CHAPTER XXXIV.
READY FOR THE TRIAL.
Every preliminary in the way of examination, indictment and committal had been gone through. Bail had been offered and refused. The $10,000 offered to any one who would capture the slayer had failed to find the slightest clue to any one but Paul, who was still in jail awaiting his trial. Fortunately he had not long to wait, as the court opened soon after his arrest and examination. But every day was an eternity, and the nights were longer still. It seemed to him they would never end. His stars, Clarice and Elithe, were some little comfort to him,—that of Clarice still glowing like fire,—that of Elithe pale and blurred as if with many tears. When he could not see them he would cover up his head and cry, he was so weak from close confinement and so hopeless as to the future.
When daylight came, he felt better, for before night shut down again there might be news of the man for whom detectives were hunting everywhere. But there was never any news, and the days went by, bringing him nearer to the dreaded ordeal from which he shrank as a martyr might shrink from the rack which was to torture him. Everything which could be done to ameliorate his condition as a prisoner was done. No room in that jail or in any other had ever been furnished as his was. Tom was always bringing something until the place was overcrowded. Letters of sympathy came to him from every city and town where he had acquaintances. Flowers, fruit, delicacies of every kind were showered upon him. His table was filled with books and magazines and papers. Every day his father and mother visited him, cheering and encouraging him to the utmost, although they had little courage themselves, the outlook was so dark. Tom alone was hopeful. He hovered around the building constantly, often going inside and telling Paul any items he thought would interest him,—who had gone,—who were going,—who had come,—how the grounds were looking,—what flowers were in blossom, and how Sherry the dog,—named for the old Sherry,—missed his master. This interested Paul, who was very fond of Sherry, a big Newfoundland,—whom he had bought when a puppy.
“He stays by your door nearly all day,” Tom said, “and we couldn’t get him away at night until I took one of your old coats and put it in his kennel. He almost talked when he smelled it and gamboled round it like a kitten. I’d bring him to see you, but your father thinks I’d better not, he’d tear round so and be here every day if he knew where you were. We tie him up when the carriage comes, and the way he howls is a caution.”
Tom was a great comfort to Paul,—the friend who never failed. At night, after every one had retired and the lights in the city were out, he was often at the prison.
“It’s I,—Tom. There’s a big stone here and I’m sitting on it to keep you company,” he would call through the window, and Paul felt glad, knowing that he was not alone.
More than once, when the nights were at their darkest and the wind and rain were sweeping over the sea with a sullen roar, Paul could hear his tread and knew Tom was out in the storm like a faithful watch-dog. If Stevens, the jailer, suspected these vigils, he made no sign. Indeed, he would scarcely have interfered if he had known Paul was trying to escape. He might not have helped him, but he would have kept silent and wished him godspeed. Popular sympathy was all with Paul. That he shot Jack Percy people believed, but shot him either by mistake, or in self-defense, and great was the surprise at his emphatic denial of any complicity in the matter. He had told a straightforward story at the first and adhered to it ever after. He was angry with Jack and looking for him,—not to do him harm,—but to give him a message from his sister. He didn’t find him, but must have passed near him as he remembered thinking there was some dark object under the clump of bushes, but did not stop to investigate. As he left the woods he could see the path and the bridge leading in the direction of Oceanside. Jack was not on either. Thinking he heard footsteps to the right, he turned that way and went as far as the brick kiln without meeting any one, until he struck into Highland Avenue, where he met Tom returning from Still Haven and walked with him towards home, hearing before he reached there of the shooting. That was all he knew. The revolver was his, but how it came where it was found he did not know. He had no theory; he suspected no one. This was his story, from which he never varied. He knew that nearly everybody believed he shot Jack except his parents and Tom. The latter, who was oftenest seen, stood firm as a rock for entire innocence, corroborating what Paul said of joining him on the Highland Avenue and walking with him till they heard somebody had been shot and carried into Miss Hansford’s cottage. He, Tom, had gone to the stable to attend to the horses, and Paul had started at once for Miss Hansford’s.
This was Tom’s story, to which he stood firm, and when asked who did it, if Paul did not, answered, “Only two know,—the one who did it and the Lord, who, if worst comes to worst, will make it plain.”
That Paul would never be convicted, he said hundreds of times, and succeeded in infusing some of his hopefulness into the minds of the wretched parents, notwithstanding the evidence against their son, both circumstantial and direct, if that of Elithe could be called so. Every day Miss Hansford sent him some message and once she went to see him, taking with her some little apple pies, such as she used to make for him every Saturday when he was a boy. At the sight of them, and her pitiful eyes looking at him so sorrowfully, Paul broke down, remembering the many times when he had eaten pies like these at her round table in the kitchen and then ran off to play with Sherry, his dog,—and Jack who was waiting in the woods and was never invited to eat a little pie. Paul thought they would choke him with the memories they brought, but to please Miss Hansford he ate one, while she told him what he already knew,—that she and Elithe had been subpoenaed by the People, that she did not want to appear against him, and should say everything in his favor that she could say, and flout the District Attorney who was to conduct the case.
Paul laughed and took a second little pie, while Miss Hansford went on to speak of Elithe, and of the miners’ testimonial, with their queerly written signatures, some mere marks, with the names written round them, but all suggestive of sympathy for Elithe and liking for Jack.