“I have said,” she began, “that Mrs. Clemmens was winding her clock. When I came in she stepped down, and a short and angry colloquy commenced between us. She did not like my coming there. She did not appreciate my interest in her nephew. She made me furious, frenzied, mad. I—I turned away—then I came back. She was standing with her face lifted toward her clock, as though she no longer heeded or remembered my presence. I—I don’t know what came to me; whether it was hatred or love that maddened my brain—but—”
She did not finish; she did not need to. The look she gave, the attitude she took, the appalling gesture which she made, supplied the place of language. In an instant Mr. Ferris, Mr. Orcutt, all the many and confused spectators who hung upon her words as if spellbound, realized that instead of giving evidence inculpating the prisoner, she was giving evidence accusing herself; that, in other words, Imogene Dare, goaded to madness by the fearful alternative of either destroying her lover or sacrificing herself, had yielded to the claims of her love or her conscience, and in hearing of judge and jury, proclaimed herself to be the murderess of Mrs. Clemmens.
The moment that followed was frightful. The prisoner, who was probably the only man present who foresaw her intention when she began to speak, had sunk back into his seat and covered his face with his hands long before she reached the fatal declaration. But the spectacle presented by Mr. Orcutt was enough, as with eyes dilated and lips half parted in consternation, he stood before them a victim of overwhelming emotion; so overcome, indeed, as scarcely to be able to give vent to the one low and memorable cry that involuntarily left his lips as the full realization of what she had done smote home to his stricken breast.
As for Mr. Ferris, he stood dumb, absolutely robbed of speech by this ghastly confession he had unwillingly called from his witness’ lips; while slowly from end to end of that courtroom the wave of horror spread, till Imogene, her cause, and that of the wretched prisoner himself, seemed swallowed up in one fearful tide of unreality and nightmare.
The first gleam of relief came from the Judge.
“Miss Dare,” said he, in his slow, kindly way that nothing could impair, “do you realize the nature of the evidence you have given to the court?”
Her slowly falling head and white face, from which all the fearful excitement was slowly ebbing in a dead despair, gave answer for her.
“I fear that you are not in a condition to realize the effect of your words,” the Judge went on. “Sympathy for the prisoner or the excitement of being recalled to the stand has unnerved or confused you. Take time, Miss Dare, the court will wait; reconsider your words, and then tell us the truth about this matter.”
But Imogene, with white lips and drooped head, answered hurriedly:
“I have nothing to consider. I have told, or attempted to tell, how Mrs. Clemmens came to her death. She was struck down by me; Craik Mansell there is innocent.”
At this repetition in words of what she had before merely intimated by a gesture, the Judge ceased his questions, and the horror of the multitude found vent in one long, low, but irrepressible murmur. Taking advantage of the momentary disturbance, Byrd turned to his colleague with the agitated inquiry:
“Hickory, is this what you have had in your mind for the last few days?”
“This,” repeated the other, with an air of careful consideration, assumed, as Byrd thought, to conceal any emotion which he might have felt; “no, no, not really. I—I don’t know what I thought. Not this though.” And he fixed his eyes upon Imogene’s fallen countenance, with an expression of mingled doubt and wonder, as baffling in its nature as the tone of voice he had used.
“But,” stammered Byrd, with an earnestness that almost partook of the nature of pleading, “she is not speaking the truth, of course. What we heard her say in the hut—”
“Hush!” interposed the other, with a significant gesture and a sudden glance toward the prisoner and his counsel; “watching is better than talking just now. Besides, Orcutt is going to speak.”
It was so. After a short and violent conflict with the almost overwhelming emotions that had crushed upon him with the words and actions of Imogene, the great lawyer had summoned up sufficient control over himself to reassume the duties of his position and face once more the expectant crowd, and the startled, if not thoroughly benumbed, jury.
His first words had the well-known ring, and, like a puff of cool air through a heated atmosphere, at once restored the courtroom to its usual condition of formality and restraint.
“This is not evidence, but the raving of frenzy,” he said, in impassioned tones. “The witness has been tortured by the demands of the prosecution, till she is no longer responsible for her words.” And turning toward the District Attorney, who, at the first sound of his adversary’s voice, had roused himself from the stupor into which he had been thrown by the fearful and unexpected turn which Imogene’s confession had taken, he continued: “If my learned friend is not lost to all feelings of humanity, he will withdraw from the stand a witness laboring under a mental aberration of so serious a nature.”
Mr. Ferris was an irritable man, but he was touched with sympathy for his friend, reeling under so heavy a blow. He therefore forbore to notice this taunt save by a low bow, but turned at once to the Judge.
“Your Honor,” said he, “I desire to be understood by the Court, that the statement which has just been made in your hearing by this witness, is as much of a surprise to
