He is questioned about Henry Poindexter.
Knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. He was there on the night when last seen. Witness was surprised to see him there — partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour.
Young Poindexter did not enter the house. Only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door.
He asked after Mr Gerald. He too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. Said he wished very much to see Gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. Witness directed him along the Rio Grande trace — thinking the mustanger had taken it. Said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger.
A few desultory questions, and Oberdoffer’s evidence is exhausted.
On the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of Gerald’s having changed his intention as to his time of starting. His manner, described as excited and angry, — perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naïvely confesses to a grudge against him. That is especially unfavourable. A murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression.
But why should Henry Poindexter have been excited too? Why should he have been following after Gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour — unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits?
Had the order been reversed, and Gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. But even then there would have been an absence of motive. Who can show this, to satisfy the jury?
Several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. Some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered.
One is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. It is Captain Cassius Calhoun.
His story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. It not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold.
After a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling alclass="underline" the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of Gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by Henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. These two facts he keeps carefully to himself.
The scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise — alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. It exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner — here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger.
These are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son — the defilement of a daughter!
A groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. It came from a man of more than middle age — of sad subdued aspect — whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates.
But the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. They look beyond, to a curtained calèche, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention.
Strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is Louise Poindexter who occupies the carriage.
Is she there of her own accord — by her own free will?
So runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it.
There is not much time allowed them for speculation. They have their answer in the crier’s voice, heard pronouncing the name —
“Louise Poindexter!”
Calhoun has kept his word.
Chapter LXXXVIII. An Unwilling Witness
Before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage.
Conducted by an officer of the Court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses.
Without flinching — apparently without fear — she faces towards the Court.
All eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration — that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt!
One regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust.
It is the prisoner himself. From him her eyes are averted as from everybody else.
Only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention — he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. She looks at Calhoun, her own cousin — as though with her eyes she would kill him.
Cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight.
“Where were you, Miss Poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?”
The question is put by the State counsellor.
“At home, — in my father’s house.”
“May I ask, if on that night you went into the garden?”
“I did.”
“Perhaps you will be good enough to inform the Court at what hour?”
“At the hour of midnight — if I rightly remember.”
“Were you alone?”
“Not all the time.”
“Part of it there was some one with you?”
“There was.”
“Judging by your frankness, Miss Poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the Court who that person was?”
“Certainly not.”
“May I ask the name of the individual?”
“There was more than one. My brother was there.”
“But before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?”
“There was.”
“It is his name we wish you to give. I hope you will not withhold it.”
“Why should I? You are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was Mr Maurice Gerald.”
The answer causes surprise, and something more. There is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation.
There is one on whom it produces a very different effect — the prisoner at the bar — who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers!
“May I ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?”
“By appointment.”
“It is a delicate question, Miss Poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it — in the execution of my duty: — What was the nature — the object I should rather term it — of this appointment?”
The witness hesitates to make answer.
Only for an instant. Braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies —
“Motive, or object, it is all the same. I have no intention to conceal it. I went into the garden to meet the man I loved — whom I still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! Now, sir, I hope you are satisfied?”
“Not quite,” continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; “I must ask you another question, Miss Poindexter. The course I am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the Court; and I think no one will object to it. You have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. Is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?”
“Quite true.”
The answer sends a thrill through the crowd — a thrill of indignation. It confirms the story of Calhoun. It establishes the motive of the murder!