Chapter XVII HERMIONE'S ADVOCATE
Durgan felt very curious to know whether Theodore Alden, the well-known lawyer, would appear. He knew little about him except that his name was always in the papers in connection with the law courts, with philanthropic schemes and religious enterprise of an evangelical sort. Report said various things—that he would plead in no case in which he did not believe his cause to be right—that his integrity was in excess of his brains, and was the only argument he offered worthy of a juror's consideration—or, that the huge fees given him were often bribes to use his reputation in the service of crime, and that his diabolical cleverness was only equaled by his hypocrisy. These conflicting views partly arose from the fact that he had gained some notorious cases in the face of strong public opinion, and in one case, at least, it seemed against all the weight of evidence.
Whatever Alden's character, it was certain that his hands would at any time be more than full of affairs. Bertha had only given him half a day and a night in which to prepare for the journey. Durgan had no sanguine hope of having his curiosity satisfied as soon as she expected.
Yet, on the very next day, at evening, some twenty hours before the time Bertha had set, a carriage from Hilyard drove up, and while the horses were resting, a dapper, townbred Northerner jumped out to inspect his surroundings.
The stranger was about sixty years of age. He had a pale face, a trim gray beard, a brisk manner, a fineness of dress, which all carried a whiff of New York atmosphere into the lateral mica cutting, which was as yet but a shallow cave. As soon as he perceived the nature of Durgan's work, he took an almost exhaustive interest in mica, although it was probable that he had never even thought of the product in its rough state before.
In vain Durgan tried to discern solitude or impatience in the face of the stranger. He had no doubt heard of the deed with which the county was ringing, on his way from Hilyard, but that could hardly have put his mind at rest concerning Bertha's enigmatical telegram.
When the horses were ready, the traveler and his luggage went on. The carriage soon returned empty. Durgan heard no more till the next day.
He had prevailed upon the old General to ride to Hilyard to try to obtain Adam's release, and after waiting impatiently for the result, heard by a messenger late that evening that Adam must abide his trial. Durgan was proportionately angry and distressed.
In this mood Bertha found him the morning after the lawyer arrived. She was somewhat less troubled than on the last occasion, but showed confusion in explaining her errand. She said that Alden was coming at once to see Durgan.
She added, "When I sent for him, and was so terribly frightened, I—I thought I could tell him all that I feared."
"It matters less that you should tell him what you fear, but you must tell him all that you know."
"Oh, Mr. Durgan, that is just what I cannot do—now that he is here."
"You must. One innocent man, at least, is most falsely accused. Do you think poor Adam is not made of the same flesh as you are? Think of the agony of being accused of killing one whom you fondly loved, whom you were bound to protect. Even if he is not hanged, every hour that he lies in jail is unutterable misery to him."
"Alas! who can know that better than I?" she asked.
There was conviction in her tone. She raised her face to his; then suddenly flushed and covered it with her hands. "You don't know? We thought you must have guessed; but Mr. Alden will tell you. Oh, Mr. Durgan, try to think of us as we are, not as the world thinks, and—there! he is coming."
They listened a moment to approaching footsteps.
Bertha took hold of Durgan's sleeve in her intensity. "Don't tell him anything I have said," she whispered.
"Child!" he said a little sharply, "I must."
Her intensity grew. "For Hermie's sake, don't. I will do anything you tell me in defense of Adam. I will—yes, I promise—I will tell you all I know, all I fear, only promise me this." She was clinging to his arm in tears.
He gave promise grudgingly. "Not before I see you again, then."
"In spite of whatever he may tell you?"
"I have promised," he said with displeasure.
She had gone on, and the lawyer tripped jauntily down the path. He brought with him the suggestion of hope. He presented his card with an almost quaint formality. His manner was old-fashioned. He admired the superb view, paid a few compliments to old Georgian families and to the Durgans in particular, and apologized for his unceremonious intrusion the previous evening. He went on, in elegant and precise diction, to say that he understood from his clients at the summit house that Durgan could give him details concerning the recent deplorable death of a colored woman who had been in their employment.
Durgan conducted him to the place where Eve was found, and to Adam's now empty cabin. They discussed the facts that no knife had been found, that the fern had taken no print of feet. Then Durgan described his first sight of 'Dolphus and the interview. He was growing very tired of a statement that he had already been obliged to make more than once.
Alden took notes and gave no sign of opinion.
"The mulatto did it," said Durgan, sternly.
"Very probably, my dear sir; but there is as yet no proof. In such a place, whoever did it could throw the knife where it would remain hidden forever. There is no proof that this mulatto committed the deed before he went down the mountain; none that Adam did not do it when he returned later."
"Adam is a better man than I am. I am as certain of him as of myself."
"I entirely take your word for it. I am convinced by what you say. But men of the law, my dear sir, think only of what will convince the men in the box."
Having told all this of his own accord, Durgan became aware that in the course of conversation he was being questioned, and very closely.
Where had he gone when he left the sisters? How long had he rested? Where did he go then? Why did he wait? Did he remember exactly the place in which he waited? None of these questions were asked in categorical form, yet he had soon rather reluctantly told his every movement, except what he had seen of Miss Smith's actions when the moon rose, and the location of the particular tree. He was wholly determined that what he had so unexpectedly spied should never pass his lips.
"You were very kind in guarding the house. This colored man was evidently a dangerous character. You had reason, no doubt, for suspecting that he would be about at that hour, Mr. Durgan?"
"I knew nothing about his movements. I can tell you nothing more."
"Can you be sure that he made no attempt to enter the house that evening?"
"He could hardly have done that?"
"You were in the house all the evening, and then watched it till you heard the alarming sound of this poor woman's last breath. You are sure that he did not come or go from the house in that time?"
"Have you any reason to suppose he did?"
"Suppose, merely for the sake of argument, that I had reason to suspect he did, can you deny it?"
"I am sure he did not."
"Could you swear to it in a court of justice?"
"No. It was impossible for me to watch every door. I expected him from one direction, and watched only that. I should have expected the dogs to bark if he came within the paling."
"Ah! Then you could not swear that anyone who could silence the dogs might have left the house." The lawyer relapsed into significant silence.