Part 21

"I think," said Bobby Van Antwerp, coming to the rescue, "that Miss Cornelia is right, Eleanor. It is much better to tell the exact truth, and Fenton will make the best of it.--Good Heavens," he said afterwards to his wife, "you don't suppose that the poor lady could invent a plausible story, or even keep back anything that wouldn't be brought out in cross-examination and make a worse effect than if she gave it of her own accord!"

But upon Miss Cornelia the opposite side of the question was beginning to make an impression. Her mind moved slowly. It was not easy for her to break from old tradition. Her conscience had hitherto recognized the broadly drawn line between right and wrong; no indefinite, subtle gradations. As she had said once to Elizabeth, fully meaning it, one could always do right if one tried. But if--if one could not tell what the right was?...

Miss Joanna, sitting opposite to her in the twilight, broke the silence hesitatingly. "I suppose, sister," she said, "I suppose you remember--exactly what the poor child said--that morning? You haven't"--Miss Joanna caught her breath--"you haven't forgotten?" There was a note of entreaty in her voice.

Miss Cornelia could see it so plainly; the breakfast table and the paper with those startling headlines, and the look on Elizabeth's face, when she had made that extraordinary assertion. A confession of guilt! That was the way in which it would be construed--there seemed no way out of it. Miss Cornelia did not think that the most merciful jury could acquit her after that. And yet the child was innocent--Miss Cornelia knew that as surely as she knew that the Bible was inspired. Was it reasonable, was it right that she should be required to give evidence against her? Over Miss Cornelia's mind there swept a sudden, sharp sense of injustice, a passionate rebellion against fate.

But a life-long habit of truth-telling is hard to overcome. She answered Miss Joanna after a moment. "I--I haven't forgotten, sister," she said, and the hot tears scorched her eyeballs.

Miss Joanna put away her knitting with a hopeless sigh. "Well, of course, sister, you must speak the truth," she said, drearily, "but--it does seem hard." Then she went out of the room, crying quietly.

Miss Cornelia sat motionless in the twilight, while that new tumult of rebellion still raged within her. Ah, yes, it seemed more than hard--it seemed cruel, unjust, that such a thing should be required of her. Those strange people, the Jesuits, whom she had always held in horror, had some reason on their side after all. There were cases to which the simple, old-fashioned rules of right and wrong did not apply, which were extraordinary, unprecedented.... Miss Cornelia could not help asking herself--with a thrill of self-condemnation, indeed, and yet another feeling which defended the question--whether in certain circumstances, the wrong were not more to be commended, wiser, better than the right.

She spent a sleepless night, thinking it over. The whole foundations of her life, of her faith seemed shaken. She looked the next morning so exhausted, when she went down as usual to The Tombs, that Elizabeth at once divined that some new misfortune had happened, and it was not long before she drew it out of her.

She sat for a long time very still, one hand clasping Miss Cornelia's, the fingers of the other tapping on the ledge of the wall beside her.

"Of course, auntie," she said at last, quietly, "you must tell exactly what happened. There's no good to be gained by lies; at least"--she made an attempt at a smile--"my own success in that line hasn't been very striking. I was a little out of my head that morning, and I don't remember exactly what I said! but whatever it was"--she raised her head proudly--"I don't want anything kept back. Let them know the whole truth; then, if they condemn me, well and good. At least I shan't have anything"--her voice faltered--"anything _more_ to reproach myself with."

"Elizabeth!" The older woman gazed up at her admiringly. "You are so brave--you are a lesson to me! But you--you don't realize, my darling--" sobs choked her voice.

"Oh, yes--I realize." A pale smile flitted across the girl's face. "I have realized--quite clearly--all these months. But that's no reason, auntie, why you should save me by lies."

And then she turned the subject, and began to talk calmly enough, about one of the women prisoners, in whose case she took a keen interest. Nothing more was said about her own affairs. She had relapsed, since that conversation months before with Mrs. Bobby, into her old reserve, and spoke very little of herself. The cooler weather was helping her. She seemed stronger, and always quite calm. Miss Cornelia went away, feeling rebuked for her own cowardice. Elizabeth was right, she thought with a pang of self-reproach; nothing but the truth must be told in her defence. But meanwhile Miss Cornelia tried to reconcile two opposite instincts; offering up day and night two apparently irreconcilable petitions; that she might be enabled to speak the truth exactly, and yet do no harm to her niece's cause.

_Chapter XXXV_

It was the first day of Elizabeth's trial. She could hardly realize that it had come--this event which they had anticipated so long, the thought of which had lately crowded out every other. There was nothing alarming about the present proceedings--the appearance of one jury-man after another, generally followed in each case by a peremptory challenge. One was objected to because he was thought to have formed a favorable opinion, another an unfavorable one, and still another because he was apparently incapable of forming any opinion at all. If she had not been on trial for her life, she might have thought it dull.

Her gaze wandered to that wide court-room window opposite, from which she could see an expanse of roofs, flag-staffs and chimneys, full of charm and excitement after the unbroken outline of blank walls, which for many months had bounded her view. Then, forgetting herself, she glanced about the room, quickly turned and shrank back, while the color rushed into her white face. There were some women whom she knew, thickly veiled, in the crowd behind her--women who were against her. Those who were her friends had the consideration to stay away. And there were others whom she did not know, who crowded as close to the bar as they could, eying her with eager curiosity, making remarks about her in a stage whisper. As the heroine of this sensational case, she was a disappointment both in dress and appearance.

"Well, her hair waves prettily"--the words came distinctly to Elizabeth's ears in a lull in the proceeding--"but that's about all. I don't see why she was ever called a beauty, do you?"

"Why, no, indeed. Her features aren't regular--not a bit. And isn't she thin and white!"

"Hush!" a kindlier voice broke in, suppressing the others. "It's no wonder, poor thing. Most people would lose their looks, if they'd been through what she has."

A pang shot through Elizabeth none the less distinct because the reason was, in view of what was going on, so trifling and absurd. She had dressed herself that morning with unusual care, resolved to present as far as possible an undisturbed front to the world; and she had not realized that the plain black gown, and the unrelieved sombreness of the black hat, which would once have thrown into more dazzling relief her fresh young beauty, now emphasized with startling plainness the change in her appearance. For a moment, the fact forced itself upon her and hurt even then. When a woman has always been regarded as a beauty, it is hard to become accustomed to a different point of view. After all, what difference did it make? She had not realized the effect which her looks were supposed to produce on the jury.

For a while the prospect of any jury at all seemed dubious. The hours passed, the day came to an end, and there were exactly two men in the box. It was not till the end of the third day that the number was complete--twelve most unhappy men, whose faces Eleanor Van Antwerp scanned eagerly. Some, she decided, were kind; others--too logical; all of them were more or less intelligent. There were one or two, she thought, to whom the pathos of Elizabeth's pale and faded looks might appeal with an eloquence that fresh coloring and rounded curves would have lacked entirely. Upon these men she based her hopes.

And so the trial, once fairly started, dragged on its weary length. Mrs. Bobby spent her days there, sitting beside Elizabeth; her whole life, just then, seemed bounded by the court-house walls. She had no interest in anything outside. And Elizabeth's aunts, too, came every day. It was pathetic to see these timid, elderly women, plunged for the first time in their sheltered lives into this fierce glare of publicity, under which they bore up unflinchingly, in the effort to show to all the world their firm faith in their niece's ultimate acquittal.

As for Elizabeth, she had little hope; but neither had she, except at times, any great fear. The worst had been that first day, and now she was used to being stared at; used even to the thought that she was being tried for her life. The scene and its accessories--the listening, eager crowd behind her, the judge before her with his impassive face, in which she thought she could perceive, now and again--or did her hopes deceive her?--a gleam of sympathy; the jury weary but resigned, the reporters taking notes, scanning her with eyes that noted every detail of her manner and bearing, placed upon them Heaven knows what construction! Bobby Van Antwerp moving restlessly about, holding long conferences with the lawyers; her counsel and the District Attorney wrangling, glaring at each other over the heads of unfortunate witnesses--the whole thing lost its terrors, grew to be an accepted part of her life's routine.

The evidence at first was technical. There was much she did not understand--she wondered if the jury did. There were the doctors, showing with many long words and tedious explanations, with what sort of poison the murder had been committed; and then there were the handwriting experts, with still longer words and more tedious explanations. Now--what was it that they had brought out? Those unfortunate letters which she remembered so well having written, in great haste and anxiety. The experts were pointing out numerous points of resemblance between them and another piece of paper, which she had never seen before. And now it was the secret marriage they were proving--though what was the use of that, when no one denied it? The question of motive was absolutely clear; the District Attorney had expatiated upon it at great length in his opening speech.

All this Elizabeth grasped more or less distinctly. She realized that the evidence was strong against her. But she could not, weak and dazed as she was, keep her mind on it. The voice of the witnesses would grow indistinct, a mist would pass over the anxious faces around her, a lull would come in the nervous tension of the atmosphere; the blue sky, which she saw from the window, would seem very near, and she would float off into phases of oblivion, from which she would be roused, perhaps, by a touch on her arm, or a voice in her ear. "Listen, darling, that was a point in your favor," her aunts or Eleanor Van Antwerp would say.

These points were few and far between. But there was one which Elizabeth understood--she hoped that the jury did.

Mr. Fenton was examining one of the medical experts for the prosecution, a man who had had large experience in poisoning cases. The counsel for the defence was putting him through series of questions, the drift of which was not altogether plain. What sort of a crime did he consider poisoning? An atrocious one, was it not?--generally committed by hardened criminals? Had the witness ever been in contact with a case of poisoning where the whole scheme had been concocted and carried out by a girl of twenty, far removed by education, friends and antecedents from any connection with crime? No, the witness could not, in his own experience, recall any such case, but he had no doubt that it had been known, though he agreed in response to Mr. Fenton's next question, that it would be slightly abnormal. And here the District Attorney interposed with one of those objections which each lawyer seemed to make mechanically, whenever a question proved inconvenient to his side; but the Judge decided in favor of Mr. Fenton, and he went on imperturbably, shifting his ground a little.

"Poisoning is a crime--don't you think so?--that calls for a great deal of thought and calculation?"

"Yes," the witness thought it would undoubtedly.

"The person who planned it would have plenty of time to consider the consequences?"

The witness responded: "I should think so."

"He or she--whoever it was that planned it--would be probably of a cold-blooded and calculating disposition?"

"Probably."

"And not likely, do you think so?--to suffer from hysterical remorse as soon as the act was accomplished?"

Here the opposing counsel again intervened, and was again silenced by the Judge. Mr. Fenton repeated his question.

"I ask you," he said, addressing the witness with a certain solemnity, "as a man who has had experience with criminals and human nature, whether you think it likely that a woman, strong-minded and cold-blooded enough to commit this diabolical crime, on hearing of its accomplishment--a thing she has been expecting for days--would be seized with a fit of hysterical remorse, would utter wild, incriminating words, in the presence of--no matter whom, any one who chanced to be present, and would rush up at once to look at the body of the man whom she had murdered?"

The witness hesitated. "It--it doesn't seem likely," he admitted at last.

"It would be much more, don't you think," said Mr. Fenton quietly, "like the conduct of an innocent woman, who was suffering from a nervous shock, and had no thought of controlling her actions because she had no idea of being suspected?"

The witness, after a long pause: "Yes, it--would certainly seem so."

"It certainly does," said Mr. Fenton. "Thank you, doctor. I have no more questions to ask." And he sat down with the air of one who has scored a point.

Thereupon the prosecution, as if to prove the strength of the evidence which he had anticipated, placed upon the stand Bridget O'Flaherty, formerly maid-servant to the Misses Van Vorst, who swore upon her solemn oath that the prisoner had in her hearing declared herself guilty of the murder of Paul Halleck. Yes, those were her very words, the maid declared--"that she had killed him," and she had added that "it had come at last--just as she despaired of it" or something of the kind, referring no doubt to the fact that Halleck had kept the poison some time before taking it. The woman's testimony was full and circumstantial, and she gave the impression of telling the truth.

Mr. Fenton, on cross-examination, proved that she had been dismissed without a character from the services of the Misses Van Vorst, also that she had been paid for her evidence by a yellow journal. Its effect was distinctly undermined when he permitted her to leave the stand. And with that the prosecution called upon Miss Cornelia to corroborate the maid's statement.

Miss Cornelia was deathly white; her head shook, her thin, silvery curls fluttered, as if they had caught the infection of her own nervousness. In one hand she grasped her smelling-salts desperately, with the other she revolved in an agitated way a small black fan. A murmur of sympathy ran through the court-room as she took her place. Even the District Attorney seemed sorry for her and put his opening questions with unwonted gentleness. His tone was still bland when he came to the important point--had she noticed anything peculiar in her niece's manner on the morning after the murder?

Miss Cornelia's answer was low, but it was quite audible. "She was--shocked, naturally."

"Naturally. But did she seem surprised?"

Miss Cornelia's answer was this time still lower, and given with more hesitation. "I--I think so."

"You mean you are not sure?"

"I--I was so upset myself"--began Miss Cornelia.

"That you did not notice?"

"No, I--I did not notice," said Miss Cornelia, relieved.

"You thought that her manner was unremarkable, and simply what you might have expected under the circumstances?"

"Yes, I--I thought so," said Miss Cornelia. She added to herself the mental reservation that she had no idea what sort of manner under the circumstances, she should have expected.

The District Attorney assumed a more impressive manner. "Miss Van Vorst," he said, "do you believe in the sacredness of an oath?"

"Yes, I--I certainly."

"You would not speak anything but the truth?"

"No," said Miss Cornelia, this time more firmly.

"Then I ask you," said the District Attorney, suddenly drawing himself up to his full height, and fixing his eyes upon her, "I ask you, on your sacred oath, did your niece, or did she not, on the morning after the murder of Paul Halleck, say to you that she had killed him, or words to that effect?"

There was a long silence. Miss Cornelia looked desperately about her; at the Judge, whose face showed more than ever a touch of human sympathy; at Mr. Fenton, white with anxiety, trying to telegraph a hundred things which she could not understand; at the jury, bending eagerly forward; then back at those most interested,--her sister in an agony of suspense, Mrs. Van Antwerp flushed and trembling in her vain desire to intervene. Lastly, Miss Cornelia's haggard eyes sought Elizabeth herself; the girl was sitting white and rigid, motionless as a statue, her hands clenched, her eyes resolutely bent upon the floor. If it was a terrible moment for her; how much worse was it for the aunt who had brought her up, who was now called upon by a refinement of cruelty to destroy what seemed to be her only chance. Oh, for the courage--it seemed to her almost noble!--to utter one good lie! But there were the lynx-like eyes of the District Attorney fixed upon her, there was the oath she had taken, weighing upon her conscientious soul.... Suddenly she felt, with a sense of despair, that her silence had already spoken louder than speech. And, even as the thought passed through her mind, her answer framed itself on her lips and seemed to be uttered without her own volition; one word, barely audible, but caught at once and registered by twenty reporters, while a suppressed sigh went the round of the court-room.

"Yes."

"Thank you," said the District Attorney. "That is all I wished to know."

_Chapter XXXVI_

There was still cross-examination.

Mr. Fenton, too, began with unimportant questions. He gave Miss Cornelia, who looked ready to faint, time to recover herself a little. The questions he asked were easy to answer. Had her niece, in the course of her education, given them much trouble, had she ever deceived them, kept anything from them before this fatal secret? Ah, no, no! Miss Cornelia gave her answers tremulously, yet with a fervent relief, an eager desire to make herself heard throughout the court-room.

"Then with your knowledge of your niece's character," Mr. Fenton asked, speaking almost carelessly, "you didn't think of her as the sort of person likely to commit a crime?"

Miss Cornelia drew herself up with sudden dignity and her voice was plainly audible, and without a tremor. "Most certainly not," she said.

"Then how," inquired Mr. Fenton calmly, "did you account for her extraordinary assertion that she had committed this murder?"

Miss Cornelia hardly hesitated. "I thought she was out of her mind," she said. "I couldn't account for it in any other way."

"It never occurred to you for a moment that it was true?"

"Not for a moment." The words came out indignantly.

"You naturally did not suppose that were she really guilty, she would proclaim it quite so readily as that?"

Miss Cornelia stared. "I never," she said, simply, "thought of such a thing as her being guilty."

"But you asked her, did you not, for some explanation of her words?"

"I asked her," faltered Miss Cornelia, "what she meant by saying such a dreadful thing. And she said--she said"----

"Yes," said Mr. Fenton, encouragingly. "Take your time and tell us the exact truth. What did she say?"

"She seemed to be rather dazed--She said that she had wished so much for it to happen that when it did, it seemed almost like an answer to her wishes--as if she were accountable for it."

"And you accepted her explanation?" said Mr. Fenton. "It seemed to you plausible?"

"I knew what she meant--yes. But I could see that she was over-wrought and excited, or she wouldn't have thought of it."

"Did she seem distressed over Halleck's death?"

Miss Cornelia hesitated. "N--not at first," she said. "She couldn't seem to realize it."

"And afterwards?"----

"Yes, she seemed distressed then. I thought," said Miss Cornelia firmly "that she felt very badly indeed when she realized it."

"And there was nothing in her manner that could induce you to believe that she expected it, or knew a thing about it beyond what she read in the papers?"

"Nothing."

With this word, firmly pronounced, Miss Cornelia's ordeal came to an end; she descended white and dazed. Elizabeth leaned over as she returned to her place and pressed her hand with a faint little smile. "It's all right, auntie, I'm glad you spoke the truth." And so the episode passed.

"She really has done no more harm than we expected," Bobby Van Antwerp observed to his wife. "It is one of those things which sound much worse than they really are. After all, what does it amount to? The hysterical assertion of an excited girl! A guilty woman is more careful what she says."

"I will tell Elizabeth," said his wife, in relief, "what you say." But though she found an opportunity after the day's session, to whisper this encouragement into the girl's ear, Elizabeth listened vacantly and did not seem fully to grasp it. The maid's evidence, her aunt's corroboration, had brought up vividly to her mind the danger that existed all the time behind these slow, technical deliberations. That night the horrible waking dream, from which for awhile she had been free, returned more startlingly real than ever, and the face of the Judge who sentenced her was the same face in which, during the long days in the court-room, she had thought she detected some involuntary gleams of sympathy. It had seemed a kind face in the day-time, but in her dream it was inexorably stern.

The next morning, at the trial, her mind did not wander; she kept it resolutely fixed on the evidence. Mr. D'Hauteville was on the stand, and she wondered what more fatal revelations were to be made of her words and actions on that unfortunate morning, when she hardly knew what she said or did. But no new developments were brought out. There was no trace in Mr. D'Hauteville's evidence or his easy, unembarrassed manner of the suspicions which he had been perhaps the first person in town to entertain.

Yes, he had seen Miss Van Vorst on the morning after the murder, and had himself taken her into the studio. Was there anything peculiar in her manner? Certainly; she seemed much distressed, as was natural, he thought, under the circumstances. Had she tried to possess herself of the fatal flask, or of any other incriminating objects, as for instance her own letters? No, most emphatically no. Was it true, as the elevator man had already stated, that she had defended herself against his accusations? He could not remember anything of the kind; certainly he had not accused her, as he had no reason to suspect her.