Part 59 (1/2)

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

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 ident.i.ty 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 circ.u.mstantial evidence, as well as any other fact in the case, and I shall so charge the jury.

I will give you an exception. Mr Nathan Goodbody, you may go on with your defense after the hearing of the next witness, which is now in order.”[1]

The decision of the court was both a great surprise and a disappointment to the defendant's young counsel. Considering the fact that the body of the man supposed to have been murdered had never been found, and that his death had been a.s.sumed 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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.