. It was for this

purpose I ordered the casket opened, and thrust my fingers through

the flowers I found there. When my fingers touched my sister’s brow,

I inwardly swore never to taste liquor again. I have kept that oath.

Difficult as it was, in my state of mind, and with all my troubles, I

have kept it--and been misunderstood in doing so,” he added, in lower

tones, and with just a touch of bitterness.

It was such an unexpected explanation, and so calculated to cause a

decided and favourable reaction in the minds of those who had looked

upon this especial act of his as an irrefutable proof of guilt, that

it was but natural that some show of public feeling should follow. But

this was checked almost immediately, and Mr. Moffat’s voice was heard

rising again in his strange but telling examination:

“When you thrust your hand in to take this oath, did you drop anything

into your sister’s casket?”

“I did not. My hand was empty. I held no ring, and dropped none in. I

simply touched her forehead.”

This added to the feeling; and, in another instant, the excitement

might have risen into hubbub, had not the emotions of one little woman

found vent in a low and sobbing cry which relieved the tension and gave

just the relief needed to hold in check the overstrained feelings of

the crowd. I knew the voice and cast one quick glance that way, in time

to see Ella sinking affrightedly out of sight under the dismayed looks

of father and mother; then, anxious to note whether the prisoner had

recognised her, too, looked hastily back to find him standing quietly

and unmoved, with his eyes on his counsel and his lips set in the stern

line which was slowly changing his expression.

That counsel, strangely alive to the temper and feelings of his

audience, waited just long enough for the few simple and solemn words

uttered by the accused man to produce their full effect, then with a

side glance at Mr. Fox, whose equanimity he had at last succeeded in

disturbing, and whose cross-examination of the prisoner he had still

to fear, continued his own examination by demanding why, when the ring

was discovered in Adelaide’s casket and he saw what inferences would be

drawn from the fact, he had not made an immediate public explanation of

his conduct and the reasons he had had for putting his hand there.

“I’m not a muff,” shot from the prisoner’s lips, in his old manner. “A

man who would take such an oath, in such a way, and at such a time, is

not the man to talk about it until he is forced to. I would not talk

about it now--”

He was checked at this point; but the glimpse we thus obtained of

the natural man, in this indignant and sullen outburst, following so

quickly upon the solemn declarations of the moment before, did more for

him in the minds of those present than the suavest and most discreet

answer given under the instigation of his counsel. Every face showed

pleasure, and for a short space, if for no longer, all who listened

were disposed to accept his assertions and accord the benefit of doubt

to this wayward son of an esteemed father.

To me, who had hoped nothing from Moffat’s efforts, the substantial

nature of the defence thus openly made manifest, brought reanimation

and an unexpected confidence in the future.

The question as to who had dropped the ring into the casket if Arthur

had not--the innocent children, the grieving servants--was latent, of

course, in every breast, but it had not yet reached the point demanding

expression.

Meanwhile, the examination proceeded.

“Mr. Cumberland, you have stated that you did not personally drop this

ring into the place where it was ultimately found. Can you tell us of

your own knowledge who did?”

“I cannot. I know nothing about the ring. I was much surprised,

probably more surprised than any one else, to hear of its discovery in

that place.”

The slip--and it was a slip for him to introduce that _more_--was

immediately taken advantage of by his counsel.

“You say ‘more,’ Why should it be more of a surprise to you than to any

one else to learn where this missing engagement ring of your sister’s

had been found?”

Again that look of displeasure directed towards his questioner, and a

certain additional hardness in his reply, when he finally made it.

“I was her brother. I had a brother’s antipathies and rightful

suspicions. I could not see how that ring came to be where it was, when

the only one interested in its restoration was in prison.”

This was a direct blow at myself, and of course called Mr. Fox to his

feet, with a motion to strike out this answer. An altercation followed

between him and Mr. Moffat, which, deeply as it involved my life and

reputation, failed to impress me, as it might otherwise have done, if

my whole mind had not been engaged in reconciling the difficulty about

this ring with what I knew of Carmel and the probability which existed

of her having been responsible for its removal from her sister’s hand.

But Carmel had been ill since, desperately ill and unconscious. She

could have had nothing to do with its disposal afterwards among the

flowers at her sister’s funeral. Nor had she been in a condition to

delegate this act of concealment to another. Who, then, had been the

intermediary in this business? The question was no longer a latent one

in my mind; it was an insistent one, compelling me either to discredit

Arthur’s explanation (in which case anything might be believed of him)

or to accept for good and all this new theory that some person of

unknown identity had played an accessory’s part in this crime, whose

full burden I had hitherto laid upon the shoulders of the impetuous

Carmel. Either hypothesis brought light. I began to breathe again the

air of hope, and if observed at that moment, must have presented the

odd spectacle of a man rejoicing in his own shame and accepting with

positive uplift, the inevitable stigma cast upon his honour by the

suggestive sentence just hurled at him by an indignant witness.

The point raised by the district attorney having been ruled upon

and sustained by the court, Mr. Moffat made no effort to carry his

inquiries any further in the direction indicated; but I could see,

with all my inexperience of the law and the ways of attorneys before a

jury, that the episode had produced its inevitable result, and that my

position, as a man released from suspicion, had received a shock, the

results of which I might yet be made to feel.

A moment’s pause followed, during which some of Mr. Moffat’s

nervousness returned. He eyed the prisoner doubtfully, found him

stoical and as self-contained as at the beginning of his examination,

and plunged into a topic which most people had expected him to avoid.

I certainly had, and felt all the uncertainty and secret alarm which

an unexpected move occasions where the issue is momentous with life

or death. I was filled with terror, not for the man on trial, but for

my secret. Was it shared by the defence? Was Mr. Moffat armed with

the knowledge I thought confined to myself and Arthur? Had the latter

betrayed the cause I had been led to believe he was ready to risk

his life to defend? Had I mistaken his gratitude to myself; or had I

underrated Mr. Moffat’s insight or powers of persuasion? We had just

been made witness to one triumph on the part of this able lawyer in a

quarter deemed unassailable by the prosecution. Were we about to be

made witnesses of another? I felt the sweat start on my forehead, and

was only able to force myself into some show of self-possession by

the evident lack of perfect assurance with which this same lawyer now

addressed his client.

The topic which had awakened in me these doubts and consequent

agitation will appear from the opening question.

“Mr. Cumberland, to return to the night of your sister’s death. Can you

tell us what overcoat you put on when leaving your house?”

Arthur was as astonished and certainly as disconcerted, if not as

seriously alarmed, as I was, by this extraordinary move. Surprise,

anger, then some deeper feeling rang in his voice as he replied:

“I cannot. I took down the first I saw and _the first hat._”

The emphasis placed on the last three words may have been meant as a

warning to his audacious counsel, but if so, it was not heeded.

“Took down? Took down from where?”

“From the rack in the hall where I hang my things; the side hall

leading to the door where we usually go out.”

“Have you many coats--overcoats, I mean?”

“More than one.”

“And you do not know which one you put on that cold night?”

“I do not.”

“But you know what one you wore back?”

“No.”

Short, sharp, and threatening was this _no_. A war was on between this

man and his counsel, and the wonder it occasioned was visible in every

eye. Perhaps Mr. Moffat realised this; this was what he had dreaded,

perhaps. At all events, he proceeded with his strange task, in apparent

oblivion of everything but his own purpose.

“You do not know what one you wore back?”

“I do not.”

“You have seen the hat and coat which have been shown here and sworn to

as being the ones in which you appeared on your return to the house,

the day following your sister’s murder?”

“I have.”

“Also the hat and coat found on a remote hook in the closet under the

stairs, bearing the flour-mark on its under brim?”

“Yes, that too.”

“Yet cannot say which of these two overcoats you put on when you left

your home, an hour or so after finishing your dinner?”

Trapped by his own lawyer--visibly and remorselessly trapped! The

blood, shooting suddenly into the astounded prisoner’s face, was

reflected on the cheeks of the other lawyers present. Even Mr.

Fox betrayed his surprise; but it was a surprise not untinged by

apprehension. Mr. Moffat must feel very sure of himself to venture thus

far. I, who feared to ask myself the cause of this assurance, could

only wait and search the partially visible face of little Ella for an

enlightenment, which was no more to be found there than in the swollen

features of the outraged Arthur. The excitement which this event

caused, afforded the latter some few moments in which to quell his own

indignation; and when he spoke, it was passionately, yet not without

some effort at restraint.

“I cannot. I was in no condition to notice. I was bent on going into

town, and immediately upon coming downstairs went straight to the rack

and pulled on the first things that offered.”

It appeared to be a perfect give-a-way. And it was, but it was a

give-a-way which, I feared, threatened Carmel rather than her brother.

Mr. Moffat, still nervous, still avoiding the prisoner’s eye,

relentlessly pursued his course, unmindful--wilfully so, it

appeared--of the harm he was doing himself, as well as the witness.

“Mr. Cumberland, were a coat and hat all that you took from that hall?”

“No, I took a key--a key from the bunch which I saw lying on the table.”

“Did you recognise this key?”

“I did.”

“What key was it?”

“It belonged to Mr. Ranelagh, and was the key to the club-house

wine-vault.”

“Where did you put it after taking it up?”

“In my trousers’ pocket.”

“What did you do then?”

“Went out, of course.”

“Without seeing anybody?”

“Of course. Whom should I see?”

It was angrily said, and the flush, which had begun to die away, slowly

made its way back into his cheeks.

“Are you willing to repeat that you saw no one?”

“There was no one.”

A lie! All knew it, all felt it. The man was perjuring himself, under

his own counsel’s persistent questioning on a point which that counsel

had evidently been warned by him to avoid. I was assured of this by the

way Moffat failed to meet Arthur’s eye, as he pressed on hastily, and

in a way to forestall all opposition.

“There are two ways of leaving your house for the city. Which way did

you take?”

“The shortest. I went through my neighbour’s grounds to Huested Street.”

“Immediately?”

“As soon as I could. I don’t know what you mean by immediately.”

“Didn’t you stop at the stable?”

A pause, during which more than one person present sat breathless.

These questions were what might be expected from Mr. Fox in

cross-examination. They seemed totally unsuited to a direct examination

at the hands of his own counsel. What did such an innovation mean?

“Yes, I stopped at the stable.”

“What to do?”

“To look at the horses.”

“Why?”

“One of them had gone lame. I wanted to see his condition.”

“Was it the grey mare?”

Had the defence changed places with the prosecution? It looked like

it; and Arthur looked as if he considered Mr. Moffat guilty of the

unheard of, inexplainable act, of cross-examining his own witness. The

situation was too tempting for Mr. Fox to resist calling additional

attention to it. With an assumption of extreme consideration, he leaned

forward and muttered under his breath to his nearest colleague, but

still loud enough for those about him to hear:

“The prisoner must know that he is not bound to answer questions when

such answers tend to criminate him.”.

A lightning glance, shot in his direction, was the eloquent advocate’s

sole reply.

But Arthur, nettled into speaking, answered the question put him, in a

loud, quick tone: “It was not the grey mare; but I went up to the grey

mare before going out; I patted her and bade her be a good girl.”

“Where was she then?”

“Where she belonged--in her stall.”

The tones had sunk; so had the previously lifted head; he no longer

commanded universal sympathy or credence. The effect of his former

avowals was almost gone.

Yet Mr. Moffat could smile. As I noticed this, and recognised the

satisfaction it evinced, my heart went down, in great trouble. This

esteemed advocate, the hero of a hundred cases, was not afraid to have

it known that Arthur had harnessed that mare; he even wanted it known.

Why? There could be but one answer to that--or, so I thought, at the

moment. The next, I did not know what to think; for he failed to pursue

this subject, and simply asked Arthur if, upon leaving, he had locked

the stable-door.

“Yes--no,--I don’t remember,” was the bungling, and greatly confused

reply.

Mr. Moffat glanced at the jury, the smile still on his lips. Did he

wish to impress that body with the embarrassment of his client?

“Relate what followed. I am sure the jury will be glad to hear your

story from your own lips.”

“It’s a beastly one, but if I’ve got to tell it, here it is: I went

straight down to Cuthbert Road and across the fields to the club-house.

I had not taken the key to the front door, because I knew of a window

I could shake loose. I did this and went immediately down to the

wine-vault. I used an electric torch of my own for light. I pulled

out several bottles, and carried them up into the kitchen, meaning to

light the gas, kindle a fire, and have a good time generally. But I

soon found that I must do without light if I stayed there. The meter

had been taken out; and to drink by the flash of an electric torch was

anything but a pleasing prospect. Besides--” here he flashed at his

counsel a glance, which for a moment took that gentleman aback--“I

had heard certain vague sounds in the house which alarmed me, as well

as roused my curiosity. Choosing the bottle I liked best, I went to

investigate these sounds.”

Mr. Moffat started. His witness was having his revenge. Kept in

ignorance of his counsel’s plan of defence, he was evidently advancing

testimony new to that counsel. I had not thought the lad so subtle, and

quaked in secret contemplation of the consequences. So did some others;

but the interest was intense. He had heard sounds--he acknowledged it.

But what sounds?

Observing the excitement he had caused, and gratified, perhaps, that

he had succeeded in driving that faint but unwelcome smile from Mr.

Moffat’s lips, Arthur hastened to add:

“But I did not complete my investigations. Arrived at the top of

the stairs, I heard what drove me from the house at once. It was my

sister’s voice--Adelaide’s. She was in the building, and I stood almost

on a level with her, with a bottle in my pocket. It did not take me a

minute to clamber through the window. I did not stop to wonder, or ask

why she was there, or to whom she was speaking. I just fled and made

my way as well as I could across the golf-links to a little hotel on

Cuthbert Road, where I had been once before. There I emptied my bottle,

and was so overcome by it that I did not return home till noon the

next day. It was on the way to the Hill that I was told of the awful

occurrence which had taken place in the club-house after I had left it.

That sobered me. I have been sober ever since.”

Mr. Moffat’s smile came back. One might have said that he had been

rather pleased than otherwise by the introduction of this unexpected

testimony.

But I doubt if any one but myself witnessed this evidence of

good-humour on his part. Arthur’s attitude and Arthur’s manner had

drawn all eyes to himself. As the last words I have recorded left

his lips, he had raised his head and confronted the jury with a

straightforward gaze. The sturdiness and immobility of his aspect were

impressive, in spite of his plain features and the still unmistakable

signs of long cherished discontent and habitual dissipation. He had

struck bottom with his feet, and there he would stand,--or so I thought

as I levelled my own glances at him.

But I had not fully sounded all of Alonzo Moffat’s resources. That

inscrutable lawyer and not-easily-to-be-understood man seemed

determined to mar every good impression his unfortunate client managed

to make.

Ignoring the new facts just given, undoubtedly thinking that they would

be amply sifted in the coming cross-examination, he drew the attention

of the prisoner to himself by the following question:

“Will you tell us again how many bottles of wine you took from the

club-house?”

“One. No--I’m not sure about that--I’m not sure of anything. I had only

one when at the inn in Cuthbert Road.”

“You remember but one?”

“I had but one. One was enough. I had trouble in carrying that.”

“Was the ground slippery?”

“It was snowy and it was uneven. I stumbled more than once in crossing

the links.”

“Mr. Cumberland, is there anything you would like to say in your own

defence before I close this examination?”

The prisoner thus appealed to, let his eye rest for a moment on the

judge, then on the jury, and finally on one little white face lifted

from the crowd before him as if to meet and absorb his look. Then he

straightened himself, and in a quiet and perfectly natural voice,

uttered these simple words:

“Nothing but this: I am innocent.”

XXVI

THE SYLLABLE OF DOOM

I alit

On a great ship lightning-split,

And speeded hither on the sigh

Of one who gave an enemy

His plank, then plunged aside to die.

_Prometheus Unbound_.

Recess followed. Clifton and I had the opportunity of exchanging a few

words. He was voluble; I was reticent. I felt obliged to hide from

him the true cause of the deep agitation under which I was labouring.

Attached as he was to me, keenly as he must have felt my anomalous

position, he was too full of Moffat’s unwarrantable introduction of

testimony damaging to his client, to think or talk of anything else.

“He has laid him open to attack on every side. Fox has but to follow

his lead, and the thing is done. Poor Arthur may be guilty, but he

certainly should have every chance a careful lawyer could give him.

You can see--he makes it very evident--that he has no further use for

Moffat. I wonder under whose advice he chose him for his counsel. I

have never thought much of Moffat, myself. He wins his cases but--”

“He will win this,” I muttered.

Clifton started; looked at me very closely for a minute, paled a

little--I fear that I was very pale myself--but did not ask the

question rising to his lips.

“There is method in the madness of a man like that,” I pursued with a

gloom I could not entirely conceal. “He has come upon some evidence

which he has not even communicated to his client. At least, I fear so.

We must be prepared for any untoward event.” Then, noticing Clifton’s

alarm and wishing to confine it within safe bounds, I added: “I feel

that I am almost as much on trial as Arthur himself. Naturally I am

anxious at the appearance of anything I do not understand.”

Clifton frowned. We were quite alone. Leaning forward, he touched my

arm.

“Elwood,” said he, “you’ve not been quite open with me.”

I smiled. If half the bitterness and sorrow in my heart went into that

smile, it must have been a sad and bitter one indeed.

“You have a right to reproach me,” said I, “but not wholly. I did not

deceive you in essentials. You may still believe me as guiltless of

Adelaide’s violent death as a man can be who drove her and hers into

misery which death alone could end.”

“I will believe it,” he muttered, “I must.” And he dropped the subject,

as he made me see, forever.

I drew a deep breath of relief. I had come very near to revealing my

secret.

When we returned to the court-room, we found it already packed with a

very subdued and breathless crowd. It differed somewhat from the one

which had faced us in the morning; but Ella and her parents were there

and many others of the acknowledged friends of the accused and of his

family.

He, himself, wore the heavy and dogged air which became him least.

Physically refreshed, he carried himself boldly, but it was a boldness

which convinced me that any talk he may have had with his lawyer, had

been no more productive of comfort than the one I had held with mine.

As he took the witness chair, and prepared to meet the

cross-examination of the district attorney, a solemn hush settled

upon the room. Would the coming ordeal rob his brow of its present

effrontery, or would he continue to bear himself with the same surly

dignity, which, misunderstood as it was, produced its own effect, and

at certain moments seemed to shake even the confidence of Mr. Fox,

settled as he seemed to be in his belief in the integrity of his cause

and the rights of the prosecution.

Shaken or not, his attack was stern, swift, and to the point.

“Was the visit you made to the wine-vault on the evening of the second

of December, the first one you had ever paid there?”

“No; I had been there once before. But I always paid for my

depredations,” he added, proudly.

“The categorical answer, Mr. Cumberland. Anything else is superfluous.”

Arthur’s lip curled, but only for an instant; and nothing could have

exceeded the impassiveness of his manner as Mr. Fox went on.

“Then you knew the way?”

“Perfectly.”

“And the lock?”

“Sufficiently well to open it without difficulty.”

“How long do you think you were in entering the house and procuring

these bottles?”

“I cannot say. I have no means of knowing; I never thought of looking

at my watch.”

“Not when you started? Not when you left Cuthbert Road?”

“No, sir.”

“But you know when you left the club-house to go back?”

“Only by this--it had not yet begun to snow. I’m told that the

first flakes fell that night at ten minutes to eleven. I was on the

golf-links when this happened. You can fix the time yourself. Pardon

me,” he added, with decided ill-grace as he met Mr. Fox’s frown. “I

forgot your injunction.”

Mr. Fox smiled an acrid smile, as he asked: “Whereabouts on the

golf-links? They extend for some distance, you remember.”

“They are six hundred yards across from first tee to the third hole,

which is the nearest one to Cuthbert Road,” Arthur particularised. “I

was--no, I can’t tell you just where I was at that moment. It was a

good ways from the house. The snow came on very fiercely. For a little

while I could not see my way.”

“How, not see your way?”

“The snow flew into my eyes.”

“Crossing the links?”

“Yes, sir, crossing the links.”

“But the storm came from the west. It should have beaten against your

back.”

“Back or front, it bothered me. I could not get on as fast as I wished.”

Mr. Fox cast a look at the jury. Did they remember the testimony of the

landlord that Mr. Cumberland’s coat was as thickly plastered with snow

on the front as it had been on the back. He seemed to gather that they

did, for he went on at once to say:

“You are accustomed to the links? You have crossed them often?”

“Yes, I play golf there all summer.”

“I’m not alluding to the times when you play. I mean to ask whether or

not you had ever before crossed them directly to Cuthbert Road?”

“Yes, I had.”

“In a storm?”

“No, not in a storm.”

“How long did it take you that time to reach Cuthbert Road from The

Whispering Pines?”

Mr. Moffat bounded to his feet, but the prisoner had answered before he

could speak.

“Just fifteen minutes.”

“How came you to know the time so exactly?”

“Because that day I did look at my watch. I had an engagement in the

lower town, and had only twenty minutes in which to keep it. I was on

time.”

Honest at the core. This boy was growing rapidly in my favour. But this

frank but unwise answer was not pleasing to his counsel, who would have

advised, no doubt, a more general and less precise reply. However, it

had been made and Moffat was not a man to cry over spilled milk. He

did not even wince when the district attorney proceeded to elicit from

the prisoner that he was a good walker, not afraid in the least of

snow-storms and had often walked, in the teeth of the gale twice that

distance in less than half an hour. Now, as the storm that night had

been at his back, and he was in a hurry to reach his destination, it

was evidently incumbent upon him to explain how he had managed to use

up the intervening time of forty minutes before entering the hotel at

half-past eleven.

“Did you stop in the midst of the storm to take a drink?” asked the

district attorney.

As the testimony of the landlord in Cuthbert Road had been explicit

as to the fact of his having himself uncorked the bottle which the

prisoner had brought into the hotel, Arthur could not plead yes. He

must say no, and he did.

“I drank nothing; I was too busy thinking. I was so busy thinking I

wandered all over those links.”

“In the blinding snow?”

“Yes, in the snow. What did I care for the snow? I did not understand

my sister being in the club-house. I did not like it; I was tempted at

times to go back.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Because I was more of a brute than a brother--because Cuthbert Road

drew me in spite of myself--because--” He stopped with the first hint

of emotion we had seen in him since the morning. “I did not know what

was going on there or I should have gone back,” he flashed out, with a

defiant look at his counsel.

Again sympathy was with him. Mr. Fox had won but little in this first

attempt. He seemed to realise this, and shifted his attack to a point

more vulnerable.

“When you heard your sister’s voice in the club-house, how did you

think she had got into the building?”

“By means of the keys Ranelagh had left at the house.”

“When, instead of taking the whole bunch, you took the one key you

wanted from the ring, did you do so with any idea she might want to

make use of the rest?”

“No, I never thought of it. I never thought of her at all.”

“You took your one key, and let the rest lie?”

“You’ve said it.”

“Was this before or after you put on your overcoat?”

“I’m not sure; after, I think. Yes, it was after; for I remember that

I had a deuce of a time unbuttoning my coat to get at my trousers’

pocket.”

“You dropped this key into your trousers’ pocket?”

“I did.”

“Mr. Cumberland, let me ask you to fix your memory on the moments you

spent in the hall. Did you put on your hat before you pocketed the key,

or afterwards?”

“My hat? How can I tell? My mind wasn’t on my hat. I don’t know when I

put it on.”

“You absolutely do not remember?”

“No.”

“Nor where you took it from?”

“No.”

“Whether you saw the keys first, and then went for your hat; or having

pocketed the key, waited--”

“I did not wait.”

“Did not stand by the table thinking?”

“No, I was in too much of a hurry.”

“So that you went straight out?”

“Yes, as quickly as I could.”

The district attorney paused, to be sure of the attention of the jury.

When he saw that every eye of that now thoroughly aroused body was on

him, he proceeded to ask: “Does that mean immediately, or as soon as

you could after you had made certain preparations, or held certain talk

with some one you called, or who called to you?”

“I called to nobody. I--I went out immediately.”

It was evident that he lied; evident, too, that he had little hope from

his lie. Uneasiness was taking the place of confidence in his youthful,

untried, undisciplined mind. Carmel had spoken to him in the hall--I

guessed it then, I knew it afterward--and he thought to deceive this

court and blindfold a jury, whose attention had been drawn to this

point by his own counsel.

District Attorney Fox smiled. “How then did you get into the stable?”

“The stable! Oh, I had no trouble in getting into the stable.”

“Was it unlocked?”

A slow flush broke over the prisoner’s whole face. He saw where he

had been landed and took a minute to pull himself together before he

replied: “I had the key to that door, too. I got it out of the kitchen.”

“You have not spoken of going into the kitchen.”

“I have not spoken of coming downstairs.”

“You went into the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I first came down.”

“That is not in accordance with your direct testimony. On the contrary,

you said that on coming downstairs you went straight to the rack for

your overcoat. Stenographer read what the prisoner said on this topic.”

A rustling of leaves, distinctly to be heard in the deathlike silence

of the room, was followed by the reading of this reply and answer:

“_Yet you cannot say which of these two overcoats you put on when you

left your home an hour or so after finishing your dinner?_”

“_I cannot. I was in no condition to notice. I was bent on going into

town and, on coming downstairs, I went straight to the rack and pulled

on the first things that offered._”

The prisoner stood immobile but with a deepening line gathering on his

brow until the last word fell. Then he said: “I forgot. I went for the

key before I put on my overcoat. I wanted to see how the sick horse

looked.”

“Did you drop this key into your pocket, too?”

“No, I carried it into the hall.”

“What did you do with it there?”

“I don’t know. Put it on the table, I suppose.”

“Don’t you remember? There were other keys lying on this table. Don’t

you remember what you did with the one in your hand while you took the

club-house key from the midst of Mr. Ranelagh’s bunch?”

“I laid it on the table. I must have--there was no other place to put

it.”

“Laid it down by itself?”

“Yes.”

“And took it up when you went out?”

“Of course.”

“Carrying it straight to the stable?”

“Naturally.”

“What did you do with it when you came out?”

“I left it in the stable-door.”

“You did? What excuse have you to give for that?”

“None. I was reckless, and didn’t care for anything--that’s all.”

“Yet you took several minutes, for all your hurry and your

indifference, to get the stable key and look in at a horse that wasn’t

sick enough to keep your coachman home from a dance.”

The prisoner was silent.

“You have no further explanation to give on this subject?”

“No. All fellows who love horses will understand.”

The district attorney shrugged this answer away before he went on to

say: “You have listened to Zadok Brown’s testimony. When he returned at

three, he found the stable-door locked, and the key hanging up on its

usual nail in the kitchen. How do you account for this?”

“There are two ways.”

“Mention them, if you please.”

“Zadok had been to a dance, and may not have been quite clear as to

what he saw. Or, finding the stable door open, may have blamed himself

for the fact and sought to cover up his fault with a lie.”

“Have you ever caught him in a lie?”

“No; but there’s always a first time.”

“You would impeach his testimony then?”

“No. You asked me how this discrepancy could be explained, and I have

tried to show you.”

“Mr. Cumberland, the grey mare was out that night; this has been amply

proved.”

“If you believe Zadok, yes.”

“You have heard other testimony corroborative of this fact. She was

seen on the club-house road that night, by a person amply qualified to

identify her.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“The person driving this horse wore a hat, identified as an old one

of yours, which hat was afterwards found at your house on a remote

peg in a seldom-used closet. If you were not this person, how can you

explain the use of your horse, the use of your clothes, the locking of

the stable-door--which you declare yourself to have left open--and the

hanging up of the key on its own nail?”

It was a crucial question--how crucial no one knew but our two selves.

If he answered at all, he must compromise Carmel. I had no fear of his

doing this, but I had great fear of what Ella might do if he let this

implication stand and made no effort to exonerate himself by denying

his presence in the cutter, and consequent return to the Cumberland

home. The quick side glances I here observed cast in her direction

by both father and mother, showed that she had made some impulsive

demonstration visible to them, if not to others and fearful of the

consequences if I did not make some effort to hold her in check, I kept

my eyes in her direction, and so lost Arthur’s look and the look of his

counsel as he answered, with just the word I had expected--a short and

dogged:

“I cannot explain.”

It was my death warrant. I realised this even while I held Ella’s eye

with mine and smoothed my countenance to meet the anguish in hers, in

the effort to hold her back for a few minutes longer till I could quite

satisfy myself that Arthur’s case was really lost and that I must speak

or feel myself his murderer.

The gloom which followed this recognition of his inability, real or

fancied, to explain away the most damning feature of the case against

him, taken with his own contradictions and growing despondency, could

not escape my eye, accustomed as I was to the habitual expression of

most every person there. But it was not yet the impenetrable gloom

presaging conviction; and directing Ella’s gaze towards Mr. Moffat,

who seemed but little disturbed either by Mr. Fox’s satisfaction or

the prisoner’s open despair, I took heart of grace and waited for the

district attorney’s next move. It was a fatal one. I began to recognise

this very soon, simple as was the subject he now introduced.

“When you went into the kitchen, Mr. Cumberland, to get the stable-door

key, was the gas lit, or did you have to light it?”

“It--it was lit, I think.”

“Don’t you know?”

“It was lit, but turned low. I could see well enough.”

“Why, then, didn’t you take both keys?”

“Both keys?”

“You have said you went down town by the short cut through your

neighbour’s yard. That cut is guarded by a door, which was locked that

night. You needed the key to that door more than the one to the stable.

Why didn’t you take it?”

“I--I did.”

“You haven’t said so.”

“I--I took it when I took the other.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes; they both hung on one nail. I grabbed them both at the same time.”

“It does not appear so in your testimony. You mentioned a key, not

keys, in all your answers to my questions.”

“There were two; I didn’t weigh my words. I needed both and I took

both.”

“Which of the two hung foremost?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“You took both?”

“Yes, I took both.”

“And went straight out with them?”

“Yes, to the stable.”

“And then where?”

“Through the adjoining grounds downtown.”

“You are sure you went through Mr. Fulton’s grounds at this early hour

in the evening?”

“I am positive.”

“Was it not at a later hour, much later, a little before eleven instead

of a little before nine?”

“No, sir. I was on the golf-links then.”

“But some one drove into the stable.”

“So you say.”

“Unharnessed the horse, drew up the cutter, locked the stable-door,

and, entering the house, hung up the key where it belonged.”

No answer this time.

“Mr. Cumberland, you admitted in your direct examination that you took

with you out of the clubhouse only one bottle of the especial brand you

favoured, although you carried up two into the kitchen?”

“No, I said that I only had one when I got to Cuthbert Road. I don’t

remember anything about the other.”

“But you know where the other--or rather remnants of the other, was

found?”

“In my own stable, taken there by my man Zadok Brown, who says he

picked it out of one of our waste barrels.”

“This is the part of bottle referred to. Do you recognise the label

still adhering to it as similar to the one to be found on the bottle

you emptied in Cuthbert Road?”

“It is like that one.”

“Had you carried that other bottle off, and had it been broken as

this has been broken would it not have presented an exactly similar

appearance to this?”

“Possibly.”

“Only possibly?”

“It would have looked the same. I cannot deny it. What’s the use

fooling?”

“Mr. Cumberland, the only two bottles known to contain this especial

brand of wine were in the clubhouse at ten o’clock that night. How came

one of them to get into the barrel outside your stable before your

return the next day?”

“I cannot say.”

“This barrel stood where?”

“In the passage behind the stable.”

“The passage you pass through on your way to the door leading into your

neighbour’s grounds?”

“Yes.”

The dreaded moment had come. This “Yes” had no sooner left Arthur’s

lips than I saw Ella throw out her innocent arms, and leap impetuously

to her feet, with a loud “No, no, I can tell--”

She did not say what, for at the hubbub roused by this outbreak in

open court, she fainted dead away and was carried out in her dismayed

father’s arms.

This necessarily caused a break in the proceedings. Mr. Fox suspended

his cross-examination and in a few minutes more, the judge adjourned

the court. As the prisoner rose and turned to pass out, I cast him

a hurried glance to see what effect had been made upon him by this

ingenuous outburst from one he had possibly just a little depreciated.

A great one, evidently. His features were transformed, and he seemed

almost as oblivious of the countless eyes upon him as she had been when

she rose to testify for him in her self-forgetful enthusiasm. As I

observed this and the satisfaction with which Mr. Moffat scented this

new witness,--a satisfaction which promised little consideration for

her if she ever came upon the stand--I surrendered to fate.

Inwardly committing Carmel’s future to the God who made her and who

knew better than we the story of her life and what her fiery temper

had cost her, I drew a piece of paper from my pocket, and, while the

courtroom was slowly emptying, hastily addressed the following lines to

Mr. Moffat who had lingered to have a few words with his colleague:

“There is a witness in this building who can testify more clearly and

definitely than Miss Fulton, that Arthur Cumberland, for all we have

heard in seeming contradiction to the same, might have been on the

golf-links at the time he swears to. That witness is myself.

“ELWOOD RANELAGH.”

The time which elapsed between my passing over this note and his

receiving and reading it, was to me like the last few moments of

a condemned criminal. How gladly would I have changed places with

Arthur, and with what sensations of despair I saw flitting before me

in my mind’s eye, the various visions of Carmel’s loveliness which had

charmed me out of myself. But the die had been cast, and I was ready

to meet the surprised lawyer’s look when his eye rose from the words I

had written and settled steadily on my face. Next minute he was writing

busily and in a second later I was reading these words:

“Do you absolutely wish to be recalled as a witness, and by the

defence? M.”

My answer was brief:

“I do. Not to make a confession of crime. I have no such confession to

make. But I know who drove that horse. R.”

I had sacrificed Carmel to my sense of right. Never had I loved her as

I did at that moment.

XXVII

EXPECTANCY

I see your end,

’T is my undoing.

_King Henry VIII_.

A turning-point had been reached in the defence. That every one knew

after the first glance at Mr. Moffat, on the opening of the next

morning’s session. As I noted the excitement which this occasioned

even in quarters where self-control is usually most marked and such

emotions suppressed, I marvelled at the subtle influence of one man’s

expectancy, and the powerful effect which can be produced on a feverish

crowd by a well-ordered silence suggestive of coming action.

I, who knew the basis of this expectancy and the nature of the action

with which Mr. Moffat anticipated startling the court, was the quietest

person present. Since it was my hand and none other which must give

this fresh turn to the wheel of justice, it were well for me to

do it calmly and without any of the old maddening throb of heart.

But the time seemed long before Arthur was released from further

cross-examination, and the opportunity given Mr. Moffat to call his

next witness.

Something in the attitude he now took, something in the way he bent

over his client and whispered a few admonitory words, and still more

the emotion with which these words were received and answered by some

extraordinary protest, aroused expectation to a still greater pitch,

and made my course seem even more painful to myself than I had foreseen

when dreaming over and weighing the possibilities of this hour. With

something like terror, I awaited the calling of my name; and, when it

was delayed, it was with emotions inexplicable to myself that I looked

up and saw Mr. Moffat holding open a door at the left of the judge,

with that attitude of respect, which a man only assumes in the presence

and under the dominating influence of woman.

“Ella!” thought I. “Instead of saving her by my contemplated sacrifice

of Carmel, I have only added one sacrifice to another.”

But when the timid faltering step we could faintly hear crossing the

room beyond, had brought its possessor within sight, and I perceived

the tall, black-robed, heavily veiled woman who reached for Mr.

Moffat’s sustaining arm, I did not need the startling picture of the

prisoner, standing upright, with outheld and repellant hands, to

realise that the impossible had happened, and that all which he, as

well as I, had done and left undone, suffered and suppressed, had been

in vain.

Mr. Moffat, with no eye for him or for me, conducted his witness to a

chair; then, as she loosened her veil and let it drop in her lap, he

cried in tones which rang from end to end of the court-room: “I summon

Carmel Cumberland to the stand, to witness in her brother’s defence.”

The surprise was complete. It was a great moment for Mr. Moffat; but

for me all was confusion, dread, a veil of misty darkness, through

which shone her face, marred by its ineffaceable scar, but calm as I

had never expected to see it again in this life, and beautiful with a

smile under which her deeply shaken and hardly conscious brother sank

slowly back into his seat, amid a silence as profound as the hold she

had immediately taken upon all hearts.

XXVIII

“WHERE IS MY BROTHER?”

Let me see the writing.

My lord, ’tis nothing.

No matter, then, who sees it;

I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.

_Richard II_.

What is the explanation of Carmel’s reappearance in town and of this

sensational introduction of her into the court-room, in a restored

state of health of which no one, so far as known, had had any

intimation save the man who was responsible for her appearance? The

particulars are due you.

She had passed some weeks at Lakewood, under the eye of the nurse who

was detailed to watch, as well as tend her. During these weeks she gave

no sign of improvement mentally, though she constantly gained strength

otherwise, and impressed everybody with the clear light in her eye and

the absence of everything suggestive of gloom in her expression and

language. There was the same complete loss of memory up to the time of

the tragic occurrence which had desolated her home; the same harping

at odd moments on Adelaide’s happiness and her own prospect of seeing

this dear sister very soon which had marked the opening days of her

convalescence. But beyond and back of all this was some secret joy,

unintelligible to the nurse, which helped rather than retarded the sick

girl’s recovery, and made Carmel appear at times as if she walked on

air and breathed the very breath of Paradise--an anomaly which not only

roused Miss Unwin’s curiosity, but led her to regard with something

like apprehension, any change in her patient’s state of mind which

would rob her of the strange and unseen delights which fed her secret

soul and made her oblivious of the awful facts awaiting a restored

memory.

Meanwhile Carmel was allowed such liberty as her condition required;

but was never left alone for a moment after a certain day when her

eye suddenly took on a strange look of confused inquiry, totally

dissociated with anything she saw or heard. A stir had taken place

in her brain, and her nurse wanted to take her back home. But this

awakening--if such it could be called, was so short in its duration and

was followed so immediately by a string of innocent questions about

Adelaide, that Nurse Unwin concluded to remain a few days longer before

risking this delicately balanced mind amid old scenes and the curious

glances of her townspeople.

Alas! the awakening was to take place in Lakewood and under

circumstances of the most ordinary nature. Carmel had been out and was

just crossing the hall of her hotel to the elevator, when she stopped

with a violent start and clutching the air, was caught by her nurse

who had hurried up at the first intimation of anything unusual in the

condition of her patient.

The cause of this agitation was immediately apparent. Near them sat two

ladies, each with a small wine-glass in her hand. One was drinking,

the other waiting and watching, but with every apparent intention of

drinking when the other had ceased. A common sight enough, but it

worked a revolution in Carmel’s darkened mind. The light of youthful

joyousness fled from her face; and the cheek, just pulsing softly with

new life, blanched to the death-like hue of mortal suffering. Dropping

her eyes from the women, who saw nothing and continued to sip their

wine in happy ignorance of the soul-tragedy going on within ten feet of

them, she looked down at her dress, then up at the walls about her; and

then slowly, anxiously, and with unmistakable terror, at the woman in

whose arms she felt herself supported.

“Explain,” she murmured. “Where am I?”

“At Lakewood, in a hotel. You have been ill, and are only just

recovering.”

Her hand went up to her cheek, the one that had been burned, and still

showed the deep traces of that accident.

“I remember,” said she. Then with another glance at her dress, which

had studiously been kept cheerful, she remarked, with deep reproach:

“My sister is dead; why am I not in black?”

The nurse, realising her responsibility (she said afterwards that it

was the most serious moment of her life), subdued her own astonishment

at this proof of her young patient’s knowledge of a crime of which she

was universally supposed to be entirely ignorant, and, bestowing a

reassuring smile on the agitated girl, observed softly:

“You wore too ill to be burdened with black. You are better now and may

assume it if you will. I will help you buy your mourning.”

“Yes, you look like a kind woman. What is your name, please, and are we

here alone in this great hotel?”

Now, as a matter of expediency--to save Carmel from the unendurable

curiosity of the crowd, and herself from the importunities of the New

York reporters, Miss Unwin had registered herself and her charge under

assumed names. She was, therefore, forced to reply:

“My name is Huckins, and we are here alone. But that need not worry

you. I have watched over you night and day for many weeks.”

“You have? Because of this slight burn?” Again Carmel’s hand went to

her cheek.

“Not on account of that only. You have had a serious illness quite

apart from that injury. But you are better; you are almost well--well

enough to go home, if you will.”

“I cannot go home--not just yet. I’m--I’m not strong enough. But

we shouldn’t be here alone without some man to look after us. Miss

Huckins, _where is my brother_?”

At this question, uttered with emphasis, with anxiety--with indignation

even--Miss Unwin felt the emotion she had so successfully subdued up to

this moment, betray itself in her voice as she answered, with a quiet

motion towards the elevator: “Let us go up to our room. There I will

answer all your questions.”

But Carmel, with the waywardness of her years--or perhaps, with deeper

reasoning powers than the other would be apt to attribute to her--broke

softly away from Miss Unwin’s detaining hand, and walking directly

into the office, looked about for the newspaper stand. Miss Unwin,

over-anxious not to make a scene, followed, but did not seek to deter

her, until they were once again by themselves in the centre of the

room. Then she ventured to speak again:

“We have all the papers in our room. Come up, and let me read them to

you.”

But Fate was making ready its great stroke. Just as Carmel seemed about

to yield to this persuasion, some lingering doubt drew her eyes again

to the stand, just at the very moment a boy stepped into view with the

evening bulletin, on which had just been written these words:

The Last Juror Obtained in the Trial of Arthur Cumberland for the

Murder of His Sister, Adelaide.

Carmel saw, and stood--a breathless image of horror. A couple of

gentlemen came running; but the nurse waved them back, and herself

caught Carmel and upheld her, in momentary dread of another mental, if

not physical, collapse.

But Carmel had come back into the world of consciousness to stay.

Accepting her nurse’s support, but giving no sign of waning faculties

or imperfect understanding of what she had seen, she spoke quite

clearly and with her eyes fixed upon Miss Unwin:

“So that is why I am here, away from all my friends. Was I too ill

to be told? Couldn’t you make me know what was happening? You or the

doctors or--or anybody?”

“You were much too ill,” protested the nurse, leading her towards the

elevator and so by degrees to her room. “I tried to arouse you after

the crisis of your illness had passed; but you seemed to have forgotten

everything which took place that night and the doctors warned me not to

press you.”

“And Arthur--poor Arthur, has been the sufferer! Tell me the whole

story. I can bear it,” she pleaded. “I can bear anything but not

knowing. Why should he have fallen under suspicion? He was not even

there. I must go to him! Pack up our clothing, Miss Huckins. I must go

to him at once.”

They were in their own room now, and Carmel was standing quite by

herself in the full light of the setting sun. With the utterance of

this determination, she had turned upon her companion; and that astute

and experienced woman had every opportunity for observing her face.

There was a woman’s resolution in it. With the sudden rending of the

clouds which had obscured her intellect, strange powers had awakened in

this young girl, giving her a force of expression which, in connection

with her inextinguishable beauty, formed a spectacle before which this

older woman, in spite of her long experience, hesitated in doubt.

“You shall go--” began the nurse, and stopped.

Carmel was not listening. Another change of thought had come, and her

features, as keenly alive now to every passing emotion as they had

formerly been set in a dull placidity, mirrored doubts of her own,

which had a deeper source than any which had disturbed the nurse, even

in these moments of serious perplexity.

“How can I?” fell in unconscious betrayal from her lips. “How can I!”

Then she stood silent, ghastly with lack of colour one minute, and

rosy red with its excess the next, until it was hard to tell in which

extreme her feeling spoke most truly.

What was the feeling? Nurse Unwin felt it imperative to know. Relying

on the confidence shown her by this unfortunate girl, in her lonely

position and unbearable distress, she approached Carmel, with renewed

offers of help and such expressions of sympathy as she thought might

lure her into open speech.

But discretion had come with fear, and Carmel, while not disdaining the

other’s kindness, instantly made it apparent that, whatever her burden,

and however unsuited it was to her present weak condition, it was not

one she felt willing to share.

“I must think,” she murmured, as she finally followed the nurse’s lead

and seated herself on a lounge. “Arthur on trial for his life! _Arthur

on trial for his life!_ And Adelaide was not even murdered!”

“No?” gasped the nurse, intent on every word this long-silenced witness

let fall.

“Had he no friend? Was there not some one to understand? Adelaide--”

here her head fell till her face was lost to sight--“had--a--lover--”

“Yes. Mr. Elwood Ranelagh. He was the first to be arrested for the

crime.”

The soul in Carmel seemed to vanish at this word. The eyes, which had

been so far-seeing the moment before, grew blank, and the lithe young

body stiff with that death in life which is almost worse to look upon

than death itself. She did not speak; but presently she arose, as

an automaton might arise at the touch of some invisible spring, and

so stood, staring, until the nurse, frightened at the result of her

words and the complete overthrow which might follow them, sprang for a

newspaper and thrust it into her patient’s unwilling hand.

Was it too late? For a minute it seemed to be so; then the stony eyes

softened and fell, the rigidity of her frame relaxed, and Carmel sank

back again on the sofa and tried to read the headlines on the open

sheet before her. But her eyes were unequal to the task. With a sob she

dropped the paper and entreated the nurse to relate to her from her own

knowledge, all that had passed, sparing her nothing that would make the

situation perfectly clear to one who had been asleep during the worst

crisis of her life.

Miss Unwin complied, but with reservations. She told of Adelaide having

been found dead at The Whispering Pines by the police, whom she had

evidently summoned during a moment of struggle or fear; of Ranelagh’s

presence there, and of the suspicions to which it gave rise; of his

denial of the crime; of his strange reticence on certain points, which

served to keep him incarcerated till a New York detective got to work

and found so much evidence against her brother that Mr. Ranelagh was

subsequently released and Arthur Cumberland indicted. But she said

nothing about the marks on Adelaide’s throat, or of the special reason

which the police had for arresting Mr. Ranelagh. She did not dare.

Strangulation was a horrible death to contemplate; and if this factor

in the crime--she was not deceived by Carmel’s exclamation that there

had been no murder--was unknown as yet to her patient, as it must be

from what she had said, and the absolute impossibility, as she thought,

of her having known what went on in The Whispering Pines, then it had

better remain unknown to her until circumstances forced it on her

knowledge, or she had gotten sufficient strength to bear it.

Carmel received the account well. She started when she heard of

the discovery of Ranelagh in the club-house on the entrance of the

police, and seemed disposed to ask some questions. But though the

nurse gave her an opportunity to do so, she appeared to hunt in vain

for the necessary words, and the narrative proceeded without further

interruption. When all was done, she sat quite still; then carefully,

and with a show of more judgment than might be expected from one of

her years, she propounded certain inquiries which brought out the main

causes for her brother’s arraignment. When she had these fully in mind,

she looked up into the nurse’s face again and repeated, quite calmly,

but with immovable decision, the order of an hour before:

“We must return at once. You will pack up immediately.”

Miss Unwin nodded, and began to open the trunks.

This, however, was a ruse. She did not intend to take her patient

back that night. She was afraid to risk it. The next day would be

soon enough. But she would calm her by making ready, and when the

proper moment came, would find some complication of trains which would

interfere with their immediate departure.

Meanwhile, she would communicate at the earliest moment with Mr. Fox.

She had been in the habit of sending him frequent telegrams as to her

patient’s condition. They had been invariable so far: “No difference;

mind still a blank,” or some code word significant of the same. But

a new word was necessary now. She must look it up, and formulate her

telegram before she did anything else.

The code-book was in her top tray. She hunted and hunted for it,

without being able to lay her hands on it. She grew very nervous. She

was only human; she was in a very trying position, and she realised it.

Where could that book be? Suddenly she espied it and, falling on her

knees before the trunk, with her back still to Carmel, studied out the

words she wanted. She was leaning over the tray to write these words

in her note-book, when--no one ever knew how it happened--the lid of

the heavy trunk fell forward and its iron edge struck her on the nape

of the neck, with a keen blow which laid her senseless. When Carmel

reached her side, she found herself the strong one and her stalwart

nurse the patient.

When help had been summoned, the accident explained, and everything

done for the unconscious woman which medical skill could suggest,

Carmel, finding a moment to herself, stole to the trunk, and, lifting

up the lid, looked in. She had been watchful of her nurse from the

first, and was suspicious of the actions which had led to this untoward

accident. Seeing the two little books, she took them out. The note-book

lay open and on the page thus disclosed, she beheld written:

Ap Lox Fidestum Truhum

Ridiculous nonsense--until she consulted the code. Then these detached

and meaningless words took on a significance which she could not afford

to ignore:

Ap A change.

Lox Makes remarkable statements.

Fidestum Shall we return?

Trubum Not tractable.

Carmel endeavoured to find out for whom this telegram was intended.

There was nothing to inform her. A moment of indecision was followed by

quick action. She had noticed that she had been invariably addressed as

Miss Campbell by every one who had come into the room. Whether this was

a proof of the care with which she had been guarded from the curiosity

of strangers, or whether it was part of a system of deception springing

from quite different causes, she felt that in the present emergency it

was a fact to be thankful for and to be utilised.

Regaining her own room, which was on the other side of their common

sitting-room, she collected a few necessary articles, and placed them

in a bag which she thrust under her bed. Hunting for money, she found

quite an adequate amount in her own purse, which was attached to her

person. Satisfied thus far, she chose her most inconspicuous hat and

coat, and putting them on, went out by her own door into the corridor.

The time--it was the dinner-hour--favoured her attempt. She found her

way to the office unobserved, and, going frankly up to the clerk,

informed him that she had some telegrams to send and that she would

be out for some little time. Would he see that Miss Huckins was not

neglected in her absence?

The clerk, startled at these evidences of sense and self-reliance in

one he had been accustomed to see under the special protection of the

very woman she was now confiding to his care, surveyed her eloquent

features beaming with quiet resolve, and for a moment seemed at a loss

how to take this change and control the strange situation. Perhaps she

understood him, perhaps she only followed the impulses natural to her

sex. She never knew; she only remembers that she smiled, and that his

hesitation vanished at that smile.

“I will see to it,” said he. Then, as she turned to go, he ventured

to add, “It is quite dark now. If you would like one of the boys to

go with you--”. But he received no encouragement, and allowed his

suggestion to remain unfinished.

She looked grateful for this, and was pulling down her veil when she

perceived two or three men on the other side of the room, watching her

in evident wonder. Stepping back to the desk, she addressed the clerk

again, this time with a marked distinctness:

“I have been very ill, I know, and not always quite myself. But the

shock of this accident to my nurse has cleared my brain and made me

capable again of attending to my own affairs. You can trust me; I can

do my errands all right; but perhaps I had better have one of the boys

go with me.”

The clerk, greatly relieved, rang his bell, and the gentlemen at the

other end of the room sauntered elsewhere to exchange their impressions

of an incident which was remarkable enough in itself, without the

accentuation put upon it by the extreme beauty of the girl and the

one conspicuous blemish to that beauty--her unfortunate scar. With

what additional wonder would they have regarded the occurrence, had

they known that the object of their interest was not an unknown Miss

Campbell, but the much pitied, much talked-of Carmel Cumberland, sister

of the man then on trial for his life in a New York town.

With her first step into the street, Carmel’s freshly freed mind began

its work. She knew she was in a place called Lakewood, but she knew

little of its location, save that it was somewhere in New Jersey.

Another strange thing! she did not recognise the streets. They were new

to her. She did not remember ever having been in them before.

“Where is the railroad station?” she inquired of the boy who was

trotting along at her side.

“Over there,” he answered, vaguely.

“Take me to it.”

He obeyed, and they threaded several streets whose lighted shops

pleased her, notwithstanding her cares; such a joy it was to be

alive to things once more, and capable of remembrance, even though

remembrance brought visions at which she shuddered, and turned away,

appalled.

The sight of the station, from which a train was just leaving,

frightened her for a moment with its bustle and many lights; but she

rallied under the stress of her purpose, and, entering, found the

telegraph office, from which she sent this message, directed to her

physician, at home, Dr. Carpenter:

“Look for me on early train. All is clear to me now, and I must return.

Preserve silence till we meet.”

This she signed with a pet name, known only to themselves, and dating

back to her childish days.

Then she bought a ticket, and studied the time-table. When quite

satisfied, she returned to the hotel. She was met in the doorway by the

physician who was attending the so-called Miss Huckins. He paused when

he saw her, and asked a few questions which she was penetrating enough

to perceive were more for the purpose of testing her own condition

than to express interest in his patient. She answered quietly, and

was met by a surprise and curiosity which evinced that he was greatly

drawn towards her case. This alarmed her. She did not wish to be the

object of any one’s notice. On the contrary, she desired to obliterate

herself; to be counted out so far as all these people were concerned.

But above all, she was anxious not to rouse suspicion. So she stopped

and talked as naturally as she could about Miss Huckins’s accident

and what the prospects were for the night. These were favourable, or

so the doctor declared, but the injured woman’s condition called for

great care and he would send over a capable nurse at once. Meanwhile,

the maid who was with her would do very well. She, herself, need have

no worry. He would advise against worry, and suggested that she should

have a good and nourishing dinner sent to her room, after which she

should immediately retire and get what sleep she could by means of an

anodyne he would send her.

Carmel exerted herself.

“You are very good,” said she, “I need no anodyne. I _am_ tired and

when I once get to bed shall certainly sleep. I shall give orders not

to be disturbed. Isn’t that right?”

“Quite right. I will myself tell the nurse.”

He was going, but turned to look at her again.

“Shall I accompany you to the door of your room?” he asked.

She shook her head, with a smile. This delay was a torment to her, but

it must be endured.

“I am quite capable of finding my room. I hope Miss Huckins will be

as well in a week from now as I am at this moment. But, doctor--” she

had been struck by a strange possibility--“I should like to settle one

little matter before we part. The money I have may not be quite safe in

my hands. My memory might leave me again, and then Miss Huckins might

suffer. If you will take charge of some of it on her account, I shall

feel relieved.”

“It would be a wise precaution,” he admitted. “But you could just as

well leave it at the desk.”

“So I can,” she smiled. Then, as his eye remained fixed on her: “You

are wondering if I have friends. We both have and I have just come

from telegraphing to one of them. You can leave us, with an easy mind.

All that I dread is that Miss Huckins will worry about me if her

consciousness should return during the night.”

“It will not return so soon. Next week we may look for it. Then you can

be by to reassure her if she asks for you.”

Carmers eyes fell.

“I would not be a cause of distress to her for the world. She has been

very good to me.” Bowing, she turned in the direction of the office.

The doctor, lifting his hat, took his departure. The interview might

have lasted five minutes. She felt as though it had lasted an hour.

She followed the doctor’s advice and left half the money she had, in

charge of the clerk. Then she went upstairs. She was not seen to come

down again; but when the eight-forty-five train started out of the

station that night, it had for a passenger, a young, heavily veiled

girl, who went straight to her section. A balcony running by her window

had favoured her escape. It led to a hall window at the head of a side

staircase. She met no one on the staircase, and, once out of the door

at its foot, her difficulties were over, and her escape effected.

She was missed the next morning, and an account of her erratic flight

reached the papers, and was published far and wide. But the name of

Miss Caroline Campbell conveyed nothing to the public, and the great

trial went on without a soul suspecting the significance of this

midnight flitting of an unknown and partially demented girl.

At the house of Dr. Carpenter she met Mr. Moffat. What she told him

heartened him greatly for the struggle he saw before him. Indeed, it

altered the whole tone of the defence. Perceiving from her story,

and from what the doctor could tell him of their meeting at the

station that her return to town was as yet a secret to every one but

themselves, he begged that the secret should continue to be kept, in

order that the _coup d’etat_ which he meditated might lose none of

its force by anticipation. Carmel, whose mind was full of her coming

ordeal, was willing enough to hide her head until it came; while Dr.

Carpenter, alarmed at all this excitement, would have insisted on it in

any event.

Carmel wished her brother informed of her return, but the wily lawyer

persuaded her to excuse him from taking Arthur into his confidence

until the last moment. He knew that he would receive only opposition

from his young and stubborn client; that Carmel’s presence and

Carmel’s determination would have to be sprung upon Arthur even

more than upon the prosecution; that the prisoner at the bar would

struggle to the very last against Carmel’s appearance in court, and

make an infinite lot of trouble, if he did not actually endanger his

own cause. One of the stipulations which he had made in securing

Mr. Moffat for his counsel was that Carmel’s name was to be kept as

much as possible out of the proceedings; and to this Mr. Moffat had

subscribed, notwithstanding his conviction that the crime laid to the

defendant’s charge was a result of Ranelagh’s passion for Carmel, and,

consequently, distinctly the work of Ranelagh’s own hand.

He had thought that he could win his case by the powers of oratory and

a somewhat free use of innuendo; but his view changed under the fresh

enlightenment which he received in his conversation with Carmel. He

saw unfolding before him a defence of unparalleled interest. True, it

involved this interesting witness in a way that would be unpleasant

to the brother; but he was not the man to sacrifice a client to any

sentimental scruple--certainly not this client, whose worth he was just

beginning to realise. Professional pride, as well as an inherent love

of justice, led him to this conclusion. Nothing in God’s world appealed

to him, or ever had appealed to him, like a prisoner in the dock facing

a fate from which only legal address, added to an orator’s eloquence,

could save him. His sympathies went out to a man so placed, even when

he was a brute and his guilt far from doubtful. How much more, then,

must he feel the claims of this surly but chivalrous-hearted boy,

son of a good father and pious mother, who had been made the butt of

circumstances, and of whose innocence he was hourly becoming more and

more convinced.

Could he have probed the whole matter, examined and re-examined this

new witness until every detail was his and the whole story of that

night stood bare before him, he might have hesitated a little longer

and asked himself some very serious questions. But Carmel was not

strong enough for much talk. Dr. Carpenter would not allow it, and the

continued clearness of her mind was too invaluable to his case for this

far-seeing advocate to take any risk. She had told him enough to assure

him that circumstances and not guilt had put Arthur where he was,

and had added to the assurance, details of an unexpected nature--so

unexpected, indeed, that the lawyer was led away by the prospect they

offered of confounding the prosecution by a line of defence to which no

clew had been given by anything that had appeared.

He planned then and there a dramatic climax which should take the

breath away from his opponent, and change the whole feeling of the

court towards the prisoner. It was a glorious prospect, and if the girl

remained well--the bare possibility of her not doing so, drove him

prematurely from her presence; and so it happened that, for the second

time, the subject of Adelaide’s death was discussed in her hearing

without any mention being made of strangulation as its immediate cause.

Would her action have been different had she known that this was a

conceded fact?

Mr. Moffat did not repeat this visit. He was not willing to risk his

secret by being seen too often at the doctor’s house; but telephonic

communication was kept up between him and her present guardian, and

he was able to bear himself quietly and with confidence until the

time drew near for the introduction of her testimony. Then he grew

nervous, fearing that Nurse Unwin would come to herself and telegraph

Carmel’s escape, and so prepare the prosecution for his great stroke.

But nothing of the kind happened; and, when the great day came, he had

only to consider how he should prepare Arthur for the surprise awaiting

him, and finally decided not to prepare him at all, but simply to state

at the proper moment, and in the face of the whole court-room, that

his sister had recovered and would soon take her place upon the stand.

The restraint of the place would thus act as a guard between them,

and Carmel’s immediate entrance put an end to the reproaches of whose

bitterness he could well judge from his former experience of them.

With all these anxieties and his deeply planned _coup d’etat_ awaiting

the moment of action, Ella’s simple outburst and even Ranelagh’s

unexpected and somewhat startling suggestion lost much of their

significance. All his mind and heart were on his next move. It was to

be made with the queen, and must threaten checkmate. Yet he did not

forget the two pawns, silent in their places--but guarding certain

squares which the queen, for all her royal prerogatives, might not be

able to reach.

BOOK FOUR

WHAT THE PINES WHISPERED

XXIX

“I REMEMBERED THE ROOM”

MERCURY.--If thou mightst dwell among the Gods the while

Lapped in voluptuous joy?

PROMETHEUS.--I would not quit

This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains.

_Prometheus Unbound_.

Great moments, whether of pain, surprise, or terror, awaken in the

startled breast very different emotions from those we are led to

anticipate from the agitation caused by lesser experiences. As Carmel

disclosed her features to the court, my one absorbing thought was:

Would she look at me? Could I hope for a glance of her eye? Did I wish

it? My question was answered before Mr. Moffat had regained his place

and turned to address the court.

As her gaze passed from her brother’s face, it travelled slowly and

with growing hesitation over the countenances of those near her, on and

on past the judge, past the jury, until they reached the spot where I

sat. There they seemed to falter, and the beating of my heart became so

loud that I instinctively shrank away from my neighbour. By so doing,

I drew her eye, which fell full upon mine for one overwhelming minute;

then she shrank and looked away, but not before the colour had risen in

a flood to her cheek.

The hope which had sprung to life under her first beautiful aspect,

vanished in despair at sight of this flush. For it was not one of

joy, or surprise, or even of unconscious sympathy. It was the banner

of a deep, unendurable shame. Versed in her every expression, I could

not mistake the language of her dismayed soul, at this, the most

critical instant of her life. She had hoped to find me absent; she was

overwhelmed to find me there. Could she, with a look, have transported

me a thousand miles from this scene of personal humiliation and

unknown, unimaginable outcome, she would have bestowed that look and

ignored the consequences.

Nor was I behind her in the reckless passion of the moment. Could I, by

means of a wish, have been transported those thousand miles, I should

even now have been far from a spot where, in the face of a curious

crowd, busy in associating us together, I must submit to the terror of

hearing her speak and betray herself to these watchful lawyers, and to

the just and impartial mind of the presiding judge.

But the days of magic had passed. I could not escape the spot; I could

not escape her eye. The ordeal to which she was thus committed, I must

share. As she advanced step by step upon her uncertain road, it would

be my unhappy fate to advance with her, in terror of the same pitfalls,

with our faces set towards the same precipice--slipping, fainting,

experiencing agonies together. She knew my secret, and I, alas! knew

hers. So I interpreted this intolerable, overwhelming blush.

Recoiling from the prospect, I buried my face in my hands, and so

missed the surprising sight of this young girl, still in her teens,

conquering a dismay which might well unnerve one of established years

and untold experiences. In a few minutes, as I was afterward told by my

friends, her features had settled into a strange placidity, undisturbed

by the levelled gaze of a hundred eyes. Her whole attention was

concentrated on her brother, and wavered only, when the duties of the

occasion demanded a recognition of the various gentlemen concerned in

the trial.

Mr. Moffat prefaced his examination by the following words:

“May it please your Honour, I wish to ask the indulgence of the court

in my examination of this witness. She is just recovering from a long

and dangerous illness; and while I shall endeavour to keep within the

rules of examination, I shall be grateful for any consideration which

may be shown her by your Honour and by the counsel on the other side.”

Mr. Fox at once rose. He had by this time recovered from his

astonishment at seeing before him, and in a fair state of health,

the young girl whom he had every reason to believe to be still in a

condition of partial forgetfulness at Lakewood, and under the care

of a woman entirely in his confidence and under his express orders.

He had also mastered his chagrin at the triumph which her presence

here, and under these dramatic circumstances, had given his adversary.

Moved, perhaps, by Miss Cumberland’s beauty, which he saw for the first

time--or, perhaps, by the spectacle of this beauty devoting its first

hours of health to an attempt to save a brother, of whose precarious

position before the law she had been ignorant up to this time--or more

possibly yet, by a fear that it might be bad tactics to show harshness

to so interesting a personality before she had uttered a word of

testimony, he expressed in warmer tones than usual, his deep desire to

extend every possible indulgence.

Mr. Moffat bowed his acknowledgments, and waited for his witness

to take the oath, which she did with a simple grace which touched

all hearts, even that of her constrained and unreconciled brother.

Compelled by the silence and my own bounding pulses to look at her in

my own despite, I caught the sweet and elevated look with which she

laid her hand on the Book, and asked myself if her presence here was

not a self-accusation, which would bring satisfaction to nobody--which

would sink her and hers into an ignominy worse than the conviction of

the brother whom she was supposedly there to save.

Tortured by this fear, I awaited events in indescribable agitation.

The cool voice of Mr. Moffat broke in upon my gloom. Carmel had

reseated herself, after taking the oath, and the customary question

could be heard:

“Your name, if you please.”

“Carmel Cumberland.”

“Do you recognise the prisoner, Miss Cumberland?”

“Yes; he is my brother.”

A thrill ran through the room. The lingering tone, the tender accent,

told. Some of the feeling she thus expressed seemed to pass into every

heart which contemplated the two. From this moment on, he was looked

upon with less harshness; people showed a disposition to discern

innocence, where, perhaps, they had secretly desired, until now, to

discover guilt.

“Miss Cumberland, will you be good enough to tell us where you were, at

or near the hour of ten, on the evening of your sister’s death?”

“I was in the club-house--in the house you call The Whispering Pines.”

At this astounding reply, unexpected by every one present save myself

and the unhappy prisoner, incredulity, seasoned with amazement, marked

every countenance. Carmel Cumberland in the club-house that night--she

who had been found at a late hour, in her own home, injured and

unconscious! It was not to be believed--or it would not have been, if

Arthur with less self-control than he had hitherto maintained, had not

shown by his morose air and the silent drooping of his head that he

accepted this statement, wild and improbable as it seemed. Mr. Fox,

whose mind without doubt had been engaged in a debate from the first,

as to the desirability of challenging the testimony of this young girl,

whose faculties had so lately recovered from a condition of great

shock and avowed forgetfulness that no word as yet had come to him of

her restored health, started to arise at her words; but noting the

prisoner’s attitude, he hastily reseated himself, realising, perhaps,

that evidence of which he had never dreamed lay at the bottom of the

client’s manner and the counsel’s complacency. If so, then his own air

of mingled disbelief and compassionate forbearance might strike the

jury unfavourably; while, on the contrary, if his doubts were sound,

and the witness were confounding the fancies of her late delirium with

the actual incidents of this fatal night, then would he gain rather

than lose by allowing her to proceed until her testimony fell of its

own weight, or succumbed before the fire of his cross-examination.

Modifying his manner, he steadied himself for either exigency, and, in

steadying himself, steadied his colleagues also.

Mr. Moffat, who saw everything, smiled slightly as he spoke

encouragingly to his witness, and propounded his next question:

“Miss Cumberland, was your sister with you when you went to the

club-house?”

“No; we went separately”

“How? Will you explain?”

“I drove there. I don’t know how Adelaide went.”

“You drove there?”

“Yes. I had Arthur harness up his horse for me and I drove there.”

A moment of silence; then a slow awakening--on the part of judge, jury,

and prosecution--to the fact that the case was taking a turn for which

they were ill-prepared. To Mr. Moffat, it was a moment of intense

self-congratulation, and something of the gratification he felt crept

into his voice as he said:

“Miss Cumberland, will you describe this horse?”

“It was a grey horse. It has a large black spot on its left shoulder.”

“To what vehicle was it attached?”

“To a cutter--my brother’s cutter.”

“Was that brother with you? Did he accompany you in your ride to The

Whispering Pines?”

“No, I went quite alone.”

Entrancement had now seized upon every mind. Even if her testimony were

not true, but merely the wanderings of a mind not fully restored, the

interest of it was intense. Mr. Fox, glancing at the jury, saw there

would be small use in questioning at this time the mental capacity of

the witness. This was a story which all wished to hear. Perhaps he

wished to hear it, too.

Mr. Moffat rose to more than his accustomed height. The light which

sometimes visited his face when feeling, or a sense of power, was

strongest in him, shone from his eye and irradiated his whole aspect as

he inquired tellingly:

“And how did you return? With whom, and by what means, did you regain

your own house?”

The answer came, with simple directness:

“In the same way I went. I drove back in my brother’s cutter and being

all alone just as before, I put the horse away myself, and went into my

empty home and up to Adelaide’s room, where I lost consciousness.”

The excitement, which had been seething, broke out as she ceased; but

the judge did not need to use his gavel, or the officers of the court

exert their authority. At Mr. Moffat’s lifted hand, the turmoil ceased

as if by magic.

“Miss Cumberland, do you often ride out alone on nights like that?”

“I never did before. I would not have dared to do it then, if I had not

taken a certain precaution.”

“And what was this precaution?”

“I wore an old coat of my brother’s over my dress, and one of his hats

on my head.”

It was out--the fact for the suppression of which I had suffered arrest

without a word; because of which Arthur had gone even further, and

submitted to trial with the same constancy. Instinctively, his eyes

and mine met, and, at that moment, there was established between us an

understanding that was in strong contrast to the surrounding turmoil,

which now exceeded all limits, as the highly wrought up spectators

realised that these statements, if corroborated, destroyed one of the

strongest points which had been made by the prosecution. This caused

a stay in the proceedings until order was partially restored, and the

judge’s voice could be heard in a warning that the court-room would be

cleared of all spectators if this break of decorum was repeated.

Meanwhile, my own mind had been busy. I had watched Arthur; I had

watched Mr. Moffat. The discouragement of the former, the ill-concealed

elation of the latter, proved the folly of any hope, on my part, that

Carmel would be spared a full explanation of what I would have given

worlds to leave in the darkness and ignorance of the present moment. To

save Arthur, unwilling as he was, she was to be allowed to consummate

the sacrifice which the real generosity of her heart drove her into

making. Before these doors opened again and sent forth the crowd

now pulsating under a preamble of whose terrible sequel none as yet

dreamed, I should have to hear those sweet lips give utterance to the

revelation which would consign her to opprobrium, and break, not only

my heart, but her brother’s.

Was there no way to stop it? The district attorney gave no evidence

of suspecting any issue of this sort, nor did the friendly and humane

judge. Only the scheming Moffat knew to what all this was tending,

and Moffat could not be trusted. The case was his and he would gain

it if he could. Tender and obliging as he was in his treatment of the

witness, there was iron under the velvet of his glove. This was his

reputation; and this I must now see exemplified before me, without

the power to stop it. The consideration with which he approached his

subject did not deceive me.

“Miss Cumberland, will you now give the jury the full particulars

of that evening’s occurrences, as witnessed by yourself. Begin your

relation, if you please, with an account of the last meal you had

together.”

Carmel hesitated. Her youth--her conscience, perhaps--shrank in

manifest distress from this inquisition.

“Ask me a question,” she prayed. “I do not know how to begin.”

“Very well. Who were seated at the dinner-table that night?”

“My sister, my brother, Mr. Ranelagh, and myself.”

“Did anything uncommon happen during the meal?”

“Yes, my sister ordered wine, and had our glasses all filled. She

never drank wine herself, but she had her glass filled also. Then she

dismissed Helen, the waitress; and when the girl was gone, she rose and

held up her glass, and invited us to do the same. ‘We will drink to my

coming marriage,’ said she; but when we had done this, she turned upon

Arthur, with bitter words about his habits, and, declaring that another

bottle of wine should never be opened again in the house, unclosed her

fingers and let her glass drop on the table where it broke. Arthur then

let his fall, and I mine. We all three let our glasses fall and break.”

“And Mr. Ranelagh?”

“He did not let his fall. He set it down on the cloth. He had not drank

from it.”

Clear, perfectly clear--tallying with what we had heard from other

sources. As this fact forced itself in upon the minds of the jury, new

light shone in every eye and each and all waited eagerly for the next

question.

It came with a quiet, if not insinuating, intonation.

“Miss Cumberland, where were you looking when you let your glass fall?”

My heart gave a bound. I remembered that moment well. So did she, as

could be seen from the tremulous flush and the determination with which

she forced herself to speak.

“At Mr. Ranelagh,” she answered, finally.

“Not at your brother?”

“No.”

“And at whom was Mr. Ranelagh looking?”

“At--at me.”

“Not at your sister?”

“No.”

“Was anything said?”

“Not then. With the dropping of the glasses, we all drew back from the

table, and walked towards a little room where we sometimes sat before

going into the library. Arthur went first, and Mr. Ranelagh and I

followed, Adelaide coming last. We--we went this way into the little

room and--what other question do you wish to ask?” she finished, with a

burning blush.

Mr. Moffat was equal to the appeal.

“Did anything happen? Did Mr. Ranelagh speak to you or you to him, or

did your sister Adelaide speak?”

“No one spoke; but Mr. Ranelagh put a little slip of paper into my

hand--a--a note. As he did this, my brother looked round. I don’t know

whether he saw the note or not; but his eye caught mine, and I may

have blushed. Next moment he was looking past me; and presently he had

flung himself out of the room, and I heard him going upstairs. Adelaide

had joined me by this time, and Mr. Ranelagh turned to speak to her,

and--and I went over to the book-shelves to read my note.”

“And did you read it then?”

“No, I was afraid. I waited till Mr. Ranelagh was gone; then I went up

to my room and read it. It was not a--a note to be glad of. I mean,

proud of. I’m afraid I was a little glad of it at first. I was a wicked

girl.”

Mr. Moffat glanced at Mr. Fox; but that gentleman, passing over this

artless expression of feeling, as unworthy an objection, he went

steadily on:

“Miss Cumberland, before you tell us about this note, will you be good

enough to inform us whether any words passed between you and your

sister before you went upstairs?”

“Oh, yes; we talked. We all three talked, but it was about indifferent

matters. The servants were going to a ball, and we spoke of that. Mr.

Ranelagh did not stay long. Very soon he remarked that he had a busy

evening before him, and took his leave. I was not in the room with them

when he did this. I was in the adjoining one, but I heard his remark

and saw him go. I did not wait to talk to Adelaide.”

“Now, about the note?”

“I read it as soon as I reached my room. Then I sat still for a long

time.”

“Miss Cumberland, pardon my request, but will you tell us what was in

that note?”

She lifted her patient eyes, and looked straight at her brother. He

did not meet her gaze; but the dull flush which lit up the dead-white

of his cheek showed how he suffered under this ordeal. At me she never

glanced; this was the only mercy shown me that dreadful morning. I grew

to be thankful for it as she went on.

“I do not remember the words,” she said, finally, as her eyes fell

again to her lap. “But I remember its meaning. It was an invitation

for me to leave town with him that very evening and be married at

some place he mentioned. He said it would be the best way to--to

end--matters.”

This brought Mr. Fox to his feet. For all his self-command, he had been

perceptibly growing more and more nervous as the examination proceeded;

and he found himself still in the dark as to his opponent’s purpose and

the character of the revelations he had to fear. Turning to the judge,

he cried:

“This testimony is irrelevant and incompetent, and I ask to have it

stricken out.”

Mr. Moffat’s voice, as he arose to answer this, was like honey poured

upon gall.

“It is neither irrelevant nor incompetent, and, if it were, the

objection comes too late. My friend should have objected to the

question.”

“The whole course of counsel has been very unusual,” began Mr. Fox.

“Yes, but so is the case. I beg your Honour to believe that, in some

of its features, this case is not only unusual, but almost without a

precedent. That it may be lightly understood, and justice shown my

client, a full knowledge of the whole family’s experiences during

those fatal hours is not only desirable, but absolutely essential. I

beg, therefore, that my witness may be allowed to proceed and tell her

story in all its details. Nothing will be introduced which will not

ultimately be seen to have a direct bearing upon the attitude of my

client towards the crime for which he stands here arraigned.”

“The motion is denied,” declared the judge.

Mr. Fox sat down, to the universal relief of all but the two persons

most interested--Arthur and myself.

Mr. Moffat, generous enough or discreet enough to take no note of his

opponent’s discomfiture, lifted a paper from the table and held it

towards the witness.

“Do you recognise these lines?” he asked, placing the remnants of my

half-burned communication in her hands.

She started at sight of them. Evidently she had never expected to see

them again.

“Yes,” she answered, after a moment. “This is a portion of the note I

have mentioned.”

“You recognise it as such?”

“I do.”

Her eyes lingered on the scrap, and followed it as it was passed back

and marked as an exhibit.

Mr. Moffat recalled her to the matter in hand.

“What did you do next, Miss Cumberland?”

“I answered the note.”

“May I ask to what effect?”

“I refused Mr. Ranelagh’s request. I said that I could not do what he

asked, and told him to wait till the next day, and he would see how I

felt towards him and towards Adelaide. That was all. I could not write

much. I was suffering greatly.”

“Suffering in mind, or suffering in body?”

“Suffering in my mind. I was terrified, but that feeling did not last

very long. Soon I grew happy, happier than I had been in weeks, happier

than I had ever been in all my life before. I found that I loved

Adelaide better than I did myself. This made everything easy, even the

sending of the answer I have told you about to Mr. Ranelagh.”

“Miss Cumberland, how did you get this answer to Mr. Ranelagh?”

“By means of a gentleman who was going away on the very train I had

been asked to leave on. He was a guest next door, and I carried the

note in to him.”

“Did you do this openly?”

“No. I’m afraid not; I slipped out by the side door, in as careful a

way as I could.”

“Did this attempt at secrecy succeed? Were you able to go and come

without meeting any one?”

“No. Adelaide was at the head of the stairs when I came back, standing

there, very stiff and quiet.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“No. She just looked at me; but it wasn’t a common look. I shall never

forget it.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I went to my room.”

“Miss Cumberland, did you sec anybody else when you came in at this

time?”

“Yes, our maid Helen. She was just laying down a bunch of keys on

the table in the lower hall. I stopped and looked at the keys. I had

recognised them as the ones I had seen in Mr. Ranelagh’s hands many

times. He had gone, yet there were his keys. One of them unlocked the

club-house. I noticed it among the others, but I didn’t touch it then.

Helen was still in the hall, and I ran straight upstairs, where I met

my sister, as I have just told you.”

“Miss Cumberland, continue the story. What did you do after re-entering

your room?”

“I don’t know what I did first. I was very excited--elated one minute,

deeply wretched and very frightened the next. I must have sat down; for

I was shaking very much, and felt a little sick. The sight of that key

had brought up pictures of the club-house; and I thought and thought

how quiet it was, and how far away and--how cold it was too, and how

secret. I would go there for what I had to do; _there_! And then I saw

in my fancy one of its rooms, with the moon in it, and--but I soon shut

my eyes to that. I heard Arthur moving about his room, and this made me

start up and go out into the hall again.”

During all this Mr. Fox had sat by, understanding his right to object

to the witness’s mixed statements of fact and of feelings, and quite

confident that his objections would be sustained. But he had determined

long since that he would not interrupt the witness in her relation.

The air of patience he assumed was sufficiently indicative of his

displeasure, and he confined himself to this. Mr. Moffat understood,

and testified his appreciation by a slight bow.

Carmel, who saw nothing, resumed her story.

“Arthur’s room is near, and Adelaide’s far off; but I went to

Adelaide’s first. Her door was shut and when I went to open it I found

it locked. Calling her name, I said that I was tired and would be glad

to say good night. She did not answer at once. When she did, her voice

was strange, though what she said was very simple. I was to please

myself; she was going to retire, too. And then she tried to say good

night, but she only half said it, like one who is choked with tears

or some other dreadful emotion. I cannot tell you how this made me

feel--but you don’t care for that. You want to know what I did--what

Adelaide did. I will tell you, but I cannot hurry. Every act of the

evening was so crowded with purpose; all meant so much. I can see the

end, but the steps leading to it are not so clear.”

“Take your time, Miss Cumberland; we have no wish to hurry you.”

“I can go on now. The next thing I did was to knock at Arthur’s door. I

heard him getting ready to go out, and I wanted to speak to him before

he went. When he heard me, he opened the door and let me in. He began

at once on his grievances, but I could not listen to them. I wanted him

to harness the grey mare for me and leave it standing in the stable.

I explained the request by saying that it was necessary for me to see

a certain friend of mine immediately, and that no one would notice me

in the cutter under the bear-skins. He didn’t approve, but I persuaded

him. I even persuaded him to wait till Zadok was gone, so that Adelaide

would know nothing about it. He looked glum, but he promised.

“He was going away when I heard Adelaide’s steps in the adjoining room.

This frightened me. The partition is very thin between these two rooms,

and I was afraid she had heard me ask Arthur for the grey mare and

cutter. I could hear her rattling the bottles in the medicine cabinet

hanging on this very wall. Looking back at Arthur, I asked him how

long Adelaide had been there. He said, ‘For some time.’ This sent me

flying from the room. I would join her, and find out if she had heard.

But I was too late. As I stepped into the hall I saw her disappearing

round the corner leading to her own room. This convinced me that she

had heard nothing, and, light of heart once more, I went back to my

own room, where I collected such little articles as I needed for the

expedition before me.

“I had hardly done this when I heard the servants on the walk outside,

then Arthur going down. The impulse to see and speak to him again

was irresistible. I flew after him and caught him in the lower hall.

‘Arthur,’ I cried, ‘look at me, look at me well, and then--kiss me!’

And he did kiss me--I’m glad when I think of it, though he did say,

next minute: ‘What is the matter with you? What are you going to do? To

meet that villain?’

“I looked straight into his face. I waited till I saw I had his whole

attention; then I said, as slowly and emphatically as I could: ‘If you

mean Elwood--no! I shall never meet him again, except in Adelaide’s

presence. He will not want to meet me. You may be at ease about that.

To-morrow all will be well, and Adelaide very happy,’

“He shrugged his shoulders, and reached for his coat and hat. As he

was putting them on, I said, ‘Don’t forget to harness up Jenny.’ Jenny

is the grey mare. ‘And leave off the bells,’ I urged. ‘I don’t want

Adelaide to hear me go out.’

“He swung about at this. ‘You and Adelaide are not very good friends

it seems.’ ‘As good as you and she are,’ I answered. Then I flung my

arms about him. ‘Don’t go down street to-night,’ I prayed. ‘Stay home

for this one night. Stay in the house with Adelaide; stay till I come

home.’ He stared, and I saw his colour change. Then he flung me off,

but not rudely. ‘Why don’t _you_ stay?’ he asked. Then he laughed, and

added, ‘I’ll go harness the mare.’

“‘The key’s in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘I’ll go get it for you. I heard

Zadok bring it in.’ He did not answer, and I went for the key. I found

two on the nail, and I brought them both; but I only handed him one,

the key to the stable-door. ‘Which way are you going?’ I asked, as he

looked at the key, then back towards the kitchen. ‘The short way, of

course,’ ‘Then here’s the key to the Fulton grounds,’

“As he took the key, I prayed again, ‘Don’t do what’s in your mind,

Arthur. Don’t drink to-night. He only laughed, and I said my last word:

‘If you do, it will be for the last time. You’ll never drink again

after to-morrow.’

“He made no answer to this, and I went slowly upstairs. Everything was

quiet--quiet as death--in the whole house. If Adelaide had heard us,

she made no sign. Going to my own room, I waited until I heard Arthur

come out of the stable and go away by the door in the rear wall. Then I

stole out again. I carried a small bag with me, but no coat or hat.

“Pausing and listening again and again, I crept downstairs and halted

at the table under the rack. The keys were still there. Putting them

in my bag, I searched the rack for one of my brother’s warm coats.

But I took none I saw. I remembered an old one which Adelaide had put

away in the closet under the stairs. Getting this, I put it on, and,

finding a hat there too, I took that also; and when I had pulled it

over my forehead and drawn up the collar of the coat, I was quite

unrecognisable. I was going out, when I remembered there would be

no light in the club-house. I had put a box of matches in my bag

while I was upstairs, but I needed a candle. Slipping back, I took

a candlestick and candle from the dining-room mantel, and finding

that the bag would not hold them, thrust them into the pocket of the

coat I wore, and quickly left the house. Jenny was in the stable, all

harnessed; and hesitating no longer, I got in among the bear-skins and

drove swiftly away.”

There was a moment’s silence. Carmel had paused, and was sitting with

her hand on her heart, looking past judge, past jury, upon the lonely

and desolate scene in which she at this moment moved and suffered. An

inexpressible fatality had entered into her tones, always rich and

resonant with feeling. No one who listened could fail to share the

dread by which she was moved.

District Attorney Fox fumbled with his papers, and endeavoured to

maintain his equanimity and show an indifference which his stern but

fascinated glances at the youthful witness amply belied. He was biding

his time, but biding it in decided perturbation of mind. Neither he

nor any one else, unless it were Moffat, could tell whither this tale

tended. While she held the straight course which had probably been

laid out for her, he failed to object; but he could not prevent the

subtle influence of her voice, her manner, and her supreme beauty on

the entranced jury. Nevertheless, his pencil was busy; he was still

sufficiently master of himself for that.

Mr. Moffat, quite aware of the effect which was being produced on every

side, but equally careful to make no show of it, put in a commonplace

question at this point, possibly to rouse the witness from her own

abstraction, possibly to restore the judicial tone of the inquiry.

“How did you leave the stable-door?”

“Open.”

“Can you tell us what time it was when you started?”

“No. I did not look. Time meant nothing to me. I drove as fast as I

could, straight down the hill, and out towards The Whispering Pines. I

had seen Adelaide in her window as I went flying by the house, but not

a soul on the road, nor a sign of life, near or far. The whistle of a

train blew as I stopped in the thicket near the club-house door. If it

was the express train, you can tell--”

“Never mind the _if_” said Mr. Moffat. “It is enough that you heard the

whistle. Go on with what you did.”

“I tied up my horse; then I went into the house. I had used Mr.

Ranelagh’s key to open the door and for some reason I took it out of

the lock when I got in, and put the whole bunch back into my satchel.

But I did not lock the door. Then I lit my candle and then--I went

upstairs.”

Fainter and fainter the words fell, and slower and slower heaved the

youthful breast under her heavily pressing palm. Mr. Moffat made a

sign across the court-room, and I saw Dr. Carpenter get up and move

nearer to the witness stand. But she stood in no need of his help. In

an instant her cheek flushed; the eye I watched with such intensity of

wonder that apprehension unconsciously left me, rose, glowed, and fixed

itself at last--not on the judge, not on the prisoner, not even on that

prisoner’s counsel--but on _me_; and as the soft light filled my soul

and awoke awe, where it had hitherto awakened passion, she quietly said:

“There is a room upstairs, in the club-house, where I have often been

with Adelaide. It has a fireplace in it, and I had seen a box there,

half filled with wood the day before. This is the room I went to, and

here I built a fire. When it was quite bright, I took out something I

had brought in my satchel, and thrust it into the flame. Then I got up

and walked away. I--I did not feel very strong, and sank on my knees

when I got to the couch, and buried my face in my arms. But I felt

better when I came back to the fire again, and very brave till I caught

a glimpse of my face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. That--that

unnerved me, and I think I screamed. Some one screamed, and I think it

was I. I know my hands went out--I saw them in the glass; then they

fell straight down at my side, and I looked and looked at myself till I

saw all the terror go out of my face, and when it was quite calm again,

I stooped down and pulled out the little tongs I had been heating

in the fire, and laid them quick--quick, before I could be sorry

again--right across my cheek, and then--”

Uproar in the court. If she had screamed when she said she did, so

some one cried out loudly now. I think that pitiful person was myself.

They say I had been standing straight up in my place for the last two

minutes.

XXX

“CHOOSE”

Let me have

A dram of poison; such soon speeding geer

As will disperse itself through all the veins,

That the life-weary taker may fall dead.

Come, bitter conduct, come unsavoury guide!

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on

The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.

_Romeo and Juliet_

“I have not finished,” were the first words we heard, when order was

restored, and we were all in a condition to listen again.

“I had to relate what you have just heard, that you might understand

what happened next. I was not used to pain, and I could never have

kept on pressing those irons to my cheek if I had not had the strength

given me by my own reflection in the glass. When I thought the burn was

quite deep enough, I tore the tongs away, and was lifting them to the

other cheek when I saw the door behind me open, inch by inch, as though

pushed by hesitating touches.

“Instantly, I forgot my pain, almost my purpose, watching that door. I

saw it slowly swing to its full width, and disclose my sister standing

in the gap, with a look and in an attitude which terrified me more than

the fire had done. Dropping the tongs, I turned and faced her, covering

my cheek instinctively with my hand.

“I saw her eyes run over my elaborate dinner dress--my little hand-bag,

and the candle burning in a room made warm with a fire on the hearth.

This, before she spoke a single word. Then, with a deep labouring

breath, she looked me in the eye again, with the simple question:

“‘And where is he?’”

Carmel’s head had drooped at this, but she raised it almost instantly.

Mine did not rise so readily.

“‘Do you mean Elwood?’ I asked. ‘You know!’ said she. ‘The veil is down

between us, Carmel; we will speak plainly now. I saw him give you the

letter. I heard you ask Arthur to harness up the horse. I have demeaned

myself to follow you, and we will have no subterfuges now. You expect

him here?’

“‘No,’ I cried. ‘I am not so bad as that, Adelaide--nor is he. Here

is the note. You will see by it what he expects, and at what place I

should have joined him, if I had been the selfish creature you think,’

I had the note hidden in my breast. I took it out, and held it towards

her. I did not feel the burn at all, but I kept it covered. She glanced

down at the words; and I felt like falling at her feet, she looked so

miserable. I am told that I must keep to fact, and must not express my

feelings, or those of others. I will try to remember this; but it is

hard for a sister, relating such a frightful scene.