The Eye of Dread

“Couldn’t you put it off a bit, lad?”

Larry could not have told why he kept silent so long in regard to the truth of the trial. It might have been a vague liking to watch the workings of his son’s real self and a desire to test him to the full. From a hint dropped in Betty’s letter he guessed shrewdly at the truth of the situation. He knew now that Richard and his young friend of the mountain top were actuated by the same motives, and he understood at last why Harry King would never accept his offer of help, nor would ever call him father. Because he could not take the place of the son, of whom, as he thought, he had robbed the man who so freely offered him friendship–and more than friendship. At last Larry understood why Peter Junior had never yielded to his advances. It was honor, and the test had been severe.

“Put it off a little? I might–I’m tempted–just to get acquainted with my father–but I might be arrested, and I would prefer not to be. I know I’ve been wanted for three years and over–it has taken me that long to learn that only the truth can make a man free,–and now I would rather give myself up, than to be taken–”

“I’m knowing maybe more of the matter than you think–so we’ll drop it. We must have a long talk later–but tell me now in a few words what you can.”

Then, drawn by the older man’s gentle, magnetic sympathy, Richard unlocked his heart and told all of his life that could be crowded in those few short minutes,–of his boyhood’s longings for a father of his own–of his young manhood’s love, of his flight, and a little of his later life. “We’d be great chums, now, father,–if–if it weren’t for this–that hangs over me.”

Then Larry could stand it no longer. He sprang up and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Come, lad, come! We’ll go to this trial together. Do you know who’s being tried? No. They’ll have to get this off before they can take another on. I’m thinking you’ll find your case none so bad as it seems to you now. First there’s a thing I must do. My brother-in-law’s in trouble–but it is his own fault–still I’m a mind to help him out. He’s a fine hater, that brother-in-law of mine, but he’s tried to do a father’s part in the past by you–and done it well, while I’ve been soured. In the gladness of my heart I’ll help him out–I’d made up my mind to do it before I left my mountain. Your father’s a rich man, boy–with money in store for you–I say it in modesty, but he who reared you has been my enemy. Now I’m going to his bank, and there I’ll make a deposit that will save it from ruin.”

He stood a moment chuckling, with both hands thrust deep in his pockets. “We’ll go to that trial–it’s over an affair of his, and he’s fair in the wrong. We’ll go and watch his discomfiture–and we’ll see him writhe. We’ll see him carry things his own way–the only way he can ever see–and then we’ll watch him–man, we’ll watch him–Oh, my boy, my boy! I doubt it’s wrong for me to exult over his chagrin, but that’s what I’m going for now. It was the other way before I met you, but the finding of you has given me a light heart, and I’ll watch that brother-in-law’s set-down with right good will.”

He told Richard about Amalia, and asked him to wait until he fetched her, as he wished her to accompany them, but still he said nothing to him about his cousin Peter. He found Amalia descending the long flight of stairs, dressed to go out, and knew she had been awaiting him for the last half hour. Now he led her into the little parlor, while Richard paced up and down the piazza, and there, where she could see him as he passed the window to and fro, Larry told her what had come to him, and even found time to moralize over it, in his gladness.

“That’s it. A man makes up his mind to do what’s right regardless of all consequences or his prejudices, or what not,–and from that moment all begins to grow clear, and he sees right–and things come right. Now look at the man! He’s a fine lad, no? They’re both fine lads–but this one’s mine. Look at him I say. Things are to come right for him, and all through his making up his mind to come back here and stand to his guns. The same way with Harry King. I’ve told you the contention–and at last you know who he is–but mind you, no word yet to my son. I’ll tell him as we walk along. I’m to stop at the bank first, and if we tell him too soon, he’ll be for going to the courthouse straight. The landlord tells me there’s danger of a run on the bank to-morrow and the only reason it hasn’t come to-day is that the bank’s been closed all the morning for the trial. I’m thinking that was policy, for whoever heard of a bank’s being closed in the morning for a trial–or anything short of a death or a holiday?”

“But if it is now closed, why do we wait to go there? It is to do nothing we make delay,” said Amalia, anxiously.

“I told Decker to send word to the cashier to be there, as a deposit is to be made. If he can’t be there for that, then it’s his own fault if to-morrow finds him unprepared.” Larry stepped out to meet Richard and introduced Amalia. He had already told Richard a little of her history, and now he gave her her own name, Manovska.

After a few moments’ conversation she asked Larry: “I may keep now my own name, it is quite safe, is not? They are gone now–those for whom I feared.”

“Wait a little,” said Richard. “Wait until you have been down in the world long enough to be sure. It is a hard thing to live under suspicion, and until you have means of knowing, the other will be safer.”

“You think so? Then is better. Yes? Ah, Sir Kildene, how it is beautiful to see your son does so very much resemble our friend.”

They arrived at the bank, and Larry entered while Richard and Amalia strolled on together. “We had a friend, Harry King,”–she paused and would have corrected herself, but then continued–“he was very much like to you–but he is here in trouble, and it is for that for which we have come here. Sir Kildene is so long in that bank! I would go in haste to that place where is our friend. Shall we turn and walk again a little toward the bank? So will we the sooner encounter him on the way.”

They returned and met Larry coming out, stepping briskly. He too was eager to be at the courthouse. He took his son’s arm and rapidly and earnestly told him the situation as he had just heard it from the cashier. He told him that which he had been keeping back, and impressed on him the truth that unless he had returned when he did, the talk in the town was that the trial was likely to go against the prisoner. Richard would have broken into a run, in his excitement, but Larry held him back.

“Hold back a little, boy. Let us keep pace with you. There’s really no hurry, only that impulse that sent you home–it was as if you were called, from all I can learn.”

“It is my reprieve. I am free. He has suffered, too. Does he know yet that I too live? Does he know?”

“Perhaps not–yet, but listen to me. Don’t be too hasty in showing yourself. If they did not know him, they won’t know you–for you are enough different for them never to suspect you, now that they have, or think they have, the man for whom they have been searching. See here, man, hold back for my sake. That man–that brother-in-law of mine–has walked for years over my heart, and I’ve done nothing. He has despised me, and without reason–because I presumed to love your mother, lad, against his arrogant will. He–he–would–I will see him down in the dust of repentance. I will see him willfully convict his own son–he who has been hungering to see you–my son–sent to a prison for life–or hanged.”

Richard listened, lingering as Larry wished, appalled at this revelation, until they arrived at the edge of the crowd around the door, eagerly trying to wedge themselves in wherever the chance offered.

“Oh! Sir Kildene–we are here–now what to do! How can we go in there?” said Amalia.

Larry moved them aside slowly, pushing Amalia between Richard and himself, and intimating to those nearest him that they were required within, until a passage was gradually made for the three, and thus they reached the door and so gained admittance. And that was how they came to be there, crowded in a corner, all during the testimony of Betty Ballard, unheeded by those around them–mere units in the throng trying to hear the evidence and see the principals in the drama being enacted before them.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

BETTY BALLARD’S TESTIMONY

Betty Ballard stood, her slight figure drawn up, poised, erect, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed on the Elder’s face. The silence of the great audience was so intense that the buzzing of flies circling around and around near the ceiling could be heard, while the people all leaned forward as with one emotion, their eyes on the principals before them, straining to hear, vivid, intent.

Richard saw only Betty, heeding no one but her, feeling her presence. For a moment he stood pale as death, then the red blood mounted from his heart, staining his neck and his face with its deep tide and throbbing in his temples. The Elder felt her scrutiny and looked back at her, and his brows contracted into a frown of severity.

“Miss Ballard,” said the lawyer, “you are called upon to identify the prisoner in the box.”

She lifted her eyes to the judge’s face, then turned them upon Milton Hibbard, then fixed them again upon the Elder, but did not open her lips. She did not seem to be aware that every eye in the court room was fastened upon her. Pale and grave and silent she stood thus, for to her the struggle was only between herself and the Elder.

“Miss Ballard, you are called upon to identify the prisoner in the box. Can you do so?” asked the lawyer again, patiently.

Again she turned her clear eyes on the judge’s face, “Yes, I can.” Then, looking into the Elder’s eyes, she said: “He is your son, Elder Craigmile. He is Peter. You know him. Look at him. He is Peter Junior.” Her voice rang clear and strong, and she pointed to the prisoner with steady hand. “Look at him, Elder Craigmile; he is your son.”

“You will address the jury and the court, Miss Ballard, and give your reasons for this assertion. How do you know he is Peter Craigmile, Jr.?”

Then she turned toward the jury, and holding out both hands in sudden pleading action cried out earnestly: “I know him. He is Peter Junior. Can’t you see he is Peter, the Elder’s son?”

“But how do you know him?”

“Because it is he. I know him the way we always know people–by just–knowing them. He is Peter Junior.”

“Have you seen the prisoner before since his return to Leauvite?”

“Yes, I went to the jail and I saw him, and I knew him.”

“But give a reason for your knowledge. How did you know him?”

“By–by the look in his eyes–by his hands–Oh! I just knew him in a moment. I knew him.”

“Miss Ballard, we have positive proof that Peter Junior was murdered and from the lips of his murderer. The witness just dismissed says he heard Richard Kildene tell you he pushed his cousin Peter Junior over the bluff into the river. Can you deny this statement? On your sacred oath can you deny it?”

“No, but I don’t have to deny it, for you can see for yourselves that Peter Junior is alive. He is not dead. He is here.”

“Did Richard Kildene ever tell you he had pushed his cousin over the bluff into the river? A simple answer is required, yes, or no!”

She stood for a moment, her lips white and trembling. “Yes!”

“When did he tell you this?”

“When he came to me, just after he thought he had done it–but he was mistaken–he did not–he only thought he had done it.”

“Did he tell you why he thought he had done it? Tell the court all about it.”

Then Betty lifted her head and spoke rapidly–eagerly. “Because he was very angry with Peter Junior, and he wanted to kill him, and he did try to push him over, but Peter struck him, and Richard didn’t truly know whether he really pushed him over or not,–for he lay there a long time before he even knew where he was, and when he came to himself again, he could not find Peter there and only his hat and things–he thought he must have done it, because that was what he was trying to do, just as everyone else has thought it–because when Peter saw him lying there, he thought he had killed Richard, and so he pushed a great stone over to make every one think he had gone over the bluff and was dead, too, and he left his hat there and the other things, and now he has come back to give himself up, just as he has said, because he could not stand it to live any longer with the thought on his conscience that he had killed Richard when he struck him. But you would not let him give himself up. You have kept on insisting he is Richard. And it is all your fault, Elder Craigmile, because you won’t look to see that he is your son.” She paused, panting, flushed and indignant.

“Miss Ballard, you are here as a witness,” said the judge. “You must restrain yourself and answer the questions that are asked you and make no comments.”

Here the Elder leaned forward and touched his attorney, and pointed a shaking hand at the prisoner and said a few words, whereat the lawyer turned sharply upon the witness.

“Miss Ballard, you have visited the prisoner since he has been in the jail?”

“Yes, I said so.”