The House of the Whispering Pines (42 page)

All this and more did Mr. Moffat dilate upon. But I could no longer fix
my mind on details, and much of this portion of his address escaped me.

But I do remember the startling picture with which he closed. His
argument so far, had been based on the assumption of Arthur's ignorance
of Carmers purpose in visiting the club-house, or of Adelaide's attempt
at suicide. His client had left the building when he said he did, and
knew no more of what happened there afterward than circumstances showed,
or his own imagination conceived. But now the advocate took a sudden
turn, and calmly asked the jury to consider with him the alternative
outlined by the prosecution in the evidence set before them.

"My distinguished opponent," said he, "would have you believe that the
defendant did not fly at the moment declared, but that he waited to
fulfil the foul deed which is the only serious matter in dispute in his
so nearly destroyed case. I hear as though he were now speaking, the
attack which he will make upon my client when he comes to review this
matter with you. Let me see if I cannot make you hear those words, too."
And with a daring smile at his discomforted adversary, Alonzo Moffat
launched forth into the following sarcasm:

"Arthur Cumberland, coming up the kitchen stairs, hears voices where he
had expected total silence—sees light where he had left total darkness.
He has two bottles in his hands, or in his large coat-pockets. If they
are in his hands, he sets them down and steals forward to listen. He has
recognised the voices. They are those of his two sisters, one of whom had
ordered him to hitch up the cutter for her to escape, as he had every
reason to believe, the other. Curiosity—or is it some nobler
feeling—causes him to draw nearer and nearer to the room in which they
have taken up their stand. He can hear their words now and what are the
words he hears? Words that would thrill the most impervious heart, call
for the interference of the most indifferent. But
he
is made of ice,
welded together with steel. He sees—for no place save one from which he
can watch and see,
viz
.: the dark dancing hall, would satisfy any man
of such gigantic curiosity—Adelaide fall at Carmel's feet, in
recognition of the great sacrifice she has made for her. But he does not
move; he falls at no one's feet; he recognises no nobility, responds to
no higher appeal. Stony and unmoved, he crouches there, and watches and
watches—still curious, or still feeding his hate on the sufferings of
the elder, the forbearance of the younger.

"And on what does he look? You have already heard, but consider it.
Adelaide, despairing of happiness, decides on death for herself or
sister. Both loving one man, one of the two must give way to the other.
Carmel has done her part; she must now do hers. She has brought poison;
she has brought glasses—three glasses, for three persons, but only two
are on the scene, and so she fills but two. One has only cordial in it,
but the other is, as she believes, deadly. Carmel is to have her choice;
but who believes that Adelaide would ever have let her drink the
poisoned glass?

"And this man looks on, as the two faces confront each other—one white
with the overthrow of every earthly hope, the other under the stress of
suffering and a fascination of horror sufficient to have laid her dead,
without poison, at the other one's feet. This is what he sees—
a
brother!
—and he makes no move, then or afterwards, when, the die cast,
Adelaide succumbs to her fear and falls into a seemingly dying state on
the couch.

"Does he go now? Is his hate or his cupidity satisfied? No! He remains
and listens to the tender interchange of final words, and all the late
precautions of the elder to guard the younger woman's good name. Still he
is not softened; and when, the critical moment passed, Carmel rises and
totters about the room in her endeavour to fulfil the tasks enjoined upon
her by her sister, he gloats over a death which will give him
independence and gluts himself with every evil thought which could blind
him to the pitiful aspects of a tragedy such as few men in this world
could see unmoved.
A brother
!

"But this is not the worst. The awful cup of human greed and hatred is
but filled to the brim; it has not yet overflowed. Carmel leaves the
room; she has a telephonic message to deliver. She may be gone a minute;
she may be gone many. Little does he care which; he must see the dead,
look down on the woman who has been like a mother to him, and see if her
influence is forever removed, if his wealth is his, and his independence
forever assured.

"Safe in the darkness of the gloomy recesses of the dancing hall, he
steals slowly forward. Drawn as by a magnet, he enters the room of
seeming death, draws up to the pillow-laden couch, pulls off first one
cushion, and then another, till face and hands are bare and—

"Ah!—there is a movement! death has not, then, done its work. She
lives—the hated one—
lives
! And he is no longer rich, no longer
independent. With a clutch, he seizes her at the feeble seat of life; and
as the breath ceases and her whole body becomes again inert, he stoops to
pull off the ring, which can have no especial value or meaning for
him—and then, repiling the cushions over her, creeps forth again, takes
up the bottles, and disappears from the house.

"Gentlemen of the jury, this is what my opponent would have you believe.
This will be his explanation of this extraordinary murder. But when his
eloquence meets your ears—when you hear this arraignment, and the
emphasis he will place upon the few points remaining to his broken case,
then ask yourself if you see such a monster in the prisoner now
confronting you from the bar. I do not believe it. I do not believe that
such a monster lives.

"But you say,
some one
entered that room—
some one
stilled the
fluttering life still remaining in that feeble breast. Some one may have,
but that some one was not my client, and it is his guilt or innocence we
are considering now, and it is his life and freedom for which you are
responsible. No brother did that deed; no witness of the scene which
hallowed this tragedy ever lifted hand against the fainting Adelaide, or
choked back a life which kindly fate had spared.

"Go further for the guilty perpetrator of this most inhuman act; he
stands not in the dock. Guilt shows no such relief as you see in him
to-day. Guilt would remember that his sister's testimony, under the
cross-examination of the people's prosecutor, left the charge of murder
still hanging over the defendant's head. But the brother has forgotten
this. His restored confidence in one who now represents to him father,
mother, and sister has thrown his own fate into the background. Will you
dim that joy—sustain this charge of murder?

"If in your sense of justice you do so, you forever place this degenerate
son of a noble father, on the list of the most unimaginative and
hate-driven criminals of all time. Is he such a demon? Is he such a
madman? Look in his face to-day, and decide. I am willing to leave his
cause in your hands. It could be placed in no better.

"May it please your Honour, and gentlemen of the jury, I am done."

If any one at that moment felt the arrow of death descending into his
heart, it was not Arthur Cumberland.

I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me.
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write my epitaph.

Merchant of Venice
.

Why linger over the result. Arthur Cumberland's case was won before Mr.
Fox arose to his feet. The usual routine was gone through. The district
attorney made the most of the three facts which he declared inconsistent
with the prisoner's innocence, just as Mr. Moffat said he would; but the
life was gone from his work, and the result was necessarily
unsatisfactory.

The judge's charge was short, but studiously impartial. When the jury
filed out, I said to myself, "They will return in fifteen minutes." They
returned in ten, with a verdict of acquittal.

The demonstrations of joy which followed filled my ears, and doubtless
left their impression upon my other senses; but my mind took in nothing
but the apparition of my own form taking his place at the bar, under
circumstances less favourable to acquittal than those which had
exonerated him. It was a picture which set my brain whirling. A phantom
judge, a phantom jury, a phantom circle of faces, lacking the
consideration and confidence of those I saw before me; but not a phantom
prisoner, or any mere dream of outrageous shame and suffering.

That shame and that suffering had already seized hold of me. With the
relief of young Arthur's acquittal my faculties had cleared to the
desperate position in which this very acquittal had placed me.

I saw, as never before, how the testimony which had reinstated Carmel in
my heart and won for her and through her the sympathies of the whole
people, had overthrown every specious reason which I and those interested
in me had been able to advance in contradiction of the natural conclusion
to be drawn from the damning fact of my having been seen with my fingers
on Adelaide's throat.

Mr. Moffat's words rang in my ears: "Some one entered that room; some one
stilled the fluttering life still remaining in that feeble breast; but
that some one was not her brother. You must look further for the guilty
perpetrator of this most inhuman act; some one who had not been a witness
to the scene preceding this tragedy, some one—" he had not said this but
every mind had supplied the omission,—"some one who had come in later,
who came in after Carmel had gone, some one who knew nothing of the
telephone message which was even then hastening the police to the spot;
some one who had every reason for lifting those cushions and, on meeting
life
—"

The horror stifled me; I was reeling in my place on the edge of the
crowd, when I heard a quiet voice in my ear:

"Steady! Their eyes will soon be off of Arthur, and then they will
look at you."

It was Clifton, and his word came none too soon. I stiffened under its
quiet force, and, taking his arm, let him lead me out of a side door,
where the crowd was smaller and its attention even more absorbed.

I soon saw its cause—Carmel was entering the doorway from the street.
She had come to greet her brother; and her face, quite unveiled, was
beaming with beauty and joy. In an instant I forgot myself, forgot
everything but her and the effect she produced upon those about her. No
noisy demonstration here; admiration and love were shown in looks and the
low-breathed prayer for her welfare which escaped from more than one pair
of lips. She smiled and their hearts were hers; she essayed to move
forward and the people crowded back as if at a queen's passage; but there
was no noise.

When she reappeared, it was on Arthur's arm. I had not been able to move
from the place in which we were hemmed; nor had I wished to. I was hungry
for a glance of her eye. Would it turn my way, and, if it did, would it
leave a curse or a blessing behind it? In anxiety for the blessing, I was
willing to risk the curse; and I followed her every step with hungry
glances, until she reached the doorway and turned to give another shake
of the hand to Mr. Moffat, who had followed them. But she did not see me.

"I cannot miss it! I must catch her eye!" I whispered to Clifton. "Get me
out of this; it will be several minutes before they can reach the sleigh.
Let me see her, for one instant, face to face."

Clifton disapproved, and made me aware of it; but he did my bidding,
nevertheless. In a few moments we were on the sidewalk, and quite by
ourselves; so that, if she turned again she could not fail to observe me.
I had small hope, however, that she would so turn. She and Arthur were
within a few feet of the curb and their own sleigh.

I had just time to see this sleigh, and note the rejoicing face of Zadok
leaning sideways from the box, when I beheld her pause and slowly turn
her head around and peer eagerly—and with what divine anxiety in her
eyes—back over the heads of those thronging about her, until her gaze
rested fully and sweetly on mine. My heart leaped, then sank down, down
into unutterable depths; for in that instant her face changed, horror
seized upon her beauty, and shook her frantic hold on Arthur's arm.

I heard words uttered very near me, but I did not catch them. I did feel,
however, the hand which was laid strongly and with authority upon my
shoulder; and, tearing my eyes from her face only long enough to perceive
that it was Sweetwater who had thus arrested me, I looked back at her, in
time to see the questions leap from her lips to Arthur, whose answers I
could well understand from the pitying movement in the crowd and the low
hum of restrained voices which ran between her sinking figure and the
spot where I stood apart, with the detective's hand on my shoulder.

She had never been told of the incriminating position in which I had been
seen in the club-house. It had been carefully kept from her, and she had
supposed that my acquittal in the public mind was as certain as Arthur's.
Now she saw herself undeceived, and the reaction into doubt and misery
was too much for her, and I saw her sinking under my eyes.

"Let me go to her!" I shrieked, utterly unconcerned with anything in the
world but this tottering, fainting girl.

But Sweetwater's hand only tightened on my shoulder, while Arthur, with
an awful look at me, caught his sister in his arms, just as she fell to
the ground before the swaying multitude.

But he was not the only one to kneel there. With a sound of love and
misery impossible to describe, Zadok had leaped from the box and had
grovelled at those dear feet, kissing the insensible hands and praying
for those shut eyes to open. Even after Arthur had lifted her into the
sleigh, the man remained crouching where she had fallen, with his eyes
roaming back and forth in a sightless stare from her to myself, muttering
and groaning, and totally unheedful of Arthur's commands to mount the box
and drive home. Finally some one else stepped from the crowd and
mercifully took the reins. I caught one more glimpse of her face, with
Arthur's bent tenderly over it; then the sleigh slipped away.