Elithe made no reply, nor was she surprised, for how could a dozen people be expected to keep silent? Going to her room, she sat down to think. If anything were done to Paul, she would be subpoenaed as chief witness, and she felt she would rather die than appear against him.
“What could I say except that I saw him, for I did. God help me!” she cried, in a paroxysm of pain more acute than that of her aunt, because on her the heavier burden would fall if Paul Ralston were arrested.
Many people came to the cottage that day, asking questions concerning the events of Sunday night, but receiving no satisfaction.
“I know next to nothing, and, if I did, I should keep it to myself,” were Miss Hansford’s evasive replies.
The next day fewer people came, and those who did neither asked questions nor gave information. Something in Miss Hansford’s attitude precluded both. On Thursday no one came. This was to have been the wedding day, and, as if sorrowing for the life ended so tragically and the wrecked happiness of Paul and Clarice, the skies shed showers of tears, which kept every one indoors, with a feeling as if a great funeral were passing through the rain-swept streets. Outside, the air was heavy and damp,—inside, the moral atmosphere was charged with a feeling that something was going to happen when he came home, and while many wished he might never come, all were on the qui vive for his coming. On Sunday those who were at church told everybody they met who did not already know it that Judge Ralston and wife were in Boston and would be home on Monday and that Paul and the Percys were coming on Wednesday.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE ARREST.
Jack Percy had been lain to rest beside his father and mother and old Roger in the family cemetery at Beechwood. The rain, which fell so heavily in Oak City, extended as far as Washington, and the Percy party were shivering with cold and drenched to the skin when they returned to the hotel. Mrs. Percy’s house was rented for the summer, and Paul had secured rooms at the Arlington,—the best the house could give him, for he knew that the luxury of handsome surroundings would do much towards comforting Clarice. It was to have been their wedding day, and the sharp contrast was bitter and hard to bear. He had suggested that they be married quietly at once and go away by themselves, but Clarice would not listen.
“I was not so kind to Jack while living that I can afford to insult his memory now,” she said. “Six months is as soon as I can possibly consider it.”
In her heavy black she did not look much like the brilliant bride Paul had hoped to have that day, and his stay at the Arlington was anything but pleasant, and he was very glad when the day came to return home. Had he known what was before him, he would have shrunk from it in fear; but he did not know, and with every moment was drawing nearer to his fate. Some of those who saw Paul pass Miss Hansford’s cottage just before the shooting, and had heard what Elithe said, had told what they heard and saw, while the revolver, with “P. R.” upon it, had been found in Miss Hansford’s linen chest, and Oak City was in a ferment of excitement. At first, the public talked in whispers behind closed doors,—then aloud in the streets, where knots of people gathered to repeat and hear the last bit of gossip and conjecture. The suicide theory had been exploded as impossible, and the coroner and jury denounced as fools for their haste and decision; but, if Jack did not do the shooting, who did? Hundreds asked that question, and at first no one answered it, but repeated the story going the rounds so fast. Jack had knocked Paul Ralston down in the morning at the hotel. In the afternoon he had started, presumably, to see his sister. He had been traced to the Baptist Tabernacle and had taken a short cut through the woods. He was probably intoxicated and had fallen or lain down behind a clump of scrub oaks and been shot, the assassin firing low, as if he knew he was there. Paul Ralston had been very indignant at being knocked down and had used some threatening language. He had passed Miss Hansford’s cottage not long before the shot was fired and was known to have been in search of Jack. Miss Hansford and others had spoken with him. Elithe had seen him fire and throw the revolver away, and then hurry off in the direction of the woods. Jack had been found a few minutes later weltering in his blood. Seth Walker had found the revolver with “P. R.” upon it and handed it to Miss Hansford, who acted like a crazy woman, while Elithe, who saw the shooting, refused to be interviewed.
This story was followed by the news that the revolver had been hidden in Miss Hansford’s chest and that the bullet extracted from Jack’s head fitted one of the chambers. After this those who had said the whole was a lie, held their peace. There could be but one conclusion as to the guilty party and his name was spoken sadly, for Paul Ralston was the most popular man in Oak City, and it seemed like sacrilege to associate him with the tragedy. That he did not intend it everybody was certain, though how he could take deliberate aim and hit the mark so sure was a question. Had he at once come forward and said, “It was an accident; I didn’t know he was there,” nearly everybody would have believed him; but he had kept quiet and never seemed conscious of the danger threatening him.