The San Rosario Ranch
had been white as the snow,--"and cold as ice," muttered Galbraith, to
whom this panegyric of his rival was anything but gratifying. At last
she was silent; all her story was finished. She had spoken standing,
her expressive gestures and changeful face having done more than half
the telling. She had begun quietly and with downcast eyes and pale
cheek; now neck and brow were suffused. She was pleading the cause of
the man she loved with all the eloquence of youth and beauty. She now
stood silent, looking eagerly from Barbara's tear-stained face to
Galbraith's pale, set countenance, to read there the acquittal of the
man they had suspected of baseness and cruelty to her.
Barbara put her arm about the tall girl, and caressed her tenderly,
holding the glorious head, with its tangled crown of hair, close to her
womanly heart, weeping tears gentle as summer dew. Maurice Galbraith
reverently lifted to his lips one long tress which flowed over her
shoulder; and then, leading Millicent from the apartment, he turned to
Barbara.
"You understood it all?"
"Yes."
"I ask you to think of that thing which is most sacred to you in all the
world. By that holy thought, swear to me that no word of what has been
said here to-night shall ever pass your lips; that you will not dare to
think of it even, when you are not alone, lest your face betray you."
He held out his hand to her; and with wide eyes and trembling voice,
Barbara gave the promise he asked, laying her cold palm in his hot
grasp. To guard the secret of the woman they both loved, this loyal man
and honest woman bound themselves by a most solemn oath. To each, the
other was nothing but an ally in this cause. Their own personalities
were lost in the strong affection for Millicent; they would love her and
protect her always. As they stood thus, Millicent, passing up the
stairway, saw them through the open door. She saw and understood their
compact. She saw, as they did not, into the future; and from her heart
rose an unselfish prayer, that the secret of her great misery might be
the first link in a chain that should bind these two together for life.
Millicent Almsford had pleaded that night for the man she loved; she had
cleared him in the eyes of two persons whose opinions would sway those
of all who knew anything of his relation to her. She had done more: she
had made for herself a friend of a discouraged lover, a champion who
would fight her battles to the death; and she had bound a gentle, loving
woman's heart to her own by an indissoluble tie. She had striven only to
exonerate John Graham; and she had made Maurice Galbraith glad that he
loved her, though hopelessly and passionately; she had filled Barbara
Deering with the deepest sentiment which woman can hold for sister
woman,--a compassionate love.
Though wearied by his long ride and the exciting events of the day,
Maurice Galbraith slept little that night, and the morning found him
pale and restless. He had a hard day's work before him, and perhaps the
most trying part of it was the first duty he had set himself to perform.
He felt that he owed John Graham an apology for the suspicion which he
had entertained against him, and which in that moment of excitement he
had made no effort to conceal. Had not the young lawyer been deeply in
love with Millicent, and consequently extremely jealous of Graham, it is
hardly possible that he could for an instant have believed the
preposterous charge made against the artist. But as Love is blind, and
Jealousy is deaf to reason, it is not strange that, unprepared as he was
for Horton's accusation, he should have believed that it might have some
truth. Millicent's revelation, and the calmer reflection which had
followed the interview with her, proved to him how greatly his judgment
had been at fault. Fervently as he disliked Graham, he had always
respected him; and to his generous mind, the injustice he had done his
rival was abhorrent. He found the artist at the inn, where they had
parted the previous night. Graham received the lawyer with a cold
formality: the latter did not fail to observe the nervous clinching of
the artist's hands as he entered the room. The fierce natural instinct
of redressing an insult by a personal chastisement moved the refined
man. Poet-artist as he was, he would rather, a thousand times, have
grappled with Galbraith in a fierce struggle, than have been forced to
receive and accept his apology. Maurice Galbraith, had he yielded to
the impulse which shook his determination, would have spoken words which
might have justified such an action on Graham's part. The men looked
angrily at each other for a moment. Maurice Galbraith's words of
apology would not utter themselves, and seemed like to choke him. He
saw that clinching of the hand, and his brow reddened as he stepped
forward as if to strike the man who had so easily won, and who so
lightly valued, the love of Millicent Almsford.
In a land where a lower code of ethics and of honor exists, the insult
each burned to cast upon the other would have been uttered; and the
result would have been a so-called "affair of honor," in which both men
would have run the risk of bringing blood-guiltiness upon their souls,
and the stigma of murder upon their honorable names. The struggle in
Galbraith's breast was short, and human intelligence triumphed over
brute instinct. His few words of apology were spoken with cold
courtesy, and accepted with quiet dignity. The men did not shake hands;
each understood the position too clearly for that. They could never be
friends; but, as they were honorable gentlemen, all enmity was at end
between them, for rivalry does not necessarily entail hatred. Then they
spoke of the trial, and their conversation lasted until the hour of the
opening of the court.
Millicent, escorted by Henry Deering, arrived at the court just as
Graham and Galbraith entered the room together. She saw Graham whisper
something to the lawyer, who bowed courteously in answer. The
significance of the action was not lost upon her,--her revelation had
not been made in vain. She now heard her name called in a loud, harsh
voice. She started violently, but did not stir from her seat.
"Come," said Hal, "you must go up to that little platform and answer all
the questions they ask you."
She walked quietly to the place indicated, took the customary oath "to
speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," and
answered the preliminary questions in a low voice.
"What is your name?"
"Millicent Almsford."
"Where were you born?"
"In Venice."
"What state?"
"In Italy."
"How old are you?"
"One and twenty."
"You were present at the killing of Ah Lam, at Carey's Bridge?"
"I was."
"Tell the court all that you saw on that occasion." Galbraith was the
speaker. He knew that Millicent's natural eloquence would give the
story with more force if she were allowed to tell it in her own way
without the usual questioning.
She began speaking in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the ground before
her. As the memory of that dreadful day came back to her, she seemed to
see it all again,--the peaceful woodland scene, the quiet river, the
forest road, and at her side her humble friend and pupil. The walls of
the court-room faded from before her, and judge and jury, lawyer and
audience, were forgotten; she looked at Graham only, and spoke to him
alone; his grave eyes met hers, and the sympathy in them made the task
of telling her story an easy one. Aiding her recital with expressive
gestures, she told of the appearance of Daniel Horton on the peaceful
scene; she repeated his insolent words, unconsciously imitating the
man's manner and voice; she described the affront offered to herself
with burning cheeks and flashing eyes; her voice grew tremulous and low
when she spoke of the dead servant's efforts to save her from the
insolent ruffian; when with a deep, horrified voice she told of the
murder and death of Ah Lam, it was as if she were describing a scene
still enacting itself before her eyes. A strong impression was made by
the girl's words on all her hearers. The noisy court-room had grown
perfectly still; the very recorders held their pens useless in their
hands; and the eyes of the judge with the pink cravat were riveted on
her face. As she ceased speaking, a sympathetic tremor ran through the
crowd assembled in the court-room, and a low murmur was heard.
Maurice Galbraith, usually the most quiet and reserved of men, was
evidently undergoing an unusual excitement, those who knew him thought;
and Pierson, the counsel for the defendant, seemed rather disconcerted
by the strong impression made by the witness.
When Graham came upon the stand and told his story of the night passed
in the shooting-lodge, Millicent listened breathlessly. The young
painter gave his evidence with a certain picturesqueness, describing the
arrival at the cabin of Dan Horton, his demand for food and shelter, his
troubled sleep, his wounded face, the peculiar nature of the scratches,
and finally, the finding of Millicent's handkerchief after his departure
on the following morning. An effort was made to disprove the evidence,
and an _alibi_ was sworn to by two new-found friends of the prisoner,
who claimed to have passed that night in his company. These witnesses,
carefully prepared by Pierson, gave their evidence with few blunders;
and Dan Horton, closely following every word of the defence, gave a
satisfied smile at the new turn which the skilfully devised _alibi_
seemed likely to give to affairs.
Pierson's aim was to disprove Horton's identity with the man who had
killed Ah Lam and had afterwards seen Graham. He endeavored to show
that there were two men engaged in the affair,--Horton, who had spoken
to Miss Almsford, and his confederate, who, it was argued, must have
committed the crime. When Millicent had told of the wounds inflicted by
the Chinaman on the cheeks of his murderer, it was shown that Horton's
face bore no trace of these scratches. It was argued, in reply to this,
that in a man of Horton's vigorous temperament such wounds might easily
be healed in as short time as had elapsed between the murder and the
trial. At this point Galbraith had a trump card to play, the existence
of which neither prisoner nor counsel had suspected. Neither had it
been learned by the omniscient reporter, through whose instrumentality
evidence is too often prematurely made public, cases are lost, and
offenders are enabled to escape apprehension.
"I would inform your Honor that I have other proof of the identity of
the prisoner with the man who passed the night following the murder in
the shooting lodge."
A new witness, by name John Du Jardin, by profession a wood-cutter, was
called to the stand.
"Have you ever seen the prisoner before?"
"Yes, before wonce," answered the old Frenchman.
"When was that?"
"The night after murder."
"Where did you see him?"
"At the little 'unting 'ouse of M. Graham."
"What were you doing at the lodge?"
Graham looked at his henchman with a perplexed expression, and smiled
slightly at the answer.
"I were not in the cabin, I were by the window, lookin'."
"Oh, you were looking in at the window; and what did you see?"
"I see monsieur, 'e sleepin'. I see dat man," pointing to the prisoner;
"'e come, and monsieur give 'im to drink and to eat."
"What else did you see?"
"I see _cet homme_, dat man lay 'imself _pres_ side by the _feu_.
Presentlee 'e sleep, monsieur 'e mark 'im; 'e take faggot from fire, 'e
make point, 'e draw one picture of 'im."
Here Pierson asked the witness what he was doing outside the lodge in
the middle of the night.
"I was watch monsieur."