Part 32 (1/2)
So excited were the sensibilities of Agnes that it seemed to her the old door-knockers squinted; the idle writing of boys on dead walls read with a hidden meaning; the shade-trees lazily shaking in summer seemed to whisper; if she looked down, there now and then appeared, moulded in the bricks of the pavement, a worn letter, or a pa.s.sing goose foot, the accident of the brickyard, but now become personal and intentional. The little babies, sporting in their carriages before some houses, leaned forward and looked as wise and awful as doctors in some occult diagnosis. Cartwheels, as they struck hard, articulated, ”What, out!
Boo! boohoo!” Suns.h.i.+ne all slanted her way. Hucksters' cries sounded like constables' proclamation: ”Oyez! oyez!”
With the perceptions, the reflections of Agnes were also startlingly alert. She seemed two or three unfortunate people at once. Now it was Lady Jane Grey going to the tower. Now it was Beatrice Cenci going to torture. Now it was Mary Magdalene going to the cross. At almost every house she felt a kindness speak for her, except mankind; a recollection of nursing, comforting, praying with some one, but all forgotten now.
”_Via Crucia, Via Crucia_,” her thorn-torn feet seemed to patter in the echoes of her ears and mind, and there arose upon her spirit the sternest curse of women, direful with G.o.d's own rage, ”I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception.”
Thus she reached the magistrate's little office, around the door of which was a little crowd of people, and Duff Salter led her in the private door to the residence itself. A cup of tea and a decanter of wine were on the table. The magistrate's wife knew her, and kissed her.
Then Agnes broke down and wept like a little child.
The magistrate was a lame man, and a deacon in Van de Lear's church, quite gray, and both prudent and austere, and making use of but few words, so that there was no way of determining his feelings on the case.
He took his place behind a plain table and opened court by saying,
”Who appears? Now!”
Duff Salter rose, the largest man in the court-room. His long beard covered his whole breast-bone; his fine intelligent features, clear, sober eyes, and hale, house-bleached skin, bore out the authority conceded to him in Kensington as a rich gentleman of the world.
”Mr. Magistrate,” said Duff Salter, ”this examination concerns the public and the ends of justice only as bears upon the death of the late citizens of Kensington, William Zane and Saylor Rainey. It is a preliminary examination only, and the person suspected by public gossip has not retained counsel. With your permission, as the executor of William Zane, I will conduct such part of the inquiry here as my duty toward the deceased, and my knowledge of the evidence, notwithstanding my frontier notions of law, suggest to me.”
”You prosecute?” asked the magistrate, and added, ”Yes, yes! I will!”
Calvin Van de Lear got up and bowed to the magistrate.
”Your Honor, my deep interest in Miss Agnes Wilt has driven me to leave the bedside of a dying parent to see that her interests are properly attended to in this case. Whenever she is concerned I am for the defence.”
”Yes!” exclaimed the magistrate. ”Salter, have you a witness?”
”Mike Donovan!” called Duff Salter.
A red-haired Irishman, with one eyebrow higher than the other, and scars on his face, walked into the alderman's court from the private room, and was sworn.
”Donovan,” spoke Duff Salter, standing up, ”relate the occurrences of a certain night when you rowed the prisoner, Andrew Zane, and certain other persons, from Treaty Island to an uncertain point in the River Delaware.”
”Stop! stop!” exclaimed Calvin Van de Lear, rising. ”It seems to me I have seen that fellow's face before. Donovan, hadn't you a wooden leg when last I saw you?”
”No doubt of it,” answered the Irishman.
”Why haven't you got it on now?” cried Calvin, scowling.
”Because, yer riverence, me own legs was plenty good enough on this occasion.”
”Now, now, I won't!” ordered the sententious little magistrate.
”Proceed with the narrative,” cried Duff Salter, ”and repeat no part of the conversation in that boat.”
”It was a dark and lowering night,” said the waterman, ”as we swung loose from Traity Isle. I sat a little forward of the cintre, managing the oars. Mr. Andrew Zane was in the bow, on the watch for difficulties.
In the stern sat the boss, Mr. William Zane. Between him and me--G.o.d's rest to him!--sat the murdered gintleman, well-beloved Saylor Rainey!
The tide was running six miles an hour. We steered by the lights of Kinsington.”
”Then you are confident,” said Duff Salter, ”that the whole length of the skiff separated William Zane from his son?”
”As confident, yer honor, as that the batteau had two inds. They niver were nearer, the one to the tother, than that, for the whole of the ixpidition. And scarcely one word did Mr. Andrew utter on the whole ov that b.l.o.o.d.y pa.s.sage.”