The Ordeal of Elizabeth Part 36

"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 p.r.o.nounced, 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 pa.s.sed.

"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 a.s.sertion 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, unembarra.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances. 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.

Mr. Fenton on cross-examination, drew from him a description of her tears, of the fearless way in which she had entered, her apparent indifference to being observed. Was it, Mr. Fenton demanded, the manner of a guilty woman? The witness fully agreed that it was not.

And then he left the stand, saying to himself philosophically that all was fair in the cause of a beautiful and unfortunate girl, whom he had admired extremely, and with whom his friend Gerard had been, and might be still, desperately in love.

The next witness was the Brooklyn tradesman, whose evidence had been already so much exploited by the yellow journals that it lacked the force of novelty. He deposed to having sold the flask on the morning of the twenty-third of December, to a woman in black, thickly veiled, slight and tall, and with reddish hair. The witness was quite sure about the date, and as to the time he was less explicit, but convinced that it was somewhere between the hours of ten and twelve. He was a middle-aged man with a plain, honest face, and evidently anxious to tell what he knew and no more. When the District Attorney, in a dramatic manner, desired him to look at the defendant, and declare if she were the woman to whom he sold the flask, he seemed to shrink in distress from the terrible responsibility thus placed upon him.

"I--it is so long ago," he protested, "and--you--must remember that she wore a veil."

"Which entirely obscured her face?"----

"No, not entirely," the witness reluctantly admitted.

"Look at the defendant," the District Attorney insisted, "and tell the court if her general appearance recalls that of the woman to whom you sold the flask."

He turned to Elizabeth and requested her to rise. She grew a shade paler and stared at him for a moment as if startled; then slowly, she obeyed him, and stood facing the witness, who brought reluctantly his anxious gaze to bear upon her. She was ashy-white, but she held her head erect, her eyes met his without flinching. Thus they stood for fully a minute, and the silence in the court-room was tense with nervous excitement. Then the witness spoke.

"I--there is a certain resemblance," he said.

"Then you identify her?" said the District Attorney.

The witness was silent. He looked again at Elizabeth. She was trembling now, and caught hold of a chair as if for support. The witness cleared his throat. He was thinking that he had a daughter of about Elizabeth's age.

"I--I really could not tell," he began.

"Take your time," said the District Attorney, impressively. "This is a very important point."

And then there was again a long silence. In the midst of it the sun, bursting through a gray ma.s.s of clouds, touched Elizabeth's hair with a wave of light. It stood out, a s.h.i.+ning halo, against the rim of her black hat. The witness stared at it as if fascinated. Then he uttered a sound--it might almost have been a sob--of relief.

"That is not the same woman," he said. "The hair is quite different!

That other woman's hair was a much deeper red--it didn't s.h.i.+ne and glisten. And her whole air, the way she held herself was different. I am sure it is not the same."

And this opinion, once announced, he clung to tenaciously--nothing the District Attorney said could shake it. Mr. Fenton would not even cross-examine, and there was great rejoicing in the ranks of the defense.

But the next day the prosecution placed upon the stand a druggist's clerk, who remembered having sold a bottle of a.r.s.enic to a woman dressed in black on the morning of the twenty-third of December. The occurrence was impressed on his mind because he had demurred as to selling poison, and she had presented a physician's certificate. She was handsomely dressed and seemed like a lady; he had noticed particularly that her hair was reddish. And when asked to identify Elizabeth, he swore unhesitatingly that she was the same woman.

Upon Mr. Fenton's cross-examination, it became evident what important questions may hang on the color of a woman's hair.

_Mr. Fenton_: "You said, did you not, that the woman's hair was red?"

_Witness_, cautiously: "I said, reddish. That's not quite the same thing."

_Mr. Fenton_: "Explain the difference."

_Witness_, confused: "Well, I--I don't know. I meant to say it was sort of--sort of light"----

"You meant to say, in other words, that it was not black?"

_Witness_, recovering himself and speaking stubbornly: "No, I meant to say that it was reddish--sort of sandy"----

"Ah--like the District Attorney's moustache, for instance?"

There was laughter in the court-room. The District Attorney's moustache was a brilliant carrot color, which at the opposing counsel's words, was emulated by his face.

"I object to these personalities," he said.

Mr. Fenton was instructed by the Judge to be more serious, but held to his point.

"Your Honor, it is necessary to find out what the witness means by the vague word 'reddish.' If he thinks it applies to the District Attorney's moustache"----

"But I don't," objected the aggrieved witness, to the renewed amus.e.m.e.nt of the court-room. "I call that carroty."

"Then point out, among people present, what hair you consider reddish."

The witness's eyes wandered till they alighted upon the distinctly sandy locks of one of the experts for the prosecution. "I call that hair reddish," he announced, with some satisfaction at finding a way out of his dilemma.

"Ah--now oblige me, by looking at the defendant's hair and tell us if you think it is like that of this gentleman."