The House of the Whispering Pines (28 page)

This was uttered slowly and with a quiet emphasis which reawakened that
excited hum the judge had been at such pains to quell a moment before.
But he did not quell it now; he seemed to have forgotten his duty in the
strong interest called up by these admissions from the tongue of the most
imperturbable prisoner he had had before him in years.

Mr. Moffat, with an eye on District Attorney Fox, who had shown his
surprise at the trend the examination was taking by a slight indication
of uneasiness, grateful enough, no doubt, to the daring counsellor, went
on with his examination:

"Mr. Cumberland, will you tell us when you first felt this change of
opinion in regard to your sister?"

Mr. Fox leaped to his feet. Then he slowly reseated himself. Evidently he
thought it best to let the prisoner have his full say. Possibly he may
have regretted his leniency the next moment when, with a solemn lowering
of his head, Arthur answered:

"When I saw my home desolated in one dreadful night. With one sister dead
in the house, the victim of violence, and another delirious from fright
or some other analogous cause, I had ample time to think—and I used that
time. That's all."

Simple words, read or repeated; but in that crowded court-room, with
every ear strained to catch the lie which seemed the only refuge for the
man so hemmed in by circumstance, these words, uttered without the least
attempt at effect, fell with a force which gave new life to such as
wished to see this man acquitted.

His counsel, as if anxious to take advantage of this very expectation to
heighten the effect of what followed, proceeded immediately to inquire:

"When did you see your sister Adelaide for the last time alive?"

A searching question. What would be his reply?

A very quiet one.

"That night at the dinner-table. When I left the room, I turned to look
at her. She was not looking at me; so I slammed the door and went
upstairs. In an hour or so, I had left the house to get a drink. I got
the drink, but I never saw Adelaide again till I saw her in her coffin."

This blunt denial of the crime for which he stood there arraigned, fell
on my heart with a weight which showed me how inextinguishable is the
hope we cherish deep down under all surface convictions. I had been
unconscious of this hope, but it was there. It seemed to die a double
death at these words. For I believed him! Courage is needed for a lie.
There were no signs visible in him, as yet, of his having drawn upon this
last resource of the despairing. I should know it when he did; he could
not hide the subtle change from me.

To others, this declaration came with greater or less force, according as
it was viewed in the light of a dramatic trick of Mr. Moffat's, or as the
natural outburst of a man fighting for his life in his own way and with
his own weapons. I could not catch the eye of Ella cowering low in her
seat, so could not judge what tender chords had been struck in her
sensitive breast by these two assertions so dramatically offset against
each other—the one, his antagonism to the dead; the other, his freedom
from the crime in which that antagonism was supposed to have culminated.

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

"Mr. Cumberland, you have mentioned seeing your sister in her coffin.
When was this?"

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

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

"It was."

"Had you seen the casket itself prior to this moment of which you speak?"

"I had not."

"Had you been near it? Had you handled it in any way?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Cumberland, you have heard mention made of a ring worn by your
sister in life, but missing from her finger after death?"

"I have."

"You remember this ring?"

"I do."

"Is this it?"

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

"Hand the ring to the witness," ordered the judge.

The ring was so handed.

He glanced at it, and said bitterly: "I recognise it. It was her
engagement ring."

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

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

"Why, may I ask?"

For the first time the prisoner flushed and the look he darted at his
counsel had the sting of a reproach in it. Yet he answered: "It was the
token of an engagement I didn't believe in or like. I should have hailed
any proof that this engagement was off."

Mr. Moffat smiled enigmatically.

"Mr. Cumberland, if you are not sure of having seen this ring then, when
did you see it and where?"

A rustle from end to end of that crowded court-room. This was an
audacious move. What was coming? What would be the answer of the man
who was believed not only to have made himself the possessor of this
ring, but to have taken a most strange and uncanny method of disposing
of it afterward? In the breathless hush which followed this first
involuntary expression of feeling, Arthur's voice rose, harsh but
steady in this reply:

"I saw it when the police showed it to me, and asked me if I could
identify it."

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

Instinctively, the witness's right hand rose; it was as if he were
mentally repeating his oath before he uttered coldly and with emphasis,
though without any show of emotion:

"It is."

The universal silence gave way to a universal sigh of excitement and
relief. District Attorney Fox's lips curled with an imperceptible smile
of disdain, which might have impressed the jury if they had been
looking his way; but they were all looking with eager and interested
eyes at the prisoner, who had just uttered this second distinct and
unequivocal denial.

Mr. Moffat noted this, and his own lip curled, but with a very different
show of feeling from that which had animated his distinguished opponent.
Without waiting for the present sentiment to cool, he proceeded
immediately with his examination:

"You swear that you have seen this ring but once since the night of
your sister's death, and that was when it was shown you in the
coroner's office?"

"I do."

"Does this mean that it was not in your possession at any time during
that interim?"

"It certainly does."

"Mr. Cumberland, more than one witness has testified to the fact of
your having been seen to place your hand in the casket of your sister,
before the eyes of the minister and of others attending her funeral. Is
this true?"

"It is."

"Was not this a most unusual thing to do?"

"Perhaps. I was not thinking about that. I had a duty to perform, and I
performed it."

"A duty? Will you explain to the jury what duty?"

The witness's head rose, then sank. He, as well as every one else, seemed
to be impressed by the solemnity of the moment. Though the intensity of
my own interest would not allow my eyes to wander from his face, I could
imagine the strained look in Ella's, as she awaited his words.

They came in another instant, but with less steadiness than he had shown
before. I even thought I could detect a tremor in his muscles, as well as
in his voice:

"I had rebelled against my sister's wishes; I had grieved and deceived
her up to the very night of her foul and unnatural death—and all
through
drink
."

Here his eye flashed, and for that fleeting moment he looked a man. "I
wished to take an oath—an oath I would remember. It was for this purpose
I ordered the casket opened, and thrust my fingers through the flowers I
found there. When my fingers touched my sister's brow, I inwardly swore
never to taste liquor again. I have kept that oath. Difficult as it was,
in my state of mind, and with all my troubles, I have kept it—and been
misunderstood in doing so," he added, in lower tones, and with just a
touch of bitterness.

It was such an unexpected explanation, and so calculated to cause a
decided and favourable reaction in the minds of those who had looked upon
this especial act of his as an irrefutable proof of guilt, that it was
but natural that some show of public feeling should follow. But this was
checked almost immediately, and Mr. Moffat's voice was heard rising again
in his strange but telling examination:

"When you thrust your hand in to take this oath, did you drop anything
into your sister's casket?"

"I did not. My hand was empty. I held no ring, and dropped none in. I
simply touched her forehead."

This added to the feeling; and, in another instant, the excitement might
have risen into hubbub, had not the emotions of one little woman found
vent in a low and sobbing cry which relieved the tension and gave just
the relief needed to hold in check the overstrained feelings of the
crowd. I knew the voice and cast one quick glance that way, in time to
see Ella sinking affrightedly out of sight under the dismayed looks of
father and mother; then, anxious to note whether the prisoner had
recognised her, too, looked hastily back to find him standing quietly and
unmoved, with his eyes on his counsel and his lips set in the stern line
which was slowly changing his expression.

That counsel, strangely alive to the temper and feelings of his audience,
waited just long enough for the few simple and solemn words uttered by
the accused man to produce their full effect, then with a side glance at
Mr. Fox, whose equanimity he had at last succeeded in disturbing, and
whose cross-examination of the prisoner he had still to fear, continued
his own examination by demanding why, when the ring was discovered in
Adelaide's casket and he saw what inferences would be drawn from the
fact, he had not made an immediate public explanation of his conduct and
the reasons he had had for putting his hand there.

"I'm not a muff," shot from the prisoner's lips, in his old manner. "A
man who would take such an oath, in such a way, and at such a time, is
not the man to talk about it until he is forced to. I would not talk
about it now—"

He was checked at this point; but the glimpse we thus obtained of the
natural man, in this indignant and sullen outburst, following so quickly
upon the solemn declarations of the moment before, did more for him in
the minds of those present than the suavest and most discreet answer
given under the instigation of his counsel. Every face showed pleasure,
and for a short space, if for no longer, all who listened were disposed
to accept his assertions and accord the benefit of doubt to this wayward
son of an esteemed father.

To me, who had hoped nothing from Moffat's efforts, the substantial
nature of the defence thus openly made manifest, brought reanimation and
an unexpected confidence in the future.

The question as to who had dropped the ring into the casket if Arthur had
not—the innocent children, the grieving servants—was latent, of course,
in every breast, but it had not yet reached the point demanding
expression.

Meanwhile, the examination proceeded.

"Mr. Cumberland, you have stated that you did not personally drop this
ring into the place where it was ultimately found. Can you tell us of
your own knowledge who did?"

"I cannot. I know nothing about the ring. I was much surprised,
probably more surprised than any one else, to hear of its discovery in
that place."

The slip—and it was a slip for him to introduce that
more
—was
immediately taken advantage of by his counsel.

"You say 'more,' Why should it be more of a surprise to you than to any
one else to learn where this missing engagement ring of your sister's had
been found?"

Again that look of displeasure directed towards his questioner, and a
certain additional hardness in his reply, when he finally made it.

"I was her brother. I had a brother's antipathies and rightful
suspicions. I could not see how that ring came to be where it was, when
the only one interested in its restoration was in prison."

This was a direct blow at myself, and of course called Mr. Fox to his
feet, with a motion to strike out this answer. An altercation followed
between him and Mr. Moffat, which, deeply as it involved my life and
reputation, failed to impress me, as it might otherwise have done, if my
whole mind had not been engaged in reconciling the difficulty about this
ring with what I knew of Carmel and the probability which existed of her
having been responsible for its removal from her sister's hand. But
Carmel had been ill since, desperately ill and unconscious. She could
have had nothing to do with its disposal afterwards among the flowers at
her sister's funeral. Nor had she been in a condition to delegate this
act of concealment to another. Who, then, had been the intermediary in
this business? The question was no longer a latent one in my mind; it was
an insistent one, compelling me either to discredit Arthur's explanation
(in which case anything might be believed of him) or to accept for good
and all this new theory that some person of unknown identity had played
an accessory's part in this crime, whose full burden I had hitherto laid
upon the shoulders of the impetuous Carmel. Either hypothesis brought
light. I began to breathe again the air of hope, and if observed at that
moment, must have presented the odd spectacle of a man rejoicing in his
own shame and accepting with positive uplift, the inevitable stigma cast
upon his honour by the suggestive sentence just hurled at him by an
indignant witness.

The point raised by the district attorney having been ruled upon and
sustained by the court, Mr. Moffat made no effort to carry his inquiries
any further in the direction indicated; but I could see, with all my
inexperience of the law and the ways of attorneys before a jury, that
the episode had produced its inevitable result, and that my position, as
a man released from suspicion, had received a shock, the results of which
I might yet be made to feel.