She was thinking of her father’s advice not to volunteer information and open doors for the counsel to walk in, and praying that she needn’t do so. The house was filling again, fuller if possible than during the morning session. There was scarcely standing room, and the afternoon sun poured in at the windows until the seats seemed baked and blistered. But those on whose heads and necks it fell did not feel it, or feeling it, did not mind. The crisis was coming,—the hour had struck for which they were waiting and for which many had come from Boston and Worcester and New Bedford. Miss Elithe Hansford was to be sworn.
As she heard her name she started violently, it sounded so loud, echoing through the room, repeating itself over and over again and finally floating off until it seemed thousands of miles away, and she wondered if her father could not hear it in Samona and know her time had arrived. A thought of him and a fervent “God help me,” quieted her somewhat, and, rising to her feet, she removed her veil and hat. Why she took off the latter she did not know unless it were the least weight upon her head oppressed her. Her hair had grown rapidly since she came to Oak City and was twisted into a small flat knot in her neck, but clustered around her forehead in short curls. These were wet with the perspiration, which stood in drops on her face. Wiping them off and running her fingers through her hair, she took the place assigned her, a little figure, with hollow eyes and face as white as marble and lips which quivered as she took the oath.
Those who had never seen her before thought how small and young and pretty she was in spite of her pale cheeks and tired eyes telling of tears and sleepless nights. Paul had smiled more than once at Miss Hansford’s defiance of all law and order, but his face changed and seemed to contract and shrivel up as he looked at Elithe and leaned forward to listen. It was not resentment he felt that she was testifying against him, but an intense pity that she had to do it and a wish that he could save her from it. How sweet and modest she looked, standing there with downcast eyes and hands grasping the chair against which she leaned for support and how her voice shook when she began to speak. All this Paul noted, and for a time the feeling of yesterday came back and he forgot his own identity again. He was not the prisoner being tried for his life. That was one of the detestable men drinking in Elithe’s beauty, remarking every curve of her girlish figure, every turn of her graceful head. He, Paul, was only a spectator, watching Elithe,—wishing he could reassure her,—could tell her to speak louder so that all could hear. At last she looked at him with such anguish and entreaty in her eyes that he smiled his old-time smile she knew so well and which acted like a tonic upon her nerves and loosened the band around her forehead. He did not hate her; he did not blame her; he had no fear of what she might say. Something had come up of which she had not heard and which would be explained when she was through. He was safe no matter what she said. She had sworn to tell the truth, and she must do it. The mass of faces in front of her didn’t trouble her now. God had helped Paul and was helping her with courage and strength.
Drawing herself up from the drooping attitude she had assumed, she answered the questions put to her, telling where she was when she saw and spoke to Paul and saying she could not be mistaken in him when she saw him fire the shot and throw the revolver away. His face was partly turned from her, but she knew his figure and his coat,—a light gray,—and his hat. He fired low, and when he heard the groan, as he must have heard it, he hurried off into the woods towards the west, and a few minutes later they found Mr. Percy lying behind the clump of bushes at which Paul had aimed. This was the substance of her testimony, and while she gave it scarcely a sound was heard in the room, so intense was the interest with which the people listened. Even the fans and hats and papers were motionless, although the heat grew more intense as the sun poured in at the western windows, and not a leaf stirred on the trees outside, or scarcely a ripple on the water. She had kept her eyes on Paul, who listened, fascinated and bewildered, and still with a feeling that it was not himself she was talking about.
At the close of her testimony she addressed him personally and said: “I didn’t want to come, but they made me. I know you didn’t mean to do it. You did not know Mr. Pennington was there.”
At the mention of Mr. Pennington there was a low buzz in the room which Elithe heard and understood. Blushing scarlet, she continued: “I mean Mr. Percy. You did not know he was there. You fired low at some animal. I thought I heard a rustle in the leaves.”
“By George, she’s hit the nail on the head,” Tom Drake exclaimed, springing to his feet and nearly upsetting an old lady sitting next to him and munching caraway seed.
No one had followed Elithe more closely than Tom, whose springing up and exclamation were involuntary, and when some one behind him called out, “Sit down!” he sat down as quickly as he had risen, and no further attention was paid to him. All the interest was centred on Elithe, whose face shone with wonderful brightness and beauty as she turned from Paul to the judge and said: “He didn’t do it on purpose. He can explain, and you will let him go, won’t you?”
Never was there a fairer pleader, or one more in earnest than Elithe. She didn’t know she was infringing upon the etiquette of legal procedure and no one enlightened her. The judge blew his nose, the jurors winked very hard, while Paul covered his face with his hands to hide the tears he could not keep back and which made him Paul Ralston again,—the man for whose release Elithe was asking so innocently. The direct examination was over, and she felt relieved, thinking she was through.
“More! Must I tell more?” she asked pathetically, when given into the hands of a lawyer on the other side.