CHAPTER XVIII

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"... the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour."

"Millicent! Millicent! are you awake?"

It was the evening of the first day of the trial; and Miss Almsford, sitting in her chamber warming her pretty feet before the fire, recognized the voice and answered,--

"Yes, Bab, come in."

It was very late, past twelve o'clock; but Barbara brought news of a visitor, who would keep them both from their sleep an hour longer. Mr. Galbraith was downstairs and must speak with her. Miss Almsford gave a little tired sigh, and, folding her white wrapper about her shoulders, caught the thick tangle of hair together with a silver arrow, and, without glancing at the mirror, left the room and joined the young lawyer in the library.

"I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss Almsford; I know you must be tired, but I could not get here sooner. Miss Barbara, do not be offended, but I must ask you to let me see Miss Almsford alone for a few minutes; would you mind waiting in the next room?"

When they were alone, the young man seemed at a loss how to open the interview which he had sought. Millicent, tired by the events of the exciting day, did not seem inclined to help him. After a long and rather awkward pause, she turned wearily to her visitor and said,--

"It is about the trial, of course?"

Galbraith bowed an assent.

"About the statement made by that man--" She shuddered, as if unable to pronounce his name. The young man silently assented again.

"Well, there is nothing to be said by me beyond what I have already said: it is an infamous lie! It is so apparent a fabrication that I should hardly have thought it necessary for you to give yourself the trouble to come so far, merely to hear me repeat what I asserted this afternoon."

"It is your honest opinion, then, that Mr. Graham has been slandered?"

"My _honest_ opinion, Mr. Galbraith? I do not know how to give any other. Are you come to make me angry? You had better not, for we Italians are more easily roused to anger than soothed. I am so tired, too; can you not spare me?"

Her voice dropped from the deep, indignant tone, to a pleading note like that of a tired child. Maurice Galbraith, leaning quietly against the mantel-shelf, with downcast eyes and calm face, seemed strangely moved by the words of the woman who stood before him, so white and so beautiful. He turned toward her; and when he next spoke, a tenderness had crept all unawares into his face, which shone with a light whose meaning she could not fail to understand. His very voice seemed a caress addressed to her ear, so low and gentle was it.

"My child, you do not understand me. _I_ to make you angry, to add one annoyance to your life, which is so sad? Ah! you little know how gladly--" He stopped suddenly, warned, by the rising flush on her cheek, that he was saying other words than those which he had come to speak,--"you little know how gladly I would have spared you the question which it was necessary for me to ask. I am now answered."

"But you do not believe me? I see that--"

"I would believe you if all the angels in heaven should deny your truth."

She looked at him curiously; she was infinitely touched by his emotion. He cared for her; he loved her with a passion which she could understand. He would gladly--oh, how gladly!--have folded her life about with a protecting care, keeping the very winds of heaven from her face if they should blow too roughly; have taken her in his strong arms, stood between her and all the world, given her all and been content with the giving, asking for nought but the right to protect her. That she did not love him he knew; that she cared for another he more than imagined; and yet he would have been content to try and win her regard by a life's devotion.

Of all this he spoke not one word, as he stood looking into her face with burning, tender eyes. He did not speak, and yet he knew that he was understood. The woman gave a little weary sigh; it was in vain! To her there was but one man in all the world. He said no word, but stepped toward her with outstretched, pleading hands, with tender love and pity, asking nothing, giving all without questioning, without doubt. She, who had befriended so many, and was yet without a friend, who had been tempest-tossed and shipwrecked before her life-journey had fairly begun, knew what it was that lay in Maurice Galbraith's outstretched hands,--the love of a life, a haven of peace and quiet. He was about to speak, to let the love which was troubling his heart pour itself out in a flood of words at the portal of her ear; but with a movement she checked him. The repellent gesture of her hand, her averted head and downcast eyes, answered him. He understood her as well, better perhaps than if he had spoken and she had answered. It left him another chance, too; later, when he had shown her how faithfully he could wait, he might speak the words which she now refused to hear. So both were glad that they had spoken only with their eyes. She had been spared the pain of putting into words that which it would have been hard for him to hear; and he was glad that she had not spoken the cold truth which he read in her face. When she spoke again, it was to ignore that silent prayer and its denial. She took up the thread of the conversation where they had dropped it:--

"I am glad that you are convinced of this truth; and I trust that you will bring the others, Henry Deering most of all, to feel as you do."

The tender look of love died out from Maurice Galbraith's face. He turned gloomily away from the fair woman whose beauty was not for him.

"I cannot tell, I do not know; what man can judge another? I said that I believed you; did I imply that I trusted him?"

Of all cruel griefs endured by Millicent Almsford, this was the most bitter,--that her lover, through her fault, should be misjudged; that in the eyes of others he should suffer. She realized now in what a light he had appeared to Galbraith, to Hal and Barbara, to all the small circle who had seen their friendship flower into love, and that flower tossed to the earth before it had ripened to its fruition. His sudden disappearance, her own too obvious grief, to what could they attribute it but to his faithlessness? And now that this base slander had been cast upon him, they believed it. He was compromised, dishonored in their eyes; and the fault was hers. As the full significance of all this struck her, she groaned aloud, clasping her hands together over her grieved heart as if in mortal agony. How could she right him in their eyes? How could she dissipate the cloud which darkened his stainless honor?

There was but one way,--to tell them all the sad truth. Her honor against his! How could she hesitate, loving him as she did? And yet there was a moment of awful suspense. Her proud spirit, which had borne unaided and alone the burden which would have crushed a feebler soul, revolted at the thought of a new humiliation. A man's honor is writ on a strong shield that can be easily cleansed. It may receive many a hard blow, and show many a dint, and yet be as good as those carried by his mates. It can be burnished bright again, and held up for all men to see, its very scars proving through what battles it has been worn, and adding, rather than detracting, from its present lustre. If all else be lost, let him but give his life to expiate his sin, and the blot is washed out from the shield. But with a woman it is not so. Her honor must be maintained by a shield of crystal, on which the faintest breath of slander leaves its foul impress; which one blow dealt by a man's hand shatters irrevocably. This is man's code of honor; and as man's voice is strongest in the world, it is the world's code of honor. Only the greatest men set it aside as unjust; only the strongest refuse to recognize it.

All this Millicent knew. It was not wonderful that she hesitated, that she was silent, or answered the searching questions put to her by the young lawyer slowly and evasively. She was putting off the moment in which she must decide between his honor and her own. She remembered the indignant look Deering had cast upon Graham in the court-room, the cool manner in which Barbara had spoken of him, Mrs. Deering's grieved silence respecting the man who had been so valued a friend to her, and, worst of all, Galbraith's openly expressed doubt of his innocence. A woman of a smaller nature who had endured Millicent's cruel experience might, too, have doubted Graham; but she had fathomed his nature more truly in a few months than had his lifelong friends. She knew that in it there was no room for one ignoble thought. His faults she recognized more clearly than if she had loved him less. She knew him to be selfish, with the selfishness of genius; hard of heart, with the indifference to human pain common to those men who are capable of enduring the most terrible suffering; intolerant of those who differed from him, with the steadfast knowledge that his thoughts and opinions had been moulded from no contact with other minds, but attained with pain and weariness of spirit, built up from his inner consciousness, the result of thought and experience, not of the study of other men's minds and actions.

As Galbraith continued to question her, she answered clearly all that he said, while her mind, with a dual consciousness, carried on its separate train of thought. She realized that if Maurice Galbraith were not himself convinced of Graham's innocence, his efforts to disprove Horton's accusation would be half-hearted, perfunctory, and without the moral weight of honest conviction. If he were to learn the true reason of the breach between Graham and herself, he must know it immediately,--that very night. That her confession would clear the man she loved from every suspicion she never doubted, and yet--she did not speak. It was so hard to tell the story of her broken life; she was not strong enough. To any other it would have been easier to bare her secret than to this man who reverenced her, who had told her, with look and deed and tender thought, that he loved her.

Barbara, weary of waiting till the long conversation should come to an end, had taken her place at the piano in the adjoining room; and after playing for some time she struck the chords of a song full of tender associations to Millicent. A wild, passionate melody of Rubinstein, full of love and hope and youth. Millicent had sung it on that night when Graham had found her waiting for him in the firelight, with his name upon her lips, though they were still strangers. She had sung it then with an intensity which had brought the grave artist close to her side, full of enthusiasm for the song, of admiration for the singer. She remembered how he had thanked her silently with a look, while the others, whose presence she had forgotten, had been full of warm praises. A mist of tears rose to her eyes and gathered itself into crystal drops of pain. Moved by the flood of memories which rushed about her with the tumultuous waves of sound, she rose, her pride swept away, her love triumphant; and, with a brow peaceful with its victory, she spoke. She told them all her sad story; while Barbara, summoned to her side, wept softly at the piteous tale, and Galbraith, strong man that he was, trembled with emotion at the words of passionate grief. Without reserve was the revelation made; the tragedy of her young life, her meeting with Graham, her love for him, and the deceit to which it led,--all were told. No word of anger had she for the false friend and dead lover, and no thought of condemnation of Graham's action. He was right; he could not have acted otherwise; he had been frank and true and honest with her; and she had deceived him! He had left the San Rosario Ranch to spare her the pain of seeing him, and because it was best for them both that he should go. The bar between them was of her forging; the breach was inevitable; it was her fault, all her fault. His thoughts of her had been white as the snow,--"and cold as ice," muttered Galbraith, to whom this panegyric of his rival was anything but gratifying. At last she was silent; all her story was finished. She had spoken standing, her expressive gestures and changeful face having done more than half the telling. She had begun quietly and with downcast eyes and pale cheek; now neck and brow were suffused. She was pleading the cause of the man she loved with all the eloquence of youth and beauty. She now stood silent, looking eagerly from Barbara's tear-stained face to Galbraith's pale, set countenance, to read there the acquittal of the man they had suspected of baseness and cruelty to her.

Barbara put her arm about the tall girl, and caressed her tenderly, holding the glorious head, with its tangled crown of hair, close to her womanly heart, weeping tears gentle as summer dew. Maurice Galbraith reverently lifted to his lips one long tress which flowed over her shoulder; and then, leading Millicent from the apartment, he turned to Barbara.

"You understood it all?"

"Yes."

"I ask you to think of that thing which is most sacred to you in all the world. By that holy thought, swear to me that no word of what has been said here to-night shall ever pass your lips; that you will not dare to think of it even, when you are not alone, lest your face betray you."

He held out his hand to her; and with wide eyes and trembling voice, Barbara gave the promise he asked, laying her cold palm in his hot grasp. To guard the secret of the woman they both loved, this loyal man and honest woman bound themselves by a most solemn oath. To each, the other was nothing but an ally in this cause. Their own personalities were lost in the strong affection for Millicent; they would love her and protect her always. As they stood thus, Millicent, passing up the stairway, saw them through the open door. She saw and understood their compact. She saw, as they did not, into the future; and from her heart rose an unselfish prayer, that the secret of her great misery might be the first link in a chain that should bind these two together for life.

Millicent Almsford had pleaded that night for the man she loved; she had cleared him in the eyes of two persons whose opinions would sway those of all who knew anything of his relation to her. She had done more: she had made for herself a friend of a discouraged lover, a champion who would fight her battles to the death; and she had bound a gentle, loving woman's heart to her own by an indissoluble tie. She had striven only to exonerate John Graham; and she had made Maurice Galbraith glad that he loved her, though hopelessly and passionately; she had filled Barbara Deering with the deepest sentiment which woman can hold for sister woman,--a compassionate love.

Though wearied by his long ride and the exciting events of the day, Maurice Galbraith slept little that night, and the morning found him pale and restless. He had a hard day's work before him, and perhaps the most trying part of it was the first duty he had set himself to perform. He felt that he owed John Graham an apology for the suspicion which he had entertained against him, and which in that moment of excitement he had made no effort to conceal. Had not the young lawyer been deeply in love with Millicent, and consequently extremely jealous of Graham, it is hardly possible that he could for an instant have believed the preposterous charge made against the artist. But as Love is blind, and Jealousy is deaf to reason, it is not strange that, unprepared as he was for Horton's accusation, he should have believed that it might have some truth. Millicent's revelation, and the calmer reflection which had followed the interview with her, proved to him how greatly his judgment had been at fault. Fervently as he disliked Graham, he had always respected him; and to his generous mind, the injustice he had done his rival was abhorrent. He found the artist at the inn, where they had parted the previous night. Graham received the lawyer with a cold formality: the latter did not fail to observe the nervous clinching of the artist's hands as he entered the room. The fierce natural instinct of redressing an insult by a personal chastisement moved the refined man. Poet-artist as he was, he would rather, a thousand times, have grappled with Galbraith in a fierce struggle, than have been forced to receive and accept his apology. Maurice Galbraith, had he yielded to the impulse which shook his determination, would have spoken words which might have justified such an action on Graham's part. The men looked angrily at each other for a moment. Maurice Galbraith's words of apology would not utter themselves, and seemed like to choke him. He saw that clinching of the hand, and his brow reddened as he stepped forward as if to strike the man who had so easily won, and who so lightly valued, the love of Millicent Almsford.

In a land where a lower code of ethics and of honor exists, the insult each burned to cast upon the other would have been uttered; and the result would have been a so-called "affair of honor," in which both men would have run the risk of bringing blood-guiltiness upon their souls, and the stigma of murder upon their honorable names. The struggle in Galbraith's breast was short, and human intelligence triumphed over brute instinct. His few words of apology were spoken with cold courtesy, and accepted with quiet dignity. The men did not shake hands; each understood the position too clearly for that. They could never be friends; but, as they were honorable gentlemen, all enmity was at end between them, for rivalry does not necessarily entail hatred. Then they spoke of the trial, and their conversation lasted until the hour of the opening of the court.

Millicent, escorted by Henry Deering, arrived at the court just as Graham and Galbraith entered the room together. She saw Graham whisper something to the lawyer, who bowed courteously in answer. The significance of the action was not lost upon her,--her revelation had not been made in vain. She now heard her name called in a loud, harsh voice. She started violently, but did not stir from her seat.

"Come," said Hal, "you must go up to that little platform and answer all the questions they ask you."

She walked quietly to the place indicated, took the customary oath "to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," and answered the preliminary questions in a low voice.

"What is your name?"

"Millicent Almsford."

"Where were you born?"

"In Venice."

"What state?"

"In Italy."

"How old are you?"

"One and twenty."

"You were present at the killing of Ah Lam, at Carey's Bridge?"

"I was."

"Tell the court all that you saw on that occasion." Galbraith was the speaker. He knew that Millicent's natural eloquence would give the story with more force if she were allowed to tell it in her own way without the usual questioning.

She began speaking in a low voice, her eyes fixed on the ground before her. As the memory of that dreadful day came back to her, she seemed to see it all again,--the peaceful woodland scene, the quiet river, the forest road, and at her side her humble friend and pupil. The walls of the court-room faded from before her, and judge and jury, lawyer and audience, were forgotten; she looked at Graham only, and spoke to him alone; his grave eyes met hers, and the sympathy in them made the task of telling her story an easy one. Aiding her recital with expressive gestures, she told of the appearance of Daniel Horton on the peaceful scene; she repeated his insolent words, unconsciously imitating the man's manner and voice; she described the affront offered to herself with burning cheeks and flashing eyes; her voice grew tremulous and low when she spoke of the dead servant's efforts to save her from the insolent ruffian; when with a deep, horrified voice she told of the murder and death of Ah Lam, it was as if she were describing a scene still enacting itself before her eyes. A strong impression was made by the girl's words on all her hearers. The noisy court-room had grown perfectly still; the very recorders held their pens useless in their hands; and the eyes of the judge with the pink cravat were riveted on her face. As she ceased speaking, a sympathetic tremor ran through the crowd assembled in the court-room, and a low murmur was heard.

Maurice Galbraith, usually the most quiet and reserved of men, was evidently undergoing an unusual excitement, those who knew him thought; and Pierson, the counsel for the defendant, seemed rather disconcerted by the strong impression made by the witness.

When Graham came upon the stand and told his story of the night passed in the shooting-lodge, Millicent listened breathlessly. The young painter gave his evidence with a certain picturesqueness, describing the arrival at the cabin of Dan Horton, his demand for food and shelter, his troubled sleep, his wounded face, the peculiar nature of the scratches, and finally, the finding of Millicent's handkerchief after his departure on the following morning. An effort was made to disprove the evidence, and an _alibi_ was sworn to by two new-found friends of the prisoner, who claimed to have passed that night in his company. These witnesses, carefully prepared by Pierson, gave their evidence with few blunders; and Dan Horton, closely following every word of the defence, gave a satisfied smile at the new turn which the skilfully devised _alibi_ seemed likely to give to affairs.

Pierson's aim was to disprove Horton's identity with the man who had killed Ah Lam and had afterwards seen Graham. He endeavored to show that there were two men engaged in the affair,--Horton, who had spoken to Miss Almsford, and his confederate, who, it was argued, must have committed the crime. When Millicent had told of the wounds inflicted by the Chinaman on the cheeks of his murderer, it was shown that Horton's face bore no trace of these scratches. It was argued, in reply to this, that in a man of Horton's vigorous temperament such wounds might easily be healed in as short time as had elapsed between the murder and the trial. At this point Galbraith had a trump card to play, the existence of which neither prisoner nor counsel had suspected. Neither had it been learned by the omniscient reporter, through whose instrumentality evidence is too often prematurely made public, cases are lost, and offenders are enabled to escape apprehension.

"I would inform your Honor that I have other proof of the identity of the prisoner with the man who passed the night following the murder in the shooting lodge."

A new witness, by name John Du Jardin, by profession a wood-cutter, was called to the stand.

"Have you ever seen the prisoner before?"

"Yes, before wonce," answered the old Frenchman.

"When was that?"

"The night after murder."

"Where did you see him?"

"At the little 'unting 'ouse of M. Graham."

"What were you doing at the lodge?"

Graham looked at his henchman with a perplexed expression, and smiled slightly at the answer.

"I were not in the cabin, I were by the window, lookin'."

"Oh, you were looking in at the window; and what did you see?"

"I see monsieur, 'e sleepin'. I see dat man," pointing to the prisoner; "'e come, and monsieur give 'im to drink and to eat."

"What else did you see?"

"I see _cet homme_, dat man lay 'imself _pres_ side by the _feu_. Presentlee 'e sleep, monsieur 'e mark 'im; 'e take faggot from fire, 'e make point, 'e draw one picture of 'im."

Here Pierson asked the witness what he was doing outside the lodge in the middle of the night.

"I was watch monsieur."

"That seems very strange. Why did you want to watch him?"

"'E 'as not slept the night; 'e 'as nothing eat the day; I fear 'im _malade_. I follow him."

Galbraith continued his examination, and elicited from the witness the admission that he had remained outside the cabin that night, concealed in the bushes, and had only left it after Horton had taken his departure. He had then started to return, but after he had gone a mile he retraced his steps with the intention of cooking for his master's breakfast a brace of quail he had shot on the way. He found the cabin empty, and on the wall the portrait which he had seen sketched. It was where it would have been easily effaced, and so he had loosened the board on which the drawing was made, and carried it to his house.

Graham was now recalled and questioned.

"Mr. Graham, you have told the court that you are an artist by profession. Is it your habit to make drawings of persons of a striking appearance?"

"I have the habit of sketching any remarkable-looking people whom I happen to meet."

"On the night in question, were you impressed by anything uncommon in the appearance of the man who slept by the fire in the lodge?"

"I was."

"Did you make any notes of the impression made on you by the man?"

"I did. I sketched him as he crouched in the ashes of the fire."

"What materials did you use?"

"A charred piece of wood, and a smooth board in the side of the cabin."

"Would you recognize your work if you should see it?"

"Undoubtedly."

"By what means?"

"I should recognize it as you would your own handwriting; besides--"

"You have other means of knowing it?"

"My initials will be found in the upper right-hand corner of the sketch."

"Is this the sketch?"

"It is."

There was a craning of necks, and a murmur of recognition from those present who could obtain a glimpse of the strong drawing held up by Maurice Galbraith. Graham's words in answer to the last question were hardly necessary to prove the resemblance. Horton, sitting in his chair, his head thrown back, his hands clasping his knees, had all-unconsciously assumed the pose in which Graham had sketched him. The resemblance was indubitable, and the cheeks bore the bloody testimony of Ah Lam's hands.

This was evidence which there was no breaking down; and Horton, when the sketch was at last turned so that he could see it, gave an oath under his breath, which was not lost upon the jury. The twelve men with whom lay the decision of Horton's guilt or innocence were for the most part tradesmen and mechanics, the only exception being in the person of Mr. Patrick Shallop, the mining king, who by some strange chance had been impanelled on this occasion. The voice of such a man would carry great weight in the decision. The case was evidently going against the prisoner. The evidence of the prosecution was very damaging, and Horton's friends in the crowd were greatly discouraged.

The trial occupied several hours, and ended in the conviction of Daniel Horton. Maurice Galbraith made a speech which has already become famous. He had induced a Californian jury to pronounce a man who had killed a Chinaman guilty of voluntary manslaughter. He had obtained this almost unprecedented verdict, and a full sentence from the court of ten years' imprisonment. The efforts of the defending counsel to turn the main interest in the case from the chief feature, by endeavoring to implicate Graham in the attempted abduction, were useless. Horton's real confederate was found, and the truth of the matter arrived at. Through the newspaper accounts of Millicent, published at the time of her rescue of Graham, these men had learned that she was a rich heiress, and had conceived the bold idea of carrying her off in order to extort a large sum of money for her ransom.

The flimsy tissue of lies which Pierson had woven was quickly unravelled by Galbraith. The fact that the jury had for a time been misled by the false evidence, made their verdict more immediately unanimous than it might otherwise have been; and the cloud which had for a moment overhung John Graham was dispelled as quickly as a noxious vapor is blown away by a brisk westerly wind. He was cleared of every suspicion. Galbraith had surpassed himself in his management of the case, even in the eyes of his warmest friends. Had he not been working for the woman he loved? In exonerating his rival, he had done the only thing that in him lay to win Millicent's gratitude. She had thanked him, and blessed him for his eloquence with tears and smiles. He had gained her friendship; and does not friendship soften into love more often than love crystallizes into friendship?

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