The Eye of Dread

“Now you tell the court just what you saw the next day. At what time of the day was it?”

“It vas by der night I seen heem.”

“On Monday night?”

“Yas.”

“Late Monday night?”

“No, not so late, bot it vas dark already.”

“Tell the court exactly where you saw him, when you saw him, and with whom you saw him, and what you heard said.”

“It vas by Ballards’ I seen heem. I vas comin’ home und it vas dark already yust like I tol’ you, und I seen dot man come along by Ballards’ house und stand by der door–long time I seen heem stan’ dere, und I yust go by der little trees under, und vatching vat it is for doin’ dere, dot man? Und I seen heem it iss der young man vat iss come dot day askin’ vere iss Ballards’ folks, und so I yust wait und look a little out, und I vatchin’ heem. Und I seen heem stand und vaitin’ minute by der door outside, und I get me low under dem little small flowers bushes Ballards is got by der door under dot vindow dere, und I seen heem, he goin’ in, and yust dere is Mees Betty sittin’, und he go quvick down on hees knees, und dere she yump lak she is scairt. Den she take heem hees head in her hands und she asket heem vat for is it dat blud he got it on hees head, und so he say it is by fightin’ he is got it, und she say vy for is he fightin’, und he say mit hees cousin he fight, und hees cousin he hit heem so, und she asket heem vy for is hees cousin hit heem, und vy for iss he fightin’ mit hees cousin any vay, und den dey bot is cryin’. So I seen dot–und den she go by der kitchen und bring vater und vash heem hees head und tie clots round it so nice, und dere dey is talkin’, und he tol’ her he done it.”

“What did he tell her he had done?”

“Oh, he say he keel heem hees cousin. Dot vat I tol’ you he done it.”

“How did he say he killed him?”

The silence in the court room was painful in its intensity. The Elder leaned forward and listened with contorted face, and the prisoner held his breath. A pallor overspread his face and his hands were clenched.

“Oh, he say he push heem in der rifer ofer, und he do it all right for he liket to do it, but he say he goin’ run vay for dot.”

“You mean to say that he said he intended to push him over? That he tried to do it?”

“Oh, yas, he say he liket to push heem ofer, und he liket to do dot, but he sorry any vay he done it, und he runnin’ vay for dot.”

“Tell the court what happened then.”

“Den she get him somedings to eat, und dey sit dere, und dey talk, und dey cry plenty, und she is feel putty bad, und he is feel putty bad, too. Und so–he go out und shut dot door, und he valkin’ down der pat’, und she yust come out der door, und run to heem und asket heem vere he is goin’ und if he tell her somedings vere he go, und he say no, he tell her not’ing yet. Und den she say maybe he is not keel heem any vay, bot yust t’inkin’ he keel him, und he tol’ her yas, he keel heem all right, he push heem ofer und he is dead already, und so he kiss her some more, und she is cry some more, und I t’ink he is cry, too, bot dot is all. He done it all right. Und he is gone off den, und she is gone in her house, und I don’t see more no.”

As the witness ceased speaking Mr. Hibbard turned to counsel for the prisoner and said: “Cross-examine.”

Rising in his place, and advancing a few steps toward the witness, the young lawyer began his cross-examination. His task did not call for the easy nonchalance of his more experienced adversary, who had the advantage of knowing in advance just what his witness would testify. It was for him to lead a stubborn and unwilling witness through the mazes of a well-prepared story, to unravel, if possible, some of its well-planned knots and convince the jury if he could that the witness was not reliable and his testimony untrustworthy.

But this required a master in the art of cross-examination, and a master begins the study of his subject–the witness–before the trial. In subtle ways with which experience has made him familiar, he studies his man, his life, his character, his habits, his strength, his weakness, his foibles. He divines when he will hesitate, when he will stumble, and he is ready to pounce upon him and force his hesitation into an attempt at concealment, his stumble into a fall.

It is no discredit to Nathan Goodbody that he lacked the skill and cunning of an astute cross-examiner. Unlike poets, they are made, not born, and he found the Swede to be a difficult witness to handle to his purpose. He succeeded in doing little more than to get him to reaffirm the damaging testimony he had already given.

Being thus baffled, he determined to bring in here a point which he had been reserving to use later, should Milton Hibbard decide to take up the question of Peter Junior’s lameness. As this did not seem to be imminent, and the testimony of Nels Nelson had been so convincing, he wished of all things to delay the calling of the next witness until he could gain time, and carry the jury with him. Should Betty Ballard be called to the stand that day he felt his cause would be lost. Therefore, in the moment’s pause following the close of his cross-examination of the last witness, he turned and addressed the court.

“May it please the Court. Knowing that there is but one more witness to be called, and that the testimony of that witness can bring forward no new light on this matter, I have excellent reason to desire at this time to move the Court to bring in the verdict of not guilty.”

At these words the eyes of every one in the court room were turned upon the speaker, and the silence was such that his next words, though uttered in a low voice, were distinctly heard by all present.

“This motion is based upon the fact that the State has failed to prove the corpus delicti, upon the law, which is clear, that without such proof there can be no conviction of the crime of murder. If the testimony of the witness Nels Nelson can be accepted as the admission of the man Richard Kildene, until the State can prove the corpus delicti, no proof can be brought that it is the admission of the prisoner at the bar. I say that until such proof can be brought by the State, no further testimony can convict the prisoner at the bar. If it please the Court, the authorities are clear that the fact that a murder has been committed cannot be established by proof of the admissions, even of the prisoner himself that he has committed the crime. There must be direct proof of death as by finding and identification of the body of the one supposed to be murdered. I have some authorities here which I would like to read to your honor if you will hear them.”

The face of the judge during this statement of the prisoner’s counsel was full of serious interest. He leaned forward with his elbow on the desk before him, and with his hand held behind his ear, intent to catch every word. As counsel closed the judge glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and said:–

“It is about time to close. You may pass up your authorities, and I will take occasion to examine them before the court opens in the morning. If counsel on the other side have any authorities, I will be pleased to have them also.”

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE STRANGER’S ARRIVAL

On taking his seat at the opening of court the next morning, the judge at once announced his decision.

“I have given such thought as I have been able to the question raised by counsel last evening, and have examined authorities cited by him, and others, bearing upon the question, and have reached the conclusion that his motion must be overruled. It is true that a conviction for murder cannot rest alone upon the extra-judicial admission of the accused. And in the present case I must remind the court and the jury that thus far the identity of the prisoner has not yet been established, as it is not determined whether or not he is the man whom the witness, Nels Nelson, heard make the admission. It is true there must be distinct proof, sufficient to satisfy the jury, beyond a reasonable doubt, that homicide has been committed by some one, before the admission of the accused that he did the act can be considered. But I think that fact can be established by circumstantial evidence, as well as any other fact in the case, and I shall so charge the jury. I will give you an exception. Mr Nathan Goodbody, you may go on with your defense after the hearing of the next witness, which is now in order.”2

The decision of the court was both a great surprise and a disappointment to the defendant’s young counsel. Considering the fact that the body of the man supposed to have been murdered had never been found, and that his death had been assumed from his sudden disappearance, and the finding of his personal articles scattered on the river bluff, together with the broken edge of the bluff and the traces of some object having been thrown down the precipice at that point, and the fact that the State was relying upon the testimony of the eavesdropping Swede to prove confession by the prisoner, he still had not been prepared for the testimony of this witness that he had heard the accused say that he had killed his cousin, and that it had been his intention to kill him. He was dismayed, but he had not entirely lost confidence in his legal defense, even now that the judge had ruled against him. There was still the Supreme Court.

He quickly determined that he would shift his attack from the court, where he had been for the time repulsed, and endeavor to convince the jury that the fact that Peter Junior was really dead had not “been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Applying to the court for a short recess to give him time to consult with his client, he used the time so given in going over with the prisoner the situation in which the failure of his legal defense had left them. He had hoped to arrest the trial on the point he had made so as to eliminate entirely the hearing of further testimony,–that of Betty Ballard,–and also to avoid the necessity of having his client sworn, which last was inevitable if Betty’s testimony was taken.

He had never been able to rid himself of the impression left upon his mind when first he heard the story from his client’s lips, that there was in it an element of coincidence–too like dramatic fiction, or that if taken ideally, it was above the average juryman’s head.

He admonished the prisoner that when he should be called upon for his testimony, he must make as little as possible of the fact of their each being scarred on the hip, and scarred on the head, the two cousins dramatically marked alike, and that he must in no way allude to his having seen Betty Ballard in the prison alone.

“That was a horrible mistake. You must cut it out of your testimony unless they force it. Avoid it. And you must make the jury see that your return was a matter of–of–well, conscience–and so forth.”

“I must tell the truth. That is all that I can do,” said the prisoner, wearily. “The judge is looking this way,–shall we–”

Nathan Goodbody rose quickly. “If the court please, we are ready to proceed.”

Then at last Betty Ballard was called to the witness stand. The hour had come for which all the village had waited, and the fame of the trial had spread beyond the village, and all who had known the boys in their childhood and in their young manhood, and those who had been their companions in arms–men from their own regiment–were there. The matter had been discussed among them more or less heatedly and now the court room could not hold the crowds that thronged its doors.

At this time, unknown to any of the actors in the drama, three strangers, having made their way through the crowd outside the door, were allowed to enter, and stood together in the far corner of the court room unnoticed by the throng, intently watching and listening. They had arrived from the opposite sides of the earth, and had met at the village hotel. Larry had spied the younger man first, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, or why, he walked up to him, and spoke, involuntarily holding out his hand to him.

“Tell me who you are,” he said, ere Richard could surmise what was happening.

“My name is Kildene,” said Richard, frankly. “Have you any reason for wishing to know me?”

For the moment he thought his interlocutor might be a detective, or one who wished to verify a suspicion. Having but that moment arrived, and knowing nothing of the trial which was going on, he could think only of his reason for his return to Leauvite, and was glad to make an end of incognito and sorrowful durance, and wearisome suspense, and he did not hesitate, nor try any art of concealment. He looked directly into Larry’s eyes, almost defiantly for an instant, then seeing in that rugged face a kindly glint of the eye and a quiver about the mouth, his heart lightened and he grasped eagerly the hand held out to him.

“Perhaps you will tell me whom you are? I suppose I ought to know, but I’ve been away from here a long time.”

Then the older man’s hand fell a-trembling in his, and did not release him, but rather clung to him as if he had had a shock.

“Come over here and sit beside me a moment, young man–I–I’ve–I’m not feeling as strong as I look. I–I’ve a thing to tell you. Sit down–sit down. We are alone? Yes. Every one’s gone to the trial. I’m on here from the West myself to attend it.”

“The trial! What trial?”

“You’ve heard nothing of it? I was thinking maybe you were also–were drawn here–you’ve but just come?”

“I’ve been here long enough to engage a room–which I shan’t want long. No, I’ve come for no trial exactly–maybe it might come to that–? What have you to tell me?”

But Larry Kildene sat silent for a time before replying. An eager joy had seized him, and a strange reticence held his tongue tied, a fear of making himself known to this son whom he had never seen since he had held him in his arms, a weak, wailing infant, thinking only of his own loss. This dignified, stalwart young man, so pleasant to look upon–no wonder the joy of his heart was a terrible joy, a hungering, longing joy akin to pain! How should he make himself known? In what words? A thousand thoughts crowded upon him. From Betty’s letter he knew something of the contention now going on in the court room, and from the landlord last evening he had heard more, and he was impatient to get to the trial.

Now this encounter with his own son,–the only one who could set all right,–and who yet did not know of the happenings which so imperatively required his presence in the court room, set Larry Kildene’s thoughts stammering and tripping over each other in such a confusion of haste, and with it all the shyness before the great fact of his unconfessed fatherhood, so overwhelmed him, that for once his facile Irish nature did not help him. He was at a loss for words, strangely abashed before this gentle-voiced, frank-faced, altogether likable son of his. So he temporized and beat about the bush, and did not touch first on that which was nearest his heart.

“Yes, yes. I’ve a thing to tell you. You came here to be at a–a–trial–did you say, or intimate it might be? If–if–you’ll tell me a bit more, I maybe can help you–for I’ve seen a good bit of the world. It’s a strange trial going on here now–I’ve come to hear.”

“Tell me something about it,” said Richard, humoring the older man’s deliberation in arriving at his point.

“It’s little I know yet. I’ve come to learn, for I’m interested in the young man they’re trying to convict. He’s a sort of a relative of mine. I wish to see fair play. Why are you here? Have you done anything–what have you done?”

The young man moved restlessly. He was confused by the suddenness of the question, which Larry’s manner deprived of any suggestion of rudeness.

“Did I intimate I had done anything?” He laughed. “I’m come to make a statement to the proper ones–when I find them. I’ll go over now and hear a bit of this trial, since you mention it.”

He spoke sadly and wearily, but he felt no resentment at the older man’s inquisitiveness. Larry’s face expressed too much kindliness to make resentment possible, but Richard was ill at ease to be talking thus intimately with a stranger who had but just chanced upon him. He rose to leave.

“Don’t go. Don’t go yet. Wait a bit–God, man! Wait! I’ve a thing to tell you.” Larry leaned forward, and his face worked and tears glistened in his eyes as he looked keenly up into his son’s face. “You’re a beautiful lad–a man–I’m–You’re strong and fine–I’m ashamed to tell it you–ashamed I’ve never looked on you since then–until now. I should have given all up and found you. Forgive me. Boy!–I’m your father–your father!” He rose and stood looking levelly in his son’s eyes, holding out both shaking hands. Richard took them in his and held them–but could not speak.

The constraint of witnesses was not upon them, for they were quite alone on the piazza, but the emotion of each of them was beyond words. Richard swallowed, and waited, and then with no word they both sat down and drew their chairs closer together. The simple act helped them.

“I’ve been nigh on to a lifetime longing for you, lad.”

“And I for you, father.”

“That’s the name I’ve been hungering to hear–”

“And I to speak–” Still they looked in each other’s eyes. “And we have a great deal to tell each other! I’m almost sorry–that–that–that I’ve found you at last–for to do my duty will be harder now. I had no one to care–particularly before–unless–”

“Unless a lass, maybe?”

“One I’ve been loving and true to–but long ago given up–we won’t speak of her. We’ll have to talk a great deal, and there’s so little time! I must–must give myself up, father, to the law.”

“Couldn’t you put it off a bit, lad?”

Larry could not have told why he kept silent so long in regard to the truth of the trial. It might have been a vague liking to watch the workings of his son’s real self and a desire to test him to the full. From a hint dropped in Betty’s letter he guessed shrewdly at the truth of the situation. He knew now that Richard and his young friend of the mountain top were actuated by the same motives, and he understood at last why Harry King would never accept his offer of help, nor would ever call him father. Because he could not take the place of the son, of whom, as he thought, he had robbed the man who so freely offered him friendship–and more than friendship. At last Larry understood why Peter Junior had never yielded to his advances. It was honor, and the test had been severe.

“Put it off a little? I might–I’m tempted–just to get acquainted with my father–but I might be arrested, and I would prefer not to be. I know I’ve been wanted for three years and over–it has taken me that long to learn that only the truth can make a man free,–and now I would rather give myself up, than to be taken–”

“I’m knowing maybe more of the matter than you think–so we’ll drop it. We must have a long talk later–but tell me now in a few words what you can.”

Then, drawn by the older man’s gentle, magnetic sympathy, Richard unlocked his heart and told all of his life that could be crowded in those few short minutes,–of his boyhood’s longings for a father of his own–of his young manhood’s love, of his flight, and a little of his later life. “We’d be great chums, now, father,–if–if it weren’t for this–that hangs over me.”

Then Larry could stand it no longer. He sprang up and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Come, lad, come! We’ll go to this trial together. Do you know who’s being tried? No. They’ll have to get this off before they can take another on. I’m thinking you’ll find your case none so bad as it seems to you now. First there’s a thing I must do. My brother-in-law’s in trouble–but it is his own fault–still I’m a mind to help him out. He’s a fine hater, that brother-in-law of mine, but he’s tried to do a father’s part in the past by you–and done it well, while I’ve been soured. In the gladness of my heart I’ll help him out–I’d made up my mind to do it before I left my mountain. Your father’s a rich man, boy–with money in store for you–I say it in modesty, but he who reared you has been my enemy. Now I’m going to his bank, and there I’ll make a deposit that will save it from ruin.”

He stood a moment chuckling, with both hands thrust deep in his pockets. “We’ll go to that trial–it’s over an affair of his, and he’s fair in the wrong. We’ll go and watch his discomfiture–and we’ll see him writhe. We’ll see him carry things his own way–the only way he can ever see–and then we’ll watch him–man, we’ll watch him–Oh, my boy, my boy! I doubt it’s wrong for me to exult over his chagrin, but that’s what I’m going for now. It was the other way before I met you, but the finding of you has given me a light heart, and I’ll watch that brother-in-law’s set-down with right good will.”

He told Richard about Amalia, and asked him to wait until he fetched her, as he wished her to accompany them, but still he said nothing to him about his cousin Peter. He found Amalia descending the long flight of stairs, dressed to go out, and knew she had been awaiting him for the last half hour. Now he led her into the little parlor, while Richard paced up and down the piazza, and there, where she could see him as he passed the window to and fro, Larry told her what had come to him, and even found time to moralize over it, in his gladness.

“That’s it. A man makes up his mind to do what’s right regardless of all consequences or his prejudices, or what not,–and from that moment all begins to grow clear, and he sees right–and things come right. Now look at the man! He’s a fine lad, no? They’re both fine lads–but this one’s mine. Look at him I say. Things are to come right for him, and all through his making up his mind to come back here and stand to his guns. The same way with Harry King. I’ve told you the contention–and at last you know who he is–but mind you, no word yet to my son. I’ll tell him as we walk along. I’m to stop at the bank first, and if we tell him too soon, he’ll be for going to the courthouse straight. The landlord tells me there’s danger of a run on the bank to-morrow and the only reason it hasn’t come to-day is that the bank’s been closed all the morning for the trial. I’m thinking that was policy, for whoever heard of a bank’s being closed in the morning for a trial–or anything short of a death or a holiday?”

“But if it is now closed, why do we wait to go there? It is to do nothing we make delay,” said Amalia, anxiously.

“I told Decker to send word to the cashier to be there, as a deposit is to be made. If he can’t be there for that, then it’s his own fault if to-morrow finds him unprepared.” Larry stepped out to meet Richard and introduced Amalia. He had already told Richard a little of her history, and now he gave her her own name, Manovska.

After a few moments’ conversation she asked Larry: “I may keep now my own name, it is quite safe, is not? They are gone now–those for whom I feared.”

“Wait a little,” said Richard. “Wait until you have been down in the world long enough to be sure. It is a hard thing to live under suspicion, and until you have means of knowing, the other will be safer.”

“You think so? Then is better. Yes? Ah, Sir Kildene, how it is beautiful to see your son does so very much resemble our friend.”

They arrived at the bank, and Larry entered while Richard and Amalia strolled on together. “We had a friend, Harry King,”–she paused and would have corrected herself, but then continued–“he was very much like to you–but he is here in trouble, and it is for that for which we have come here. Sir Kildene is so long in that bank! I would go in haste to that place where is our friend. Shall we turn and walk again a little toward the bank? So will we the sooner encounter him on the way.”

They returned and met Larry coming out, stepping briskly. He too was eager to be at the courthouse. He took his son’s arm and rapidly and earnestly told him the situation as he had just heard it from the cashier. He told him that which he had been keeping back, and impressed on him the truth that unless he had returned when he did, the talk in the town was that the trial was likely to go against the prisoner. Richard would have broken into a run, in his excitement, but Larry held him back.

“Hold back a little, boy. Let us keep pace with you. There’s really no hurry, only that impulse that sent you home–it was as if you were called, from all I can learn.”

“It is my reprieve. I am free. He has suffered, too. Does he know yet that I too live? Does he know?”