The Eye of Dread

“Unless he is innocent. All this may have been an accident.”

“Then why is he staying in hiding?”

“He may have felt there was no way to prove his innocence.”

“Well, there is another reason why the Elder should withdraw his offer of a reward, and when he comes back, I mean to try what can be done once more. Everything would have to be circumstantial. He will have a hard time to prove his nephew’s guilt.”

“I can’t see why he should try to prove it. It must have been an accident–at the last. Of course it might have been begun in anger, in a moment of misunderstanding, but the nature of the boys would go to show that it never could have been done intentionally. It is impossible.”

CHAPTER XXX

THE ARGUMENT

“Mr. Ballard, either my son was murdered, or he was a murderer. The crime falls upon us, and the disgrace of it, no matter how you look at it.” The Elder sat in the back room at the bank, where his friend had been arguing with him to withdraw the offer of a reward for the arrest. “It’s too late, now–too late. The man’s found and he claims to be my son. You’re a kindly man, Mr. Ballard, but a blind one.”

Bertrand drew his chair closer to the Elder’s, as if by so doing he might establish a friendlier thought in the man’s heart. “Blind? Blind, Elder Craigmile?”

“I say blind. I see. I see it all.” The Elder rose and paced the floor. “The boys fought, there on the bluff, and sought to kill each other, and for the same cause that has wrought most of the evil in the world. Over the love of a woman they fought. Peter carried a blackthorn stick that ought never to have been in my house–you know, for you brought it to me–and struck his cousin with it, and at the same instant was pushed over the brink, as Richard intended.”

“How do you know that Richard was not pushed over? How do you know that he did not fall over with his cousin? How can you dare work for a man’s conviction on such slight evidence?”

“How do I know? Although you would favor that–that–although–” The Elder paused and struggled for control, then sat weakly down and took up the argument again with trembling voice. “Mr. Ballard, I would spare you–much of this matter which has been brought to my knowledge–but I cannot–because it must come out at the trial. It was over your little daughter, Betty, that they fought. She has known all these years that Richard Kildene murdered her lover.”

“Elder–Elder! Your brooding has unbalanced your mind.”

“Wait, my friend. This falls on you with but half the burden that I have borne. My son was no murderer. Richard Kildene is not only a murderer, but a coward. He went to your daughter while we were dragging the river for my poor boy’s body, and told her he had murdered her lover; that he pushed him over the bluff and that he intended to do so. Now he adds to his crime–by–coming here–and pretending–to be–my son. He shall hang. He shall hang. If he does not, there is no justice in heaven.” The Elder looked up and shook his hand above his head as if he defied the whole heavenly host.

Bertrand Ballard sat for a moment stunned. Such a preposterous turn was beyond his comprehension. Strangely enough his first thought was a mere contradiction, and he said: “Men are not hung in this state. You will not have your wish.” He leaned forward, with his elbows on the great table and his head in his hands; then, without looking up, he said: “Go on. Go on. How did you come by this astounding information? Was it from Betty?”

“Then may he be shut in the blackest dungeon for the rest of his life. No, it was not from Betty. Never. She has kept this terrible secret well. I have not seen your daughter–not–since–since this was told me. It has been known to the detective and to my attorney, Milton Hibbard, for two years, and to me for one year–just before I offered the increased reward to which you so object. I had reason.”

“Then it is as I thought. Your offer of ten thousand dollars reward has incited the crime of attempting to convict an innocent man. Again I ask you, how did you come by this astounding information?”

“By the word of an eyewitness. Sit still, Mr. Ballard, until you hear the whole; then blame me if you can. A few years ago you had a Swede working for you in your garden. You boarded him. He slept in a little room over your summer kitchen; do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“He saw Richard Kildene come to the house when we were all away–while you were with me–your wife with mine,–and your little daughter alone. This Swede heard all that was said, and saw all that was done. His testimony alone will–”

“Convict a man? It is greed! What is your detective working for and why does this Swede come forward at this late day with his testimony? Greed! Elder Craigmile, how do you know that this testimony is not all made up between them? I will go home and ask Betty, and learn the truth.”

“And why does the young man come here under an assumed name, and when he is discovered, claim to be my son? The only claim he could make that could save him! If he knows anything, he knows that if he pretends he is my son–laboring under the belief that he has killed Richard Kildene–when he knows Richard’s death can be disproved by your daughter’s statement that she saw and talked with Richard–he knows that he may be released from the charge of murder and may establish himself here as the man whom he himself threw over the bluff, and who, therefore, can never return to give him the lie. I say–if this is proved on him, he shall suffer the extreme penalty of the law, or there is no justice in the land.”

Bertrand rose, sadly shaken. “This is a very terrible accusation, my friend. Let us hope it may not be proved true. I will go home and ask Betty. You will take her testimony before that of the Swede?”

“If you are my friend, why are you willing my son should be proven a murderer? It is a deep-laid scheme, and Richard Kildene walks close in his father’s steps. I have always seen his father in him. I tried to save him for my sister’s sake. I brought him up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and did for him all that fathers do for their sons, and now I have the fool’s reward–the reward of the man who warmed the viper in his bosom. He, to come here and sit in my son’s place–to eat bread at my table–at my wife’s right hand–with her smile in his eyes? Rather he shall–”

“We will find out the truth, and, if possible, you shall be saved from yourself, Elder Craigmile, and your son will not be proven a murderer. Let me still be your friend.” Bertrand’s voice thrilled with suppressed emotion and the sympathy he could not utter, as he held out his hand, which the Elder took in both his own shaking ones. His voice trembled with suppressed emotion as he spoke.

“Pray God Hester may stay where she is until this thing is over. And pray God you may not be blinded by love of your daughter, who was not true to my son. She was promised to become his wife, but through all these years she protects by her silence the murderer of her lover. Ponder on this thought, Bertrand Ballard, and pray God you may have the strength to be just.”

Bertrand walked homeward with bowed head. It was Saturday. The day’s baking was in progress, and Mary Ballard was just removing a pan of temptingly browned tea cakes from the oven when he entered. She did not see his face as he asked, “Mary, where can I find Betty?”

“Upstairs in the studio, drawing. Where would you expect to find her?” she said gayly. Something in her husband’s voice touched her. She hastily lifted the cakes from the pan and ran after him.

“What is it, dear?”

He was halfway up the stairs and he turned and came back to her. “I’ve heard something that troubles me, and must see her alone, Mary. I’ll talk with you about it later. Don’t let us be disturbed until we come down.”

“I think Janey is with her now.”

“I’ll send her down to you.”

“Bertrand, it is something terrible! You are trying to spare me–don’t do it.”

“Ask no questions.”

“Tell Janey I want her to help in the kitchen.”

Mary went back to her work in silence. If Bertrand wished to be alone with Betty, he had a good reason; and presently Janey skipped in and was set to paring the potatoes for dinner.

Bertrand found Betty bending closely over a drawing for which she had no model, but which was intended to illustrate a fairy story. She was using pen and ink, and trying to imitate the fine strokes of a steel engraving. He stood at her side, looking down at her work a moment, and his artist’s sense for the instant crowded back other thoughts.

“You ought to have a model, daughter, and you should work in chalk or charcoal for your designing.”

“I know, father, but you see I am trying to make some illustrations that will look like what are in the magazines. I’m making fairies, father, and you know I can’t find any models, so I have to make them up.”

“Put that away. I have some questions to ask you.”

“What’s the matter, daddy? You look as if the sky were falling.” He had seated himself on the long lounge where she had once sat and chatted with Peter Junior. She recalled that day. It was when he kissed her for the first time. Her cheeks flushed hotly as they always did now when she thought of it, and her eyes were sad. She went over and established herself at her father’s side.

“What is it, daddy, dear?”

“Betty,”–he spoke sternly, as she had never heard him before,–“have you been concealing something from your father and mother–and from the world–for the last three years and a half?”

Her head drooped, the red left her cheeks, and she turned white to the lips. She drew away from her father and clasped her hands in her lap, tightly. She was praying for strength to tell the truth. Ah, could she do it? Could she do it! And perhaps cause Richard’s condemnation? Had they found him?–that father should ask such a question now, after so long a time?

“Why do you ask me such a question, father?”

“Tell me the truth, child.”

“Father! I–I–can’t,” and her voice died away to a whisper.

“You can and you must, Betty.”

She rose and stood trembling before him with clinched hands. “What has happened? Tell me. It is not fair to ask me such a question unless you tell me why.” Then she dropped upon her knees and hid her face against his sleeve. “If you don’t tell me what has happened, I will never speak again. I will be dumb, even if they kill me.”

He put his arm tenderly about the trembling little form, and the act brought the tears and he thought her softened. He knew, as Mary had often said, that “Betty could not be driven, but might be led.”