The Gold Brick Part 60

"Mother! oh, mother!"

The words died on those white lips in a moan so faint that it failed to reach the most eager listener. Then the stern old woman leaned heavily back in her seat, and fainted away so quietly that no human soul was aware of it.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE DOCTOR'S EVIDENCE.

Out upon the steps of the court house were a couple of men who had been Mrs. Allen's neighbors, and had known Katharine from childhood. There they stood, unable to gain entrance to the court--talking one to the other in subdued voices.

At last, a man from the same neighborhood forced his way through the crowd upon the stairs and hurried up to the spot where they stood.

The men turned toward him with eager questions, while he wiped his face with a huge silk pocket handkerchief, breathing hard, like a man who had been engaged in some painful struggle.

"How do they get on, Mr. Amos?" asked one of the men.

"They've just had her mother up," he answered, in a low voice. "I couldn't stand it a minit longer--I felt as if I was choking to death."

"What did she say?"

"Oh, it wasn't that. She went toward the stand quiet enough, but just as they held the Bible out to her she looked up at Katharine, and begun to shake so that one of the constables had to take hold of her."

"What did the girl do?"

"She kind o' raised herself and looked at her mother. I can't tell you what it was like. I've seen a lamb look like it when the knife was at its throat. The old woman tried to stand up firm, but when she saw that poor cretur she just laid her head down on the railing and begun shaking and sobbing like every thing, but she didn't shed a single tear.

When she lifted her head again, Katharine looked at her and smiled. She did actually, but it was enough to break a man's heart. I'd rather a seen her cry right out a thousand times."

The farmer paused here, took out his silk handkerchief again, and turned his face away.

"Poor gal," muttered one of his listeners; "it seems as if it was only yesterday I see her dancing about like a little poppet, with her curls hanging down her shoulders. I can't believe she did it, I can't, in spite of every thing; 'taint in natur."

"What's that they are saying?" cried one of the group. "The doctor's called up; I want to hear his evidence. Come, let's try and crowd in."

The two men joined forces, and elbowed their way into the court room again, not unfriendly to the poor girl, as our readers have seen, but resolved against losing a single feature of the scene they had come ten miles to witness.

It was, indeed, the doctor whose name had been called. He was enrolled among the witnesses of the prosecution; but those who knew that eccentric, but really great man, had an idea that, in attempting to criminate the poor girl by that witness, the law would find its match.

The lawyers themselves partook somewhat of this feeling, and rather shrunk from the keen sarcasm and sly wit with which he was likely to retort upon any professional encroachment. As for his old neighbors, the doctor's evidence was a point in the trial which engaged their keenest interest. They held a sort of property right in the doctor's reputation for curt eccentricity, and were anxious to pit him against the lawyers in the most striking manner before the a.s.sembled wisdom of all Connecticut.

Thus, hundreds of faces, familiar about Bungy, Falls Hill, and Chewstown, brightened eagerly when the doctor's name was called out, and murmurs ran through the crowd that now those city lawyers would find their match. No mistake about it!

The doctor, who had been sitting in a corner of the court room, watching the proceedings with vigilant attention, heard his name called, and arose. You would hardly have known the man, as he made a slow progress toward the witness stand. The usual quaint smile had left his lips, and his eyes, always full of droll or sarcastic humor, were bright with the dignity of an earnest purpose. He stood upon the witness stand, leaning heavily on his crutches; but, notwithstanding this disadvantage, a dignity was imparted to his presence that no one could resist--you would not have believed that a droll saying had ever pa.s.sed those lips.

The prisoner leaned forward, clasped her hands, and pressing them heavily on her lap, looked at him in wild dismay. The change in all his features struck her with terror; it seemed as if he had suddenly turned her enemy.

The doctor observed this wild astonishment, and his face softened a little; nay, those stern features began to quiver, and he was obliged to look down a moment to recover himself.

"May it please the Court," he said at length, motioning the person away who came forward to administer the oath. "I am a physician, and bound by a professional oath not to reveal the secrets of my patient. I am not sure that any knowledge which I have would bear against this poor girl, and from the depths of my heart I believe her innocent, but I ask to be excused from bearing evidence in the case."

There was a moment's consultation among the counsel. That for the prosecution sprung up as if there had been high treason in the doctor's speech, and insisted that no distinctions should be made in his favor. A great crime had been committed against the Commonwealth, an unnatural crime, and the ends of justice demanded that every means should be used for obtaining the truth. The judge yielded to, or rather sustained his argument, and the doctor was courteously desired to take the oath.

A gleam in the doctor's eye, and a keen glance at the prosecuting attorney, prepared his friends for a sharp encounter of wits, but he was a man to rise steadily with the occasion. Terrible interests were at stake here, and his true character rose out of its eccentricity. He took the oath reverently, and stated the facts already known to the reader, in a clear, impressive manner that told greatly upon the jury, but sheltering himself within the strict limits of the law, he volunteered nothing, neither did he shrink from any question propounded to him; all this struck his friends with a sort of awe. They were profoundly impressed by the dignity of his course, but a little disappointed, nevertheless. Once the doctor turned and looked anxiously on the prisoner. It was when the lawyer asked if Katharine had exhibited any anxiety to conceal the birth of her child from the neighbors--if, in fact, she had not requested the doctor to keep it a secret.

The doctor hesitated, moved uneasily, and half wheeled around, as if determined to leave the witness stand, for he knew what effect his answer would have.

Katharine leaned more decidedly toward him, and while the court was hushed under a general anxiety to hear his reply, her sweet, clear voice penetrated through the silence.

"Speak, doctor; I did ask you not to tell--I was afraid of what they would think."

The officer stepped forward to enforce silence, and the prisoner shrunk back affrighted.

Now the doctor's stern lip began to quiver, and his keen eyes flashed sharp as steel through the tears that shot into them, for the first time, perhaps, since his manhood.

"Yes," he said, "if you will force me to it--she did make this request; but it was only for a little delay. The poor child wished her secret kept till some one should return."

"And who was that person?"

Katharine's lips parted, and she held her breath with keen interest till the answer was given.

"I do not know."

"And she never told you?"

"She never did."

"And you have no suspicion who this person was?"

"Suspicion is not evidence. I have no knowledge."

The questions now took a professional turn, and the doctor's evidence bore strongly in favor of the prisoner. His deep knowledge, and clear elucidation of medical theories bearing on the case, made a deep impression upon the jury, and threw out gleams of light that were adopted with avidity by the defence.

Indeed, the doctor, acting himself under a clear conviction of the prisoner's innocence, contributed more than any other person in fastening the same idea upon the court. But one terrible fact remained immovable--the burial of the child. The apparent forethought by which this had been accomplished. The time seized upon during the absence of the mother. What eloquence could sweep these fatal truths from the case?

None, none!

CHAPTER LIV.

THE VERDICT.

Once more Mrs. Allen was put upon the stand to undergo the questions which had been so fruitless with the doctor. It was this point of the case alone which struck terror to the prisoner. When a question was asked which apparently threatened to drag her husband's name through that tortuous investigation, her lips would blanch and her eyes fill with sharp anxiety. Thus her face gleamed out white and ghastly when Mrs. Allen was put under the torture of new questions. The mother looked at her gravely, and turned to the judge; but when the attorney proceeded with his interrogations, she answered simply:

"I am her mother. Let me go."

They did let her go. The attorney had no heart to press that pale, tortured woman farther, and became generous, partly from humanity, partly because there was something in the face of his witness which warned him that nothing short of death would force her to speak.