When the next day was breaking, Durgan wakened to the sound of footsteps and loud lamenting. Adam, weeping like a heart-broken schoolboy, in terrified haste stumbled into the door of the hut.
"Marse Neil, suh, I've been huntin' her the whole night long, an' I've found her done dead. Marsa, come, for de good Lord's sake! She's lyin' all by herself on de ground. Oh, oh, my pore gal; my pore honey!"
He was now running away again, and Durgan was following. In the thick of the forest, in a hollow of coarse fern, lay the pretty Eve—a bronze figure of exquisite workmanship. One small dark wound was seen above her heart, where the torn muslin of her bodice revealed the beautiful rounding of neck and breast. She lay with her face upturned, and death's seal of peace upon her lips. Big Adam knelt sobbing by her side, trying to close the fringed eyelids, which allowed one crescent line of the velvet eye to be seen.
"Adam, tell me what you know." Durgan's imperious tone was a needed tonic.
The big negro drew himself up and controlled his sobs. With a gesture toward the dead of great simplicity, he said, "I know nuthin', marsa—nuthin' but this! Miss Smith, she sen' me last night with a lettah for the Gen'ral. The hoss los' a shoe, so I leave him an' walk. I come home very late, near middle of night, an' I meet that yaller boy, all up an' dressed, in the Cove. So I run home, an' my poor gal was gone from the cabin. I'se been lookin' for her the whole night through till I foun' her. Oh, oh! Marse Neil! my pore, pore gal!" He broke down again in tears, casting himself beside the corpse on the ground.
Durgan looked at the two with indescribable sorrow. How he had desired to have this woman out of the way—Adam free from his thraldom, the sisters from their mischief-making! Now! There is naught on earth can grieve the heart of the living like the face of the dead.
The dawn brightened; the birds sang peans of joy; the gay wind danced; and over the woman who had been so light and winsome a part of yesterday's life a rigid chill had crept, which made her to-day a part only of the dark cold earth. Durgan stood with head bowed. He remembered the day his father had bought her, a babe with her mother, to save them from a darker fate. In this dead body was the blood of fathers who, calling themselves American gentlemen, had, one generation after another, sold their own children as slaves. What chance had she to have in her nerve or fibre that could vibrate to any sense of good? If her spirit had now passed to plead at the bar of some great judgment-hall, on whose head must the doom of her transgressions fall?
At length he knelt on one knee and laid his hand on Adam's head. "Don't cry so! Oh, Adam; you've got your old master's son to love, you big nigger. I couldn't do without you. You'll kill yourself crying for the poor girl like that."
Adam struggled like a manful child, and subdued his grief in order to show how deep was his gratitude for this kindness.
"We were both reared in the same old place, Adam. You'll not forget that I'm lonely in the world now, too, and a poor working man like yourself—oh, Adam!"
Adam rose up. "This nigger will try and bear up an' not shame you, Marse Neil. This nigger will never forget your kindness this day, Marse Neil, suh."
Since seeing that the woman was dead, Durgan had assumed that the low, soft sob which had chilled his heart the night before was nothing more than Eve's death groan. It seemed apparent that she had been stabbed to the heart too suddenly to have had more than a moment's consciousness of death. He supposed that 'Dolphus had perhaps been watched and waylaid by Eve, and in a half-delirious moment had thus disposed of her to avoid sharing the money he was seeking.
Durgan took his bearings to find out where he now was, and climbed to catch sight of the tree by which he had watched the evening before. But as soon as he could see the upper part of the hill he perceived that it was by no means sure such a sound could have been heard so far. This annoyed him, as he wished to send his testimony at once to the magistrate at Hilyard. When he remembered how 'Dolphus had laughed at the mention of Eve, how he had raved about his innocent intentions, and even ventured to slander Mrs. Durgan, of whose existence it would seem he could only know through Eve's gossip, Durgan felt persuaded of his dangerous mental state, and that there was no safety for the community until this poor irresponsible creature was in confinement. The cool daring of offering advice on his own domestic affairs was what, above all, convinced Durgan of his delirious condition.
He wrote a statement for the magistrate, giving such evidence as he could, and his belief that 'Dolphus was the only person within reach of the place where the crime was committed.
Leaving Adam to watch beside his dead, Durgan himself went to Deer Cove, sent one of his laborers to Hilyard and the other to Blount's, set a guard over the house where 'Dolphus slept, and roused the village to Adam's aid.
It was not until he had done all he could in the interests of justice and humanity, and was again returning to his solitary hut, that it struck him for the first time how strange it was that this sorrowful thing should occur within the radius of Bertha's unaccountable terrors, that a cruel, crafty stroke, such as she would appear to dread, had actually been struck within the purlieus of her hiding-place.
When Durgan reached the stone platform of the mine, Bertha came out to meet him. She had apparently been sitting alone on some rock in the lateral cutting. She was dressed for riding; her face was quite pale, and had a strength and sternness in it that alarmed him.
"I must go at once to Hilyard. I have come to—have you not heard?"
"'Tis an affair of niggers," said he; "they are always knifing one another."
"Oh, no, no! Do you not understand at all? Whom do you suppose to be guilty?"
"'Dolphus, of course."
"Mr. Durgan, for the sake of all that is true and just, and for our sakes, if you will, do not breathe such a thought to anyone. What has happened is, perhaps, what I have feared for years—what I have labored for years to prevent. May God forgive me if I have risked too much. But the worst thing that can be done—the worst for us—would be to accuse him."
"My dear Miss Bertha, you cannot possibly have anything to do with this sad affair?"
"Oh, you do not know! you do not know! Do not contradict me. Only believe me that there is more in this than you know. I fear I have done a terrible wrong in concealment, but I did it for the best. I hoped——"
"I am quite sure that 'Dolphus killed the woman."
"No! No! Alas! I am afraid I know too well who did. And I am so far yet from knowing what I ought to do that I dare not tell you more. I'm afraid that I should say too much or too little. But if you will do what I ask, I think no harm will come if I go to Hilyard without saying more than this."
"Tell me why you are going to Hilyard."
"I'm going to telegraph for our lawyer, Mr. Alden. He must come at once. I intend to say in Deer that I am going to fetch Adam's mother, who lives there; but I'm really going for the other purpose."
"I cannot endure that you should mix yourself up in this affair! I am sure that 'Dolphus did it. I caught him near the spot. He is very ill; he was raving with fever, I think. But I will not argue with you. The ride may do you good."
"Will you do what I am going to ask?"
"Tell me what it is."
She had schooled herself to rapid work and action; her thought was quite clear. "I want you to be kind enough to saddle my horse and bring him down to me. I want you to explain to my sister that I have no time to go back to the house, and to tell her that there is no woman who can come to work for us to-day. I want you to speak very gently to her, for she is so distressed; but you must not tell her that I spoke of the lawyer. And first, last, and above all, Mr. Durgan, I want you to be on your guard against an enemy. Going up to our house, and coming back, and wherever you are till I come home, be on your guard. If you will promise to do this you will be safe, and I can do my part with some composure."
Durgan looked at her, speechless with sheer astonishment. Manlike, he found the expense involved in bringing a notable lawyer a two days' journey, and into this desolate height, a greater proof that she had some substantial reason for alarm than any as yet offered him.
"Promise me," she said. She was beyond all mood of tears or impatient excitement. She was only resolute.
He went up the hill to do her bidding, and at first found himself looking to right and left in the bushes before him, as he formerly looked upon the ground for snakes.
Miss Smith came into the front room at his knock. She was tremulous and tearful. After expressing his sympathy for the shock which her housemaid's sudden death must have given, he asked her if she thought Bertha well enough to ride alone.
"It sometimes does her good to have a right down long ride, doesn't it, Mr. Durgan? I don't quite understand the way she's feeling about this dreadful thing, but I guess she'll be safe enough riding. She's promised me to go to our good friend Mrs. Moore, at Hilyard. I don't see as the ride can do her any harm."
"If you think so," he said, "I'll saddle the horse."
But Miss Smith had something else to say. "Do you think Adam did it, Mr. Durgan? It seems dreadful to think such a thing of our good Adam, but I always feel that a man who can strike a woman might do almost any mean, bad thing."
Durgan felt to the full the hopelessness of explaining to a woman so ignorant of colored folk as was Miss Smith, the kindness of Adam's discipline. He could only assure her of his present innocence.
"You don't think, Mr. Durgan, that it could have been——" Her face was very troubled.
"Yes; I suppose it was 'Dolphus," said Durgan. "I found him near the spot last night. He was delirious with fever, I think, and coughing badly. It's not safe to leave him at large. They'll give him medical attendance in jail. It's not likely he'll live to be hanged. I have sent what evidence I have against him to Hilyard; I could not do otherwise."
He said this in a tentative way, and found that Miss Smith did not share her sister's belief that 'Dolphus was not guilty. She only sighed deeply and said—
"The good Lord alone knows how to be just, Mr. Durgan; but I suppose the law comes as near as it can."
"Have you any evidence concerning his former character?"
"No; I don't know anything about his character. I guess you've done just right, Mr. Durgan. I'm asking the Lord to make known whatever ought to be made known, and to hide whatever ought to be hidden, and to bless us all. I guess that's about the best prayer I can think of. But I don't mind telling you that 'twould be a dreadful trial to me or Birdie to be obliged to give any evidence. And I can say before God that we neither of us know anything about him that could have any bearing on this matter."
"You may depend upon me; I'll keep you out of it if I can. It's only what happens constantly in a niggers' brawl."
His heart went out with more and more cordiality to the upright, tearful little lady, who, in the thick of troubles, seemed by her very life to point to God, as the church spire seems to point to heaven above the city's smoke.
When leading off the saddled horse he stopped for a moment and looked back with irresistible curiosity, thinking of the conflicting aspects of the life that centered here.
The grass of the foreground lay patterned with the graceful shadows of acacia boughs. Between them he saw the low gray house, about which the luxuriance of flowers made the only confusion. Hens were pecking and dogs basking in the neat kitchen yard; and Miss Smith, in default of a servant, was quietly sweeping the kitchen porch. The place was like a dream of home. "Surely," he said to himself, "if the angel of peace could ever seek an earthly dwelling, she might well alight here and fold her wings."
He led the horse down the trail with brows knit, and in his mind the intention of further remonstrance with Bertha; but she mounted and rode away without a moment's delay.
That night Adam, who had given up his cabin to the female watchers of the dead, lay stretched at the door of Durgan's hut.
In the small hours Durgan was awakened by the negro's sighs.
"Oh, Adam! Can't you sleep?"
"Oh! Marse Neil, suh; d'you think my pore gal's in de bad place? The min'ster, he come to see me to-day, an' he said as how she was, 'cause she wasn't converted. D'you think so, suh?"
If Durgan had the modern distrust of old-fashioned preaching, he did not feel sure that he knew better than the preacher.
He lay a moment, thinking of the brightness and lightness of the creature so suddenly laid stark, trying in thought to place her spirit in any sort of angelic state. It would not do; the woman, as he knew her, refused to be content with any heaven his thought could offer. He could not conceive of any sane and wholesome spiritual condition to which the trivial, sensual soul could be adjusted.
"Oh, Adam, I don't know any better than your preacher; but I can tell you something that I suppose——"
"Yes, Marse Neil?" The tone told of a deep, sustained attention which surprised the educated man.
"I think the good Lord will take you to the good place when you die, and that——"
"Yes, but marsa, I done gone an' got religion long time ago, an' my pore gal she wer'n't ever converted."
"I was going to say that I think the Lord may let you be as near her there as you were here if you go on caring for her—which was all the distance between heaven and hell," he added within himself.
Before the dawn Durgan was again disturbed. Far off there was hint of a sound, the hoofs of several horses, perhaps—a ring, faint and far, of a bridle chain? Yes, certainly, horsemen were in the valley. Adam heard nothing but the throbs of his own heart-sorrow. Durgan listened. The road in the valley circled the mountain to Deer Cove. The sound of the horsemen was lost again almost before it was clearly heard. They were coming from Hilyard; were they coming further than the village? An hour later he heard them again; they were on the road to the mine.
Adam had fallen into the sleep of exhaustion. Durgan stood out on the road and listened and waited. Had Bertha met with some accident, and was this her escort home? Were the horsemen coming for some purpose quite unknown to him, bearing on the mystery of the summit house? Alas! doubt as he would, he knew of one errand which these sounds might easily betoken. It was widely known that Adam had had quarrels with his wife.
Soon the men appeared. There were three constables, leading an extra horse. Durgan saw the handcuffs held by the foremost.
He ground his teeth in helpless indignation.
All the affection he felt for the home of his forefathers, all the warmth of the sights and sounds of his own joyous youth in the Durgan plantations, intensified his sentiment for the friend who still slept on, childlike, with teardrops on his cheek.
When Adam was taken, Durgan brooded over this wrong. He realized more and more that his certainty of one man's guilt and the other's innocence was based only on his own estimate of their characters. The one was true to the core, the other false; but how to prove it?
About nine o'clock Bertha rode up. Her horse was jaded, her face worn.
"I started from Hilyard at daybreak," she said. "I loped nearly all the way."
"Did you meet the constables?"
Her reply was a monosyllable of brief distress.
"You saw Adam—had they 'Dolphus, too?"
"Yes. Don't let us talk of it; I can't bear it."
She slid from her horse, grateful for respite, and Durgan, seeing her weariness, offered coffee and food.
She partook eagerly, as she had eaten little since the day before; but she seemed in no hurry to go on. Hers was a depression from which words did not come easily.
He asked if the telegram had been sent.
"Yes. Mr. Alden will be here the day after to-morrow."
"You had his answer?"
"No; but I know he will come as soon as possible. I could not decide what to say and what not, even in cipher; I only said 'Come.'"
There was silence again, for Durgan was too heartsore at the injustice done to Adam to think much of anything else.
At last Bertha broke out almost fiercely, "It was a glorious sunrise. I saw it as I came over the ridge. The clouds were like a meadow of flame-flower, and the purple color ran riot upon the hills till the common, comfortable sunshine flashed over and made all the world happy, looking as if life was good."
"It was not to see the sunrise that you started so early," said he.
"No, I could not rest. I was afraid, afraid that you would not believe what I said yesterday."
"What part of it?"
"About being on your guard. Indeed, indeed I beg of you—laugh if you like, but if you have any regard for me, do as I say. I only ask it until Mr. Alden comes. He will be here the day after to-morrow, I am sure. When I confess that I came so early because I was afraid that you would not take care of yourself, you will take heed, I am sure."
There was an awkward silence. She was hanging her head in shame, and seemed hardly able to find her way as she rose and groped for her bridle.
"If we are in this danger I will certainly escort you to the house."
"Yes; you may do that."
So he led the horse under the green arches in the warm silence up to the gate where the dogs fawned on their mistress. Near the house Miss Smith came running to meet them. She embraced Bertha with motherly tenderness, asking crisp little questions about her journey and about Adam's mother.
"I am safe now," said Bertha, dismissing Durgan with thanks. She added in explanation to her sister, "I felt overdone with the heat. Mr. Durgan gave me coffee and brought me up the hill."
Durgan felt very curious to know whether Theodore Alden, the well-known lawyer, would appear. He knew little about him except that his name was always in the papers in connection with the law courts, with philanthropic schemes and religious enterprise of an evangelical sort. Report said various things—that he would plead in no case in which he did not believe his cause to be right—that his integrity was in excess of his brains, and was the only argument he offered worthy of a juror's consideration—or, that the huge fees given him were often bribes to use his reputation in the service of crime, and that his diabolical cleverness was only equaled by his hypocrisy. These conflicting views partly arose from the fact that he had gained some notorious cases in the face of strong public opinion, and in one case, at least, it seemed against all the weight of evidence.
Whatever Alden's character, it was certain that his hands would at any time be more than full of affairs. Bertha had only given him half a day and a night in which to prepare for the journey. Durgan had no sanguine hope of having his curiosity satisfied as soon as she expected.
Yet, on the very next day, at evening, some twenty hours before the time Bertha had set, a carriage from Hilyard drove up, and while the horses were resting, a dapper, townbred Northerner jumped out to inspect his surroundings.
The stranger was about sixty years of age. He had a pale face, a trim gray beard, a brisk manner, a fineness of dress, which all carried a whiff of New York atmosphere into the lateral mica cutting, which was as yet but a shallow cave. As soon as he perceived the nature of Durgan's work, he took an almost exhaustive interest in mica, although it was probable that he had never even thought of the product in its rough state before.
In vain Durgan tried to discern solitude or impatience in the face of the stranger. He had no doubt heard of the deed with which the county was ringing, on his way from Hilyard, but that could hardly have put his mind at rest concerning Bertha's enigmatical telegram.
When the horses were ready, the traveler and his luggage went on. The carriage soon returned empty. Durgan heard no more till the next day.
He had prevailed upon the old General to ride to Hilyard to try to obtain Adam's release, and after waiting impatiently for the result, heard by a messenger late that evening that Adam must abide his trial. Durgan was proportionately angry and distressed.
In this mood Bertha found him the morning after the lawyer arrived. She was somewhat less troubled than on the last occasion, but showed confusion in explaining her errand. She said that Alden was coming at once to see Durgan.
She added, "When I sent for him, and was so terribly frightened, I—I thought I could tell him all that I feared."
"It matters less that you should tell him what you fear, but you must tell him all that you know."
"Oh, Mr. Durgan, that is just what I cannot do—now that he is here."
"You must. One innocent man, at least, is most falsely accused. Do you think poor Adam is not made of the same flesh as you are? Think of the agony of being accused of killing one whom you fondly loved, whom you were bound to protect. Even if he is not hanged, every hour that he lies in jail is unutterable misery to him."
"Alas! who can know that better than I?" she asked.
There was conviction in her tone. She raised her face to his; then suddenly flushed and covered it with her hands. "You don't know? We thought you must have guessed; but Mr. Alden will tell you. Oh, Mr. Durgan, try to think of us as we are, not as the world thinks, and—there! he is coming."
They listened a moment to approaching footsteps.
Bertha took hold of Durgan's sleeve in her intensity. "Don't tell him anything I have said," she whispered.
"Child!" he said a little sharply, "I must."
Her intensity grew. "For Hermie's sake, don't. I will do anything you tell me in defense of Adam. I will—yes, I promise—I will tell you all I know, all I fear, only promise me this." She was clinging to his arm in tears.
He gave promise grudgingly. "Not before I see you again, then."
"In spite of whatever he may tell you?"
"I have promised," he said with displeasure.
She had gone on, and the lawyer tripped jauntily down the path. He brought with him the suggestion of hope. He presented his card with an almost quaint formality. His manner was old-fashioned. He admired the superb view, paid a few compliments to old Georgian families and to the Durgans in particular, and apologized for his unceremonious intrusion the previous evening. He went on, in elegant and precise diction, to say that he understood from his clients at the summit house that Durgan could give him details concerning the recent deplorable death of a colored woman who had been in their employment.
Durgan conducted him to the place where Eve was found, and to Adam's now empty cabin. They discussed the facts that no knife had been found, that the fern had taken no print of feet. Then Durgan described his first sight of 'Dolphus and the interview. He was growing very tired of a statement that he had already been obliged to make more than once.
Alden took notes and gave no sign of opinion.
"The mulatto did it," said Durgan, sternly.
"Very probably, my dear sir; but there is as yet no proof. In such a place, whoever did it could throw the knife where it would remain hidden forever. There is no proof that this mulatto committed the deed before he went down the mountain; none that Adam did not do it when he returned later."
"Adam is a better man than I am. I am as certain of him as of myself."
"I entirely take your word for it. I am convinced by what you say. But men of the law, my dear sir, think only of what will convince the men in the box."
Having told all this of his own accord, Durgan became aware that in the course of conversation he was being questioned, and very closely.
Where had he gone when he left the sisters? How long had he rested? Where did he go then? Why did he wait? Did he remember exactly the place in which he waited? None of these questions were asked in categorical form, yet he had soon rather reluctantly told his every movement, except what he had seen of Miss Smith's actions when the moon rose, and the location of the particular tree. He was wholly determined that what he had so unexpectedly spied should never pass his lips.
"You were very kind in guarding the house. This colored man was evidently a dangerous character. You had reason, no doubt, for suspecting that he would be about at that hour, Mr. Durgan?"
"I knew nothing about his movements. I can tell you nothing more."
"Can you be sure that he made no attempt to enter the house that evening?"
"He could hardly have done that?"
"You were in the house all the evening, and then watched it till you heard the alarming sound of this poor woman's last breath. You are sure that he did not come or go from the house in that time?"
"Have you any reason to suppose he did?"
"Suppose, merely for the sake of argument, that I had reason to suspect he did, can you deny it?"
"I am sure he did not."
"Could you swear to it in a court of justice?"
"No. It was impossible for me to watch every door. I expected him from one direction, and watched only that. I should have expected the dogs to bark if he came within the paling."
"Ah! Then you could not swear that anyone who could silence the dogs might have left the house." The lawyer relapsed into significant silence.
At last Alden said, "Mr. Durgan, I came here this morning at the request of my clients and dear friends to make a communication to you. When I have made it you will understand why I should have been glad had you been certain that during the evening no one could have left or entered the house—this negro or any other person. Have you any idea of what I am going to tell you?"
"I am aware that these ladies are, for some good reason, hiding. This information came to me by accident. The secret is safe with me. I have no wish to know more."
"No doubt it is safe, and we are happy that it should be in your keeping. May I ask if you came to guess it solely from those letters which this unhappy pair opened; or did any other circumstance——?"
"Solely through that accident."
"You feel convinced that this knowledge was only shared by these two?"
"I quite think so. Adam will never tell. He is as safe as I am."
"And the woman is dead."
For the first time Durgan put the two circumstances together. He felt vexed.
"You will naturally suppose," said Alden, "that when Adam is tried, my clients will go into court and give evidence as to his excellent character. But if it is possible to prevent it, they must not do that. It was never by my advice that they secluded themselves and took an assumed name; it was Bertha who insisted upon seclusion. I would have preferred that they had had strength to live in the open. I should not have greatly cared had all the country found out who they were, but for this crime, which is the most unfortunate that could have happened at their doors. Their identity must now be hid, if it is possible without wickedness."
Durgan had been trying jealously to find some element of falsity beneath the Northerner's quiet face and dapper exterior. Now he no longer doubted his sincerity. The lawyer sat looking absently down where the beautiful valley lay in all its summer tranquillity, framed in the peace of the eternal hills, and Durgan saw the beads of sweat break upon his brow. He was convinced that he had more than the interest of clients at stake, that his whole heart was in some way concerned in this matter.
Alden spoke slowly. "I have known these women since Bertha was a mere girl. Eight years ago I was working in the same mission school with the elder sister. For three years we met twice a week, with the most sacred of all interests in common. Constantly I had the pleasure of walking to or fro with her, and we talked together on the great theme of religion. After that I knew her intimately in the midst of the greatest sorrows a woman could endure. I have strengthened our friendship by every means in my power ever since. Is it possible that I could be mistaken in her character?"
His small blue eyes had grown deeper and bluer as he spoke; the lines about them also deepened. Sorrow, and that of the nobler sort, was written there. Durgan liked him.
"I am sure that our friend is a true woman," said he.
"And yet, Mr. Durgan, she is publicly believed to have committed the most barbarous of crimes. She is Hermione Claxton."
Durgan uttered an exclamation of dismay. The two men turned from each other with mute accord.
To Durgan it seemed strange and terrible that here, in these splendid mountain solitudes, the edge of such a shameful thing should enter his own life. Below the rock, the forest in glossy leaf breathed in the perfect sunlight; rank below rank stood shining trees like angelic hosts in pictures of heaven. The air was filled with the lullaby of unseen herd-bells. Afar, where the valley widened and purpled, the mountain stream, in quiet waters, was descried, and sunny fields.
Before Durgan's mind lay the daily papers of the time of the notorious trial of Hermione Claxton—the sensational headlines, the discursive leaders. In his ears echoed the universal conversation of that time—voices in street-cars, hotels, and streets. The natural horror of brutal deeds, which had made him recoil then, darkened his outlook now like a cloud. But in the midst of this obscurity upon all things two figures stood, a moving vision—Bertha, fresh and beautiful, faulty and lovable, and beside her the fragile sister, gray-haired and upright, with steadfast face turned heavenward.
Alden spoke first. "You are aware, Mr. Durgan, that Mr. Claxton and his second wife were suddenly killed, that a large body of circumstantial evidence proved that Hermione was alone in the house with them, that by her own arranging she was alone with them—in fact, I must say there was complete circumstantial proof that she had committed the heinous crime. There was even motive, if just anger and love of money are motive enough. Against this stood, I may say, only her personality, for so reticent and modest is she that few know her character. To my mind, it is a great honor to America that the twelve ordinary men who formed the jury could be so impressed by her personality that, while the whole world hooted, they were resolute in a verdict of acquittal."
"It was you—your eloquence that did it."
"So the world said; but I only appealed to their sense of truth, and out of the truth of their hearts they pronounced her 'not guilty.' You are aware, Mr. Durgan, that the world pronounced another verdict."
Durgan would have been glad to be silent. In the rush of his thought he was conscious that he chose the most childish thing to say. "But—but—someone must have done it."
When Alden did not seem to find this remark worthy even of assent he hastened, stumbling, to explain it. "I would be understood to mean that, familiar as you were with them, it is hardly possible that you do not suspect, do not, perhaps, know, who might be guilty. I am not, of course, asking you who—I have not the slightest right to ask—but——"
"Do you suggest that, while the whole nation was roused, and rightly, to demand justice, I screened the sinner? Mr. Durgan, I come of Puritan descent. So strongly do I feel the wickedness of lax justice that if my own son had done it I would have led him to the scaffold."
Durgan believed him. There had flashed out of this little, dainty man so hot a spark from the lightnings of Mount Sinai that the onlooker felt for the moment scorched by the sudden heat.
Also by this time Durgan had perceived that his imputation had really arisen, not from the public reports of the case, or from Alden's epitome, but from his knowledge of Bertha's perplexity, terror, and distress. He was glad that Alden went on without waiting for reply.
"You must surely be aware, Mr. Durgan, that, admitting the daughter's innocence, the case was one of those termed 'mysteries,' and ranks among the most obscure of these. The murder must have been the work of some maniac intruder; my own suspicions have always centered about a boy who certainly came to the house that morning, but was never heard of after, altho large rewards were offered. But that only shifts the unknown a step farther back. Who was this boy who could so vanish? Who sent him, and who concealed him? Indeed, Mr. Durgan, who can have thought on this problem as I have done? And there were many even astute lawyers and commercial men who have confessed to me that they induced insomnia by merely trying to conceive an adequate explanation. Remember that the dual crime and the vanishing of this boy occurred at midday in a fashionable neighborhood, in a household noted for propriety, elegance, and culture. I, who know more than anyone else, know nothing; but this I do say, Mr. Durgan: rather than believe Hermione Claxton guilty, I would believe that the deed was done by an invisible fiend from the nether world; and I am not superstitious."
"I quite agree with you. Anyone who knows Miss Claxton must agree with you. She is innocent of every evil thought."
But he felt that he spoke mechanically. His mind was turning with more and more distress and bewilderment to Bertha's talk and behavior. He was glad when Alden went away for the time, altho he knew that the question of Adam's defense must be quickly settled.
Alden left him with the words: "I will come back, Mr. Durgan. You can see now that if that insane thing called the public got hold of the fact that the victim of last week's crime belonged to the Claxton household, unless it could be proved that no one issued from the house that evening——"
"I understand," Durgan answered with ill-controlled impatience.
The small man squared his shoulders and looked up staunchly. "We must save her at any cost, save that of breaking God's law."
Those elemental emotions, the protection of feebleness, the vindication of womanhood tender and motherly, were aroused in Durgan to the heat of passion. In heart he joined hands firmly with the little lawyer who had fought the battle so long. He had saved this good woman once from the worst peril, but Durgan feared there was more to come, and was panting to establish her innocence.
He struggled with a temptation. If he could swear that he had heard Eve's last breath at an hour when it was known the husband was away, this evidence would set Adam free. He believed himself to have heard it, conjecturing that either some peculiar atmospheric condition had obtained, or his senses had been strained to abnormal acuteness, or the passing spirit, terrified, had flown for safety to the nearest friend, bringing its sob of fear when it was but an instant too late to seek human aid. Why not continue to conceal the fact that he had been half a furlong beyond all natural earshot of the woman's death? He would not have known so precisely where he was had not Miss Smith's action caused him to mark one tree among its fellows. Neil Durgan, striding into court at Hilyard to give his evidence concerning the death of one of his father's slaves, was not likely to be strictly cross-questioned. The terror of the past to both sisters and Bertha's present terrors (which must yet be inquired into and allayed), surely this was enough trouble without unnecessary delay and hesitation in the course of justice at Hilyard.
Durgan was at work all day, and desired in hacking and hewing the rock to temper his own mind to meet the need of the hour, hardly knowing on which side of his path honor lay, and caring more to succeed than to be scrupulous.
While the day spent itself, his thought upon all that had occurred became clearer. It was obvious that first, before taking another step, he must know the whole warp and woof of Bertha's suspicions, which at present seemed to him so flimsy. He must know each thread, or Alden must know. At this point he stopped to marvel. On what pretext should Bertha seek to deceive so good a friend as Alden? And could it be that neither sister had confessed to Alden that the criminal had some sinister hold over them?
Perhaps, after all, to give evidence against 'Dolphus was not the first step out of this coil of trouble. In revenge the nigger might be able to declare what they all desired most to keep silent. Bertha's strongly expressed desire in the matter strengthened this idea.
That afternoon the carriage of the Durgan Blounts was drawn by foaming thoroughbreds up the rough and winding road to the summit of Deer. Mrs. Durgan Blount was with her husband, and young Blount rode beside on his chestnut mare.
They stopped at the mica cutting to converse cheerfully with Durgan on the frequency of knifing among niggers and the obvious purpose of their journey.
The dame spoke languidly. "We thought it incumbent to offer our sympathy to the Northern ladies. This ghastly thing having happened on our property, and so close to the site these ladies have bought, we felt obliged."
"Come along, Neil Durgan," said the old General. "Jump in and call with us; it ought to be a family affair."
Durgan excused himself, wondering grimly what effect the name of Claxton would have had on this family expedition.
The son waited till his mother's carriage had gone on. "You are quite sure it was the yellow boy who did it? I heard at the post-office that you had found his knife."
Durgan explained that this was not so, but reiterated his conviction as to the guilt of 'Dolphus.
Said Blount slowly: "Your opinion will be conclusive. It wouldn't go far in a Northern court, perhaps; but here, and for niggers, if you tell your tale well it will prove sufficient."
"I'd be satisfied to get Adam off, if that could be done without hanging the other."
Blount stooped forward to rub the mare's ears and smooth her silken mane. His young countenance was benign and thoughtful.
"You had better have him sentenced," he said quietly. "It's annoying for you, of course, because the result rests with you—the General settled that with the judge. But it's your duty; and you do more for the world in ridding it of one villain than by a lot of charity."
Durgan felt ill-satisfied now with the sentiment of these last words, altho a few days before it had been his own.
Young Blount rode away with serious mien. The hot sunflecks fell between chestnut boughs upon horse and rider and tawny wheel-ruts.
At sunset Durgan went up to the meadow, where he knew Bertha would come to feed her four-footed friends. As he waited he sat on the ledge of the wooden barn.
He saw Bertha come through the meadow gate. The calves ran to meet and conduct her to the place of feeding. Handsome young things they were, red and white, with square heads and shoulders. They formed a bodyguard on either side of the terrier and mastiff, which always had the right of place nearest to her. Thus Bertha advanced down the green-grown road between the ranks of deep, flowering grass. She carried a bucket and a basket with fine, erect balance, one in either hand.
The meadow slanted upward from the barn. As Durgan walked to meet her and take the burden, he could just see over its rise the heads of the opposite mountains. A wide gulf of slant sunbeams lay between.
Bertha greeted him with serious mien. When he had taken her load and fallen into line among her animals, she said:
"You know the worst about us now."
"Do I?" asked he. For he discovered at that moment that the question he must now put was a cruel one, and could not be shirked or smoothed over.
"Alas!" She uttered the one deprecating word slowly, and moved on in silence.
The bull calf pushed its powerful head under her hand, which now hung free, and she walked, leaning upon it, till the mastiff slowly inserted himself between the two, and, with a sudden push of its side, ousted the calf, who took a short scamper and returned head downward toward the mastiff's broad flank. The terrier laughed aloud: no one could have interpreted his snorts of delight otherwise. The mastiff reluctantly withdrew his soft nose from Bertha's palm, and attended to matters of defense. All the calves scattered in an ungainly dance, and all returned circling the dogs with lowered heads. Bertha watched these antics with a sad smile; then by sundry cuffs and pats put an end to the feud.
When they had fed the calves and the other creatures who lived in sumptuous hutches and sties behind the barn, Durgan asked his question.
Bertha and Durgan were standing in the broad central doorway of the barn. Hay, full of meadow flowers, was piled high to right and left. The air was full of dried pollen, and golden with the level sunlight.
"Do you know who it was that killed your parents?" Durgan asked.
She put up trembling hands in the brave pretense of shielding her eyes from the sun. Her whole body shook; her head sank on her breast.
At last she said in faint tones: "You think this because I warned you of danger—because of all I have said; but I was distracted, and at that time I did not foresee that you must be told who we are."
"All that is true. I am more sorry for you than words can say; but it must be better for you to share a secret you seem to be nursing alone, and you cannot think I would ask if I did not need to know."
She did not answer. He suspected that she was using all her attention to regain self-control and the strength that she had lost so suddenly.
"You told me that you thought you knew who committed this second crime," he said, "and I am convinced that you connect it with that other."
A low moan escaped her. Her head sank lower.
"I believe that the nigger is guilty, but I can't go to court and swear away his life, knowing only what you have told me and no more."
She whispered eagerly: "Will it do if I swear now that I believe I was mistaken—that I knew nothing, or, at least, no proof to the contrary?"
"Have you ever had the least reason to suppose that another person capable of these crimes lurked upon Deer?"
"If I swear to you that I never thought anyone else was near us, or on the mountain, will that satisfy you?" She was leaning her brow heavily on the hand that shaded her face.
"No one else—else than——?"
She did not help him out. She sat down, or rather crouched, on the steps of the loft.
He said very gently but resolutely: "You think, then, that your sister committed these crimes."
She put up her hands. "Do not, do not say it. Oh, I have never thought it possible that you could be so cruel as to say such a thing to me. Leave me in peace; for God's sake, leave me!"
"Child! even if I could leave you, it is not right that you should go on nursing this terrible suspicion alone. In the back of your mind you believe this thing, and think that some time—any time, she may repeat the crime; and the terror of it is killing you."
She was trembling violently, her face buried in her hands.
"Have you allowed anyone else to know of this suspicion of yours? Tell me, have you talked it over with a single soul?"
"No, no; oh, no," she moaned. "For pity's sake, stop speaking! I never thought anyone would dare to say this to me."
"That is just what I supposed. You have nursed the idea in absolute secret. You have not even allowed your sister herself to know what you think."
"I beg that you will say no more."
"You are guarding this idea in heroic silence. You imprison it in darkness, and think it would be more terrible if you brought it out to the light. You are wrong. It will vanish away in the light. It is not true."
She started, looking up at him with wide eyes in which the tears were arrested by surprise. The flush on her face faded. She grew pale to the lips with excitement.
"How do you know?" she whispered hoarsely. "Tell me—do you know? How?"
"I know just as I know that I did not do it—or you. You did not see her do this terrible thing."
"Oh, you know nothing." She sank down again and rocked herself, moaning: "You know nothing, nothing. Why did you deceive me?"
"Tell me, then—on what grounds have you formed this belief?"
She grew more quiet, drooping before him as if in despair.
"I must go to Hilyard to-morrow. I must know first what I can say. You must tell me why you, even for one hour, believed 'Dolphus to be innocent, before I go. I must judge for myself of what you tell me, but you must tell me all you know—or else you must tell Alden."
At that she uncovered her face and sought to speak calmly. "I cannot tell Mr. Alden; I beseech you, spare me that. I thought I could tell him. Then, when he came—ah, I saw then what I never knew before—that he loves Hermie—that she loves him. There is a far deeper friendship between them than I knew. I was but a girl when they used to be together, and now—— It is so sad to see the feeling he has for her. She has grown so old, and so has he—so prematurely old. This sorrow has been so deep to them both. The night that he came here he reproached her for not letting him protect her more openly. He asked her to marry him now—even now; it seems he has asked her before. Surely it must be left to her to tell him if he must ever know, if she must ever endure the anguish of his knowing."
Durgan could hardly believe his own sense of hearing, so calmly certain did she seem of the verity of her secret.
"Your sister could not tell Mr. Alden what is not true. She is wholly innocent. She can never, thank God, have any misery that accrues to one who has committed an evil deed."
"You know nothing," she repeated gently, "and, oh, I am in a terrible perplexity; I do not know what to do. I am in far greater straits than you know of, Mr. Durgan. You urge me to tell you—will you accept my confession in confidence? Otherwise—ah, if you tell Mr. Alden what I have already said, it seems to me that I shall die of grief and shame. I could never look my dear sister in the face again."
"You have no choice now but to tell me. The life of an innocent man must be saved; your sister's name must be kept out of the trial. For their sakes I am bound to consult Mr. Alden about what you have already told me, unless, upon knowing your whole story, I think I am justified in keeping your secret. I am your friend. I can have no possible desire but to serve your sister and yourself."
"But truth—justice? Would you sacrifice us to a fetish you call 'justice,' pretending it is God? I have always felt that you would not. Mr. Alden would, even if it cost him his own life."
Durgan meditated on this aspect of Alden's character. He could perceive that from her point of view this characteristic made him terrible. In her trouble she had blindly put her finger on perhaps the main difference between the virtue of the South and that of the North.
"Hermie has always told me that about him, but till this time I never entirely believed her. Now I do. The more he loved Hermie, the more——Oh, Mr. Durgan, it is terrible to think of!"
He looked down pityingly. "The thoughts that you are enduring, child, are too terrible for you to bear alone. You must trust me. We Southerners were never taught to think, as the Puritans did, that the whole heart of God could be translated into a human code. I am not as good a man as Alden, but if I were——"
"Oh, I can trust you," she cried. "I know I can. And you are right—I must, I ought, to speak; but do not know how, or how much. Question me, and I will answer."
"On what possible ground can you believe this of your sister?"
"On the ground of her own confession. It is written and sealed up; I know where it is."
She had again crouched down on the lower step, and her face was hidden; but her shaken voice was quite clear and resolute.
Durgan was amazed into silence. The sun, in a dry, empty sky, had slowly descended to the dark rim of the Cherokee ridge. Now it seemed to set suddenly, and a cold shadow rose over Deer. Bertha saw nothing, but to Durgan the change in the atmosphere lent emphasis to her statement, and all the combative part of his nature rose up against it. He was convinced that there was no such confession.
"Are you sure of what you tell me?" asked Durgan.
Bertha answered: "Yes; I do not know what she wrote, but I am sure it was her confession."
"You don't know what she wrote," sharply. "How do you know she confessed?"
"She told me so."
"Then, even in the face of that, I say she is innocent."
"Innocent—ah, yes, indeed—of any motive, any intent, of any knowledge at the moment of what she was doing. As innocent as any angel of God. Do you think I do not know the heart, the life, of my sister? It was madness, or the possession of a demon. It was madness that came suddenly, like a fit or stroke. That is why I want to know what I ought to do. It may come back; any excitement, any association with the former attack, might bring it back. Oh, consider her case, and tell me what I ought to do. When you first came I was terrified. You did not see how much roused she was—she is so shy and quiet—but I saw a new light in her eyes. Your name is mixed up with the thought of our father in a very sad way. I was frightened then, but mercifully nothing happened. Then about the letters—ah, she was vexed about that, and I was so frightened lest she should be ill again. Then, when the colored boy came, I dared not let her be alone with him. He brought all the details of that dreadful time back to us and—ah, I thought, living as we do and keeping him from her, I had taken every precaution, but—on the morning after that poor woman was killed, I found, oh, Mr. Durgan, I found her handkerchief in the wood where she never goes. I found it because the dogs were scenting something and I followed, and the place was in a direct line from where poor Eve——" she stopped, shuddering.
"You did not tell Alden this?"
"Oh, no. How could I? And now I hardly believe—at least, I don't think she could have been out that night. She has been so calm since. I am sure she cannot have gone out; but I don't know—I don't know what I ought to believe or do."
The miserable recital of her fears and perplexities came to an end only when her voice failed her. Durgan had been obliged to listen attentively to gather her full purport. He knew certainly that Miss Claxton had been out alone that night, that the tree which she had climbed was, in fact, in a line between Eve's beautiful deathbed and her own back door. Nor did anyone know at what hour Eve died. His own assumption that Miss Claxton had gone out only as far as the tree to leave money for 'Dolphus had only the slightest foundation, and the mulatto's movements certainly did not confirm it.
While he reviewed all this with some reasonable horror, he found that his inward belief of the propriety of all Miss Claxton's actions was not shaken. His faith was obstinate, and facts had to be made to fit into it.
"Let us take this terrible secret of yours, and spread it out to the light quite calmly. You believe your sister did this first dreadful thing in a fit of sudden madness, from which she seems to have recovered immediately, as no one else thought her mad. Did you believe this at the time of the trial?"
"I did not know what to think then."
"After that, while you were abroad together, were you always in terror like this?"
"Oh, no. It was when we were coming home that my sister had an illness. It was then that she told me of her confession and where to find it if it was ever needed. Then, knowing what must have been the matter, and that it might come again, I was determined to find a lonely house where I thought I should be the only one in danger. I thought I could take that risk, as I only risked myself. When we found this house I felt sure we were safe from intrusion and excitement."
"After you heard of this confession you decided that she was subject to homicidal mania. When I intruded on your privacy you feared for my life in your house. You have feared for your own life whenever any cause of excitement came up, and thought everyone near her was in danger. You think now that such an attack may have been the cause of Eve's death."
Bertha rose up in the twilight, looking like a trembling, guilty thing, and slunk away from his cool voice and overbearing manner.
"Do you think I have been so terribly wicked to keep this secret?" she moaned.
"I think you have been very foolish; but as your folly arose from tenderness to your sister, I suppose you must be forgiven. You ought to have told your sister or Alden, or consulted a good doctor. You would have found then that you were mistaken."
"How could I speak to anyone without causing suspicion? How could I speak to her when I thought her only chance of continued health lay in forgetting? Indeed, our own family doctor, who never guessed this, told us after the trial was over that our only chance of health and leading useful lives was never to talk or let ourselves think of our trouble. Before we went abroad he warned us again and again."
"He was wise. And you—have you been obeying him?"
"How can you speak to me like this?"
"It is the medicine you need. Your sister is not mad—has never been mad. It is now years since your misfortune, and had there been want of balance or brain disease, it would have shown itself by now. Your sister is not obstinate or foolish. She is not subject to attacks of emotion, nor does she lack self-control. There is no sign of any such mania as could make such a crime possible to a well-principled woman."
"But—oh, but—I read constantly in the papers of people who kill themselves, or kill others and themselves afterwards. The verdict is always 'temporary insanity.' I supposed there was such a thing."
"That verdict is usually a cloak for ignorance; but it assumes that had such people lived they would have shown symptoms of mental disease."
Bertha raised her hands and clasped them above her head. She drew a long breath, dilating her frame, and looked off where an empty yellow sky circled a fading landscape. "If I could only believe you—ah—if I could only believe you, I should ask no greater happiness in heaven."
"Believe me, I am telling you the truth."
"But—but——"
"Sit down again, child," he said.
The term "child," used constantly by the negroes to express half-humorous or gentle chiding, comes very naturally to Southern lips. It carried with it little suggestion of the difference of age between them, but gave a sense of comradeship and good-will which comforted her. He pulled down a bundle of hay to cushion her seat on the steps.
"Now tell me all the 'buts,'" he said.
"Alas, Mr. Durgan, you cannot scold away our great trouble and my fears. You cannot smile them into insignificance; but now I am willing to tell you our story, and when it is told I hope you will see that you, too, must bury it forever in silence, as I have tried to do."
She began again. "There is another reason, which you don't know yet, why I must tell you now. It is this 'Dolphus. I will try to be quick. Do you know all that was put in the newspapers about us—about the trial?"
Durgan made a sign of assent.
"Day after day the court discussed every detail of our family life and of that awful day—held it up to the whole world with an awful minuteness and intensity. And Hermie was in prison when she was not in court—oh, I wonder we lived—and it was all such a farce. They got hold of everything but the things that mattered. They never came near them.
"They tried to make out that we hated poor mamma because she was not our own mother, and were jealous lest papa should make a will in her favor. What rubbish! She was only a pretty doll, and had money of her own. No one could hate her, and papa never thought of leaving her our money. We never thought about his will."
"I quite believe that," said Durgan heartily.
"The facts they did not get hold of were about the boy they made such a mystery of."
"What did they know about the boy?"
"One of the servants let him in, and one of the neighbors saw him come in. They both took him for a beggar: one thought he was an Italian. Hermie and I knew more. I gave evidence that he had come in, and that we had not seen him leave the hall, where he waited, or seen him again that morning, which was true. But he did not come as a beggar, he did not go away before the trouble, or vanish after it. He was hidden in the house all that day, and we arranged his escape at night. In court they never asked questions that I could not answer about him, for they never once guessed."
"Guessed what?"
"That we wanted to save him. Their one idea was that we wanted him to be found. Mr. Alden moved the earth to find him, and he was conducting our case."
"Who was the boy?"
"May I tell you all I know? The boy was 'Dolphus. He was only a messenger—a servant of that man who was raising spirits in dark rooms and making them give messages and——"
"You mean Beardsley?"
"Yes. You said the other night that he was supposed not to be a common medium. My sister has told me that Mrs. Durgan——"
"Yes, yes, I know."
"I only mean that just a few people went to him, and my father had gone. Oh, I believe he went often, and he used to tell us things that vexed Hermie so."
"What things?"
"Oh, about knocks and tables moving. And then dear father began to receive knocks and messages from our mother. That made Hermie almost frantic. She remembered mother well, and was offended. She called it 'profanity.' But I am sure my father did not know how it vexed her; he was always so considerate."
"The boy came from Beardsley?"
"Oh, yes. We knew, and know, nothing about the boy. He asked for my father, and was told to wait in the kitchen. I saw him there, and so did the maids. But only Hermie knew about the note—he gave it to her. She took it upstairs. I saw that she looked very white and angry. She told me that it was a message from that 'shameful impostor.' Then Hermie asked me to gather fruit in the garden, and she sent out the maids up the street. Then, some time after that, she—ah, you know it all!—gave the alarm. She called in people, and they went and rang for the police. She was very calm. Everyone knows the whole story after that."
"Yes; but tell me what you did."
"She never allowed me to go into that room where—— She told me my father was too much disfigured for me to recognize him. Oh, I thought of nothing but the loss of my father all that day. I went into his dressing-room and cried there. I took out his dear clothes and laid my head on them. Hermie sat with me part of the day. The police were in charge of the house; but no one had thought then of accusing her.
"When it was dark night Hermie came to me and said that there was something we could do for father's sake, and I must help her. She told me the boy was in the house and he was innocent, but that if he was found he might be arrested unjustly. She told me that some great disgrace might fall on father's name if we did not get him safely away. Oh, I did not at all understand at the time that she meant that if he were charged she must confess and be convicted. She chose some clothes of father's, and then I found that the boy was locked in a very narrow press in that very room. He put on the clothes, and he and Hermie knotted some dark thing together and we let him down from the window in the dark to the garden. He got in the neighbor's garden. She told him how to get from garden to garden. The police were about, but he got away. Her mind seemed quite clear. She said that because the boy was innocent it was our duty to tell nothing that could lead to his capture. She never told Mr. Alden that she knew who the boy was or who sent him, that he had brought a letter, or how he escaped."
"But how was she so certain that he was innocent?"
"Ah, that is what I have asked myself night and day for years. What could make her certain but one thing? She knew, and if she knew that anyone else had committed the deed, why not tell and exonerate the boy?"
"It is most extraordinary," said Durgan. The words were wrung from him almost without his will.