“Have you ever thought your memory might be a little treacherous? It is apt to become so—with age,” the lawyer said, and Miss Hansford roused at once.
If there was one thing more than another in which she prided herself, after her blood, it was her memory, and an insinuation that it was faulty made her furious.
“I wish to the Lord it was treacherous,” she said, “but it ain’t. I can remember everything I ever heard or saw, and more, too. I know what I am talking about, if I have acted like a tarnal fool and made a spectacle of myself. I’m so mad that I have to be here, but I know what I’m about if I am sixty-five years old. There, you’ve found out my age, haven’t you, and you are welcome to it.”
She turned to the attorney, who, now that he was rid of her, was enjoying her idiosyncrasies to the full. A few more questions were asked her, and then, with a parting shaft at the judge, the lawyers and the whole business, she was dismissed, with cheers from the boys, who were not to be restrained by any threats of the police officer shaking his club at them, or any calls from the judge, scarcely less amused than they were. The spectators were all laughing. Things to-day were lively and atoned for the monotony of yesterday’s proceedings.
The physicians who attended Jack were next called and testified to Paul’s appearance in the room, with no signs of guilt in his manner. He had suggested suicide, and they had accepted the theory for a time, or one of them had. The other, for whom Elithe had been sent, had been suspicious from what she told him she had seen. There was a faint sound from Elithe, whose hand grasped her aunt’s dress again as if for support or comfort. Miss Hansford was bathed in perspiration, which rolled down her face and dropped from her nose and chin. She was weak, too, and leaned back in her chair and fanned herself with her handkerchief until some one passed her a palm-leaf and a glass of water. Thus revived she sat up stiff and straight as before, while the bullet extracted from the wound was produced and fitted into the revolver, which was again passed for inspection.
“Don’t pint it this way,” she said, with a toss of her head, as it came near her.
The boys laughed, the judge frowned and proposed a recess before Elithe was called. The day was one of those close, sultry days which sometimes come in September, and are more unendurable than those of summer. Outside the huge building the white heat quivered on the sea and on the land with but little breeze to cool it. Inside the air was so stuffy one could almost have cut it, although every door and window was open. Fans and hats and newspapers were doing active service, and the water was trickling down the faces of the spectators, the most of whom kept their seats for fear of losing them should they go out for a moment. Two or three spoke to Elithe, asking if it would not be better for her to take some refreshment and exercise before being called to the stand.
“No,” she said, “if I go out, I shall not come back. I should like a glass of water,—that is all.”
Tom brought it to her, his hand shaking so that part of it was spilled on her dress. He was on the side of the defence, but no one had listened to the prosecution with more absorbed attention or with more real curiosity. He had not even smiled at Miss Hansford, and oh, how he pitied Elithe and dreaded what was before her! He wiped the water from her dress, offered to bring her more and, stooping, whispered some words of encouragement. She scarcely heard him. She had neither hope nor courage. In everything so far, it seemed to her she had been the central figure and what she said had been repeated again and again and was the pivot on which everything was turning. She was to blame for it all,—even for Jack’s death. If she had not been there he would not have come to Oak City. If he had not come he would not have been shot, nor Paul arraigned for the shooting, nor she brought forward as witness against him. Without seeming to do so she had heard all the testimony and thought her aunt peculiar and been glad when it was over. The laughter of the boys and the calls to order jarred upon her as they would have done had Paul been in his coffin instead of in the prisoner’s chair. She did not feel the heat or know how close the atmosphere of the room was with the hundreds of breaths and the scorching air which came through the windows. She was not warm. She was only thirsty and drank the water Tom brought her eagerly.
When he spoke to her and said, “It’s coming soon, but be brave. It won’t last long. They’ll be nice with you,” she shook her head as if he troubled her, and said to him, “Don’t, Tom; please don’t talk to me.”