The Chief Witness for the Prosecution.

Oh, while you live tell truth and shame the devil!

Henry iv.

MR. BYRD’S countenance after the departure of his companion was any thing but cheerful. The fact is, he was secretly uneasy. He dreaded the morrow. He dreaded the testimony of Miss Dare. He had not yet escaped so fully from under the dominion of her fascinations as to regard with equanimity this unhappy woman forcing herself to give testimony compromising to the man she loved.

Yet when the morrow came he was among the first to secure a seat in the court-room. Though the scene was likely to be harrowing to his feelings, he had no wish to lose it, and, indeed, chose such a position as would give him the best opportunity for observing the prisoner and surveying the witnesses.

He was not the only one on the look-out for the testimony of Miss Dare. The increased number of the spectators and the general air of expectation visible in more than one of the chief actors in this terrible drama gave suspicious proof of the fact; even if the deadly pallor of the lady herself had not revealed her own feelings in regard to the subject.

The entrance of the prisoner was more marked, too, than usual. His air and manner were emphasized, so to speak, and his face, when he turned it toward the jury, wore an iron look of resolution that would have made him conspicuous had he occupied a less prominent position than that of the dock.

Miss Dare, who had flashed her eyes toward him at the moment of his first appearance, dropped them again, contrary to her usual custom. Was it because she knew the moment was at hand when their glances would be obliged to meet?

Mr. Orcutt, whom no movement on the part of Miss Dare ever escaped, leaned over and spoke to the prisoner.

“Mr. Mansell,” said he, “are you prepared to submit with composure to the ordeal of confronting Miss Dare?”

“Yes,” was the stern reply.

“I would then advise you to look at her now,” proceeded his counsel. “She is not turned this way, and you can observe her without encountering her glance. A quick look at this moment may save you from betraying any undue emotion when you see her upon the stand.”

The accused smiled with a bitterness Mr. Orcutt thought perfectly natural, and slowly prepared to obey. As he raised his eyes and allowed them to traverse the room until they settled upon the countenance of the woman he loved, this other man who, out of a still more absorbing passion for Imogene, was at that very moment doing all that lay in his power for the saving of this his openly acknowledged rival, watched him with the closest and most breathless attention. It was another instance of that peculiar fascination which a successful rival has for an unsuccessful one. It was as if this great lawyer’s thoughts reverted to his love, and he asked himself: “What is there in this Mansell that she should prefer him to me?”

And Orcutt himself, though happily unaware of the fact, was at that same instant under a scrutiny as narrow as that he bestowed upon his client. Mr. Ferris, who knew his secret, felt a keen interest in watching how he would conduct himself at this juncture. Not an expression of the lawyer’s keen and puzzling eye but was seen by the District Attorney and noted, even if it was not understood.

Of the three, Mr. Ferris was the first to turn away, and his thoughts if they could have been put into words might have run something like this: “That man”— meaning Orcutt —“is doing the noblest work one human being can perform for another, and yet there is something in his face I do not comprehend. Can it be he hopes to win Miss Dare by his effort to save his rival?”

As for the thoughts of the person thus unconsciously subjected to the criticism of his dearest friend, let our knowledge of the springs that govern his action serve to interpret both the depth and bitterness of his curiosity; while the sentiments of Mansell —— But who can read what lurks behind the iron of that sternly composed countenance? Not Imogene, not Orcutt, not Ferris. His secret, if he owns one, he keeps well, and his lids scarcely quiver as he drops them over the eyes that but a moment before reflected the grand beauty of the unfortunate woman for whom he so lately protested the most fervent love.

The next moment the court was opened and Miss Dare’s name was called by the District Attorney.

With a last look at the unresponsive prisoner, Imogene rose, took her place on the witness stand and faced the jury.

It was a memorable moment. If the curious and impressible crowd of spectators about her had been ignorant of her true relations to the accused, the deadly stillness and immobility of her bearing would have convinced them that emotion of the deepest nature lay behind the still, white mask she had thought fit to assume. That she was beautiful and confronted them from that common stand as from a throne, did not serve to lessen the impression she made.

The officer held the Bible toward her. With a look that Mr. Byrd was fain to consider one of natural shrinking only, she laid her white hand upon it; but at the intimation from the officer, “The right hand, if you please, miss,” she started and made the exchange he suggested, while at the same moment there rang upon her ear the voice of the clerk as he administered the awful adjuration that she should, as she believed and hoped in Eternal mercy, tell the truth as between this man and the law and keep not one tittle back. The book was then lifted to her lips by the officer, and withdrawn.

“Take your seat, Miss Dare,” said the District Attorney. And the examination began.

“Your name, if you please?”

“Imogene Dare.”

“Are you married or single?”

“I am single.”

“Where were you born?”

Now this was a painful question to one of her history. Indeed, she showed it to be so by the flush which rose to her cheek and by the decided trembling of her proud lip. But she did not seek to evade it.

“Sir,” she said, “I cannot answer you. I never heard any of the particulars of my birth. I was a foundling.”

The mingled gentleness and dignity with which she made this acknowledgment won for her the instantaneous sympathy of all present. Mr. Orcutt saw this, and the flash of indignation that had involuntarily passed between him and the prisoner subsided as quickly as it arose.

Mr. Ferris went on.

“Where do you live?”

“In this town?”

“With whom do you live?”

“I am boarding at present with a woman of the name of Kennedy. I support myself by my needle,” she hurriedly added, as though anxious to forestall his next question.

Seeing the prisoner start at this, Imogene lifted her head still higher. Evidently this former lover of hers knew little of her movements since they parted so many weeks ago.

“And how long is it since you supported yourself in this way?” asked the District Attorney.

“For a few weeks only. Formerly,” she said, making a slight inclination in the direction of the prisoner’s counsel, “I lived in the household of Mr. Orcutt, where I occupied the position of assistant to the lady who looks after his domestic affairs.” And her eye met the lawyer’s with a look of pride that made him inwardly cringe, though not even the jealous glance of the prisoner could detect that an eyelash quivered or a flicker disturbed the studied serenity of his gaze.

The District Attorney opened his lips as if to pursue this topic, but, meeting his opponent’s eye, concluded to waive further preliminaries and proceed at once to the more serious part of the examination.

“Miss Dare,” said he, “will you look at the prisoner and tell us if you have any acquaintance with him?”

Slowly she prepared to reply; slowly she turned her head and let her glance traverse that vast crowd till it settled upon her former lover. The look which passed like lightning across her face as she encountered his gaze fixed for the first time steadily upon her own, no one in that assemblage ever forgot.

“Yes,” she returned, quietly, but in a tone that made Mansell quiver and look away, despite his iron self-command; “I know him.”

“Will you be kind enough to say how long you have known him and where it was you first made his acquaintance?”

“I met him first in Buffalo some four months since,” was the steady reply. “He was calling at a friend’s house where I was staying.”

“Did you at that time know of his relation to your townswoman, Mrs. Clemmens?”

“No, sir. It was not till I had seen him several times that I learned he had any connections in Sibley.”

“Miss Dare, you will excuse me, but it is highly desirable for the court to know if the prisoner ever paid his addresses to you?”

The deep, almost agonizing blush that colored her white cheek answered as truly as the slow “Yes,” that struggled painfully to her lips.

“And — excuse me again, Miss Dare — did he propose marriage to you?”

“He did.”

“Did you accept him?”

“I did not.”

“Did you refuse him?”

“I refused to engage myself to him.”

“Miss Dare, will you tell us when you left Buffalo?”

“On the nineteenth day of August last.”

“Did the prisoner accompany you?”

“He did not.”

“Upon what sort of terms did you part?”

“Good terms, sir.”

“Do you mean friendly terms, or such as are held by a man and a woman between whom an attachment exists which, under favorable circumstances, may culminate in marriage?”

“The latter, sir, I think.”

“Did you receive any letters from the prisoner after your return to Sibley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you answer them?”

“I did.”

“Miss Dare, may I now ask what reasons you gave the prisoner for declining his offer — that is, if my friend does not object to the question?” added the District Attorney, turning with courtesy toward Mr. Orcutt.

The latter, who had started to his feet, bowed composedly and prepared to resume his seat.

“I desire to put nothing in the way of your eliciting the whole truth concerning this matter,” was his quiet, if somewhat constrained, response.

Mr. Ferris at once turned back to Miss Dare.

“You will, then, answer,” he said.

Imogene lifted her head and complied.

“I told him,” she declared, with thrilling distinctness, “that he was in no condition to marry. I am by nature an ambitious woman, and, not having suffered at that time, thought more of my position before the world than of what constitutes the worth and dignity of a man.”

No one who heard these words could doubt they were addressed to the prisoner. Haughtily as she held herself, there was a deprecatory humility in her tone that neither judge nor jury could have elicited from her. Naturally many eyes turned in the direction of the prisoner. They saw two white faces before them, that of the accused and that of his counsel, who sat near him. But the pallor of the one was of scorn, and that of the other —— Well, no one who knew the relations of Mr. Orcutt to the witness could wonder that the renowned lawyer shrank from hearing the woman he loved confess her partiality for another man.

Mr. Ferris, who understood the situation as well as any one, but who had passed the point where sympathy could interfere with his action, showed a disposition to press his advantage.

“Miss Dare,” he inquired, “in declining the proposals of the prisoner, did you state to him in so many words these objections you have here mentioned?”

“I did.”

“And what answer did he give you?”

“He replied that he was also ambitious, and hoped and intended to make a success in life.”

“And did he tell you how he hoped and intended to make a success?”

“He did.”

“Miss Dare, were these letters written by you?”

She looked at the packet he held toward her, started as she saw the broad black ribbon that encircled it, and bowed her head.

“I have no doubt these are my letters,” she rejoined, a little tremulously for her. And unbinding the packet, she examined its contents. “Yes,” she answered, “they are. These letters were all written by me.”

And she handed them back with such haste that the ribbon which bound them remained in her fingers, where consciously or unconsciously she held it clutched all through the remaining time of her examination.

“Now,” said the District Attorney, “I propose to read two of these letters. Does my friend wish to look at them before I offer them in evidence?” holding them out to Mr. Orcutt.

Every eye in the court-room was fixed upon the latter’s face, as the letters addressed to his rival by the woman he wished to make his wife, were tendered in this public manner to his inspection. Even the iron face of Mansell relaxed into an expression of commiseration as he turned and surveyed the man who, in despite of the anomalous position they held toward each other, was thus engaged in battling for his life before the eyes of the whole world. At that instant there was not a spectator who did not feel that Tremont Orcutt was the hero of the moment.

He slowly turned to the prisoner:

“Have you any objection to these letters being read?”

“No,” returned the other, in a low tone.

Mr. Orcutt turned firmly to the District Attorney:

“You may read them if you think proper,” said he.

Mr. Ferris bowed; the letters were marked as exhibits by the stenographic reporter who was taking the minutes of testimony, and handed back to Ferris, who proceeded to read the following in a clear voice to the jury:

“SIBLEY, N. Y., September 7, 1882.

“DEAR FRIEND — You show signs of impatience, and ask for a word to help you through this period of uncertainty and unrest. What can I say more than I have said? That I believe in you and in your invention, and proudly wait for the hour when you will come to claim me with the fruit of your labors in your hand. I am impatient myself, but I have more trust than you. Some one will see the value of your work before long, or else your aunt will interest herself in your success, and lend you that practical assistance which you need to start you in the way of fortune and fame. I cannot think you are going to fail. I will not allow myself to look forward to any thing less than success for you and happiness for myself. For the one involves the other, as you must know by this time, or else believe me to be the most heartless of coquettes.

“Wishing to see you, but of the opinion that further meetings between us would be unwise till our future looks more settled, I remain, hopefully yours,

“IMOGENE DARE.”

“The other letter I propose to read,” continued Mr. Ferris, “is dated September 23d, three days before the widow’s death.

“DEAR CRAIK — Since you insist upon seeing me, and say that you have reasons of your own for not visiting me openly, I will consent to meet you at the trysting spot you mention, though all such underhand dealings are as foreign to my nature as I believe them to be to yours.

“Trusting that fortune will so favor us as to make it unnecessary for us to meet in this way more than once, I wait in anxiety for your coming.

“IMOGENE DARE.”

These letters, unfolding relations that, up to this time, had been barely surmised by the persons congregated before her, created a great impression. To those especially who knew her and believed her to be engaged to Mr. Orcutt the surprise was wellnigh thrilling. The witness seemed to feel this, and bestowed a short, quick glance upon the lawyer, that may have partially recompensed him for the unpleasantness of the general curiosity.

The Prosecuting Attorney went on without pause:

“Miss Dare,” said he, “did you meet the prisoner as you promised?”

“I did.”

“Will you tell me when and where?”

“On the afternoon of Monday, September 27th, in the glade back of Mrs. Clemmens’ house.”

“Miss Dare, we fully realize the pain it must cost you to refer to these matters, but I must request you to tell us what passed between you at this interview?”

“If you will ask me questions, sir, I will answer them with the truth the subject demands.”

The sorrowful dignity with which this was said, called forth a bow from the Prosecuting Attorney.

“Very well,” he rejoined, “did the prisoner have any thing to say about his prospects?”

“He did.”

“How did he speak of them?”

“Despondingly.”

“And what reason did he give for this?”

“He said he had failed to interest any capitalist in his invention.”

“Any other reason?”

“Yes.”

“What was that?”

“That he had just come from his aunt whom he had tried to persuade to advance him a sum of money to carry out his wishes, but that she had refused.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he also tell you what path he had taken to his aunt’s house?”

“No, sir.”

“Was there any thing said by him to show he did not take the secret path through the woods and across the bog to her back door?”

“No, sir.”

“Or that he did not return in the same way?”

“No, sir.”

“Miss Dare, did the prisoner express to you at this time irritation as well as regret at the result of his efforts to elicit money from his aunt?”

“Yes,” was the evidently forced reply.

“Can you remember any words that he used which would tend to show the condition of his mind?”

“I have no memory for words,” she began, but flushed as she met the eye of the Judge, and perhaps remembered her oath. “I do recollect, however, one expression he used. He said: ‘My life is worth nothing to me without success. If only to win you, I must put this matter through; and I will do it yet.’”

She repeated this quietly, giving it no emphasis and scarcely any inflection, as if she hoped by her mechanical way of uttering it to rob it of any special meaning. But she did not succeed, as was shown by the compassionate tone in which Mr. Ferris next ............