“She never took me into her confidence about anything at all—no, sir.”
“You never saw her after her marriage?”
“Oh, yes, I did see her. I went there two or three times for tea.”
“Everything was pleasant?”
“She was very polite and pleasant—yes, sir.”
“But there was no tendency to confide in you?”
“I didn’t ask her to confide in me,” said Miss Biggs. “I didn’t ask her for anything at all—not anything.”
“But if there had been anything to confide, it would have been quite natural to confide in you—girls generally confide in their best friend, don’t they?”
“I guess so.”
“And as far as you know, there were no guilty relations between Mrs. Bellamy and Mr. Ives at the time of her death?”
“I didn’t know even whether she saw Mr. Ives,” said Florrie Biggs.
Mr. Lambert beamed gratefully. “Thank you, Miss Biggs. That’s all.”
“Just one moment more, please.” The prosecutor, too, was looking as paternal as was possible under the rather severe limitations of his saturnine countenance. “Mr. Lambert was just asking you if it would have been natural for her to confide in you, as girls generally confide in their best friends. At the time of this murder, and for many years previous, you weren’t Mrs. Bellamy’s best friend, were you, Miss Biggs?”
“No, sir, I guess I wasn’t.”
“There was very little affection and intimacy between you, wasn’t there?”
“I don’t know what you call between us,” said Miss. Biggs, and the pretty, common, swollen face was suddenly invested with dignity and beauty. “I loved her better than anyone I knew. She was the only best friend I ever had—ever.”
And swept by the hunger in that quiet and humble voice, the courtroom was suddenly empty of everyone but two little girls, warm cheeked, bright eyed, gingham clad—a sleek pigtailed head and a froth of bright curls locked together over an inkstained desk. Best friends—four scuffed feet flying down the twilight street on roller skates—two mittened paws clutching each other under the shaggy robe of the bell-hung sleigh—a slim arm around a chubby waist on the hay cart—decorous, mischievous eyes meeting over the rims of the frosted glasses of sarsaparilla while brown-stockinged legs swung free of the tall drugstore stools—a shrill voice calling down the street in the sweet-scented dusk, “Yoo-hoo, Mimi! Mimi, c’mon out and play.” Mimi, Mimi, lying so still with red on your white lace dress, come on out and—
“Thank you, Miss Biggs; that’s all.”
She stumbled a little on the step of the witness box, brushed once more at her eyes with impatient fingers and was gone.
“Call Mrs. Daniel Ives.”
“Mrs. Daniel Ives!”
All through the Court went that quickening thrill of interest. A little old lady was moving with delicate precision down the far aisle to the witness box; the redheaded girl glanced quickly from her to the corner where Patrick Ives was sitting. He had half risen from his seat and was watching her progress with a passion of protest on his haggard young face. Well, even the prosecutor said that this reckless young man had been a good son, and it could hardly be a pleasant sight for the worst of sons to see his mother moving steadily toward that place of inquisition, and to realize that it was his folly that had sent her there. He sat down abruptly, turning his face toward the blue autumnal sky outside the window, against which the bare boughs of the tree spread like black lace. The circles under his eyes looked darker than ever.
As quietly as though it were a daily practice, Mrs. Ives was raising a neat black-gloved hand to take the oath and setting a daintily shod foot on the step of the witness box. She seated herself unhurriedly, opened the black fur collar at her throat, folded her hands on the edge of the box, and lifted a pair of dark blue eyes, bravely serene, to the shrewd coolness of the prosecutor. There was just a glimpse of silver hair under the old-fashioned black toque with its wisp of lace and round jet pins; there was the faintest touch of pink in her cheeks and a small smile on her lips, shy and gracious. The kind of mother, decided the redheaded girl, that you would invent, if you were very talented.
“Mrs. Ives, you are the mother of Patrick Ives, are you not?”
“I am.”
The gentle voice was as clear and true as a little bell.
“You heard Miss Biggs’s testimony?”
“Oh, yes; my hearing is still excellent.” The small smile deepened for a moment to friendly amusement.
“Were you aware of the state of affairs between Madeleine Bellamy and your son at the time that war broke out?”
“I was aware that he was paying her very marked attention, naturally, but I was most certainly not aware that they were seriously considering marriage. Both of them seemed absolute babies to me, of course.”
“Had your son confided in you his intentions on the subject?”
“I believe that if he had had any such intentions he would have; but no, he had not.”
“You were entirely in his confidence?”
“I hope so. I believe so.” The deep blue eyes hovered compassionately over the averted face strained toward the window, and then moved tranquilly back to meet the prosecutor’s.
“When this affair with Mrs. Bellamy was renewed in , did he confide it to you?”
“Oh, no.”
“Showing thereby that you were not entirely in his confidence, Mrs. Ives?”
“Or showing perhaps that there was nothing to confide,” said Mrs. Daniel Ives gently.
The prosecutor jerked his head irritably. “The state is in possession of an abundance of material to prove that there was everything to confide, I assure you, Mrs. Ives. However, it is not my intention to make this any more difficult for you than is strictly necessary. How long ago did you come to Rosemont?”
“About fifteen years ago.”
“You were a widow and obliged to support yourself?”
“No, that’s hardly accurate. I was not supporting myself entirely and I was not a widow.” The pale roses deepened a little
