When court opened on Saturday morning, all the persons interested in the Burnham suit were present, and the court-room was crowded to even a greater extent than it had been on the previous day. Sharpman began the proceedings by offering in evidence the files of the Register's court, showing the date of Robert Burnham's death, the issuing of letters of administration to his widow, and the inventory and appraisement of his personal estate.
Then he called Simon Craft to the witness-stand. There was a stir of excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and to hear his evidence.
The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat, leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the examination to begin. He looked across the bar into the faces of the people with the utmost calmness. He was perfectly at his ease. He knew that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to tell it effectually. It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts as a witness in other cases.
The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc., were answered with alacrity.
Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:—
"Do you know this boy?"
"I do," answered Craft, unhesitatingly.
"What is his name?"
"Ralph Burnham."
"When did you first see him?"
"On the night of May 13, 1859."
"Under what circumstances?"
This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon, clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and began.
He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. He corroborated conductor Merrick's story of the meeting on the train which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it.
He told of his attempts to find the child's friends during the few days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night of the accident. From that point, he went on with an account of his continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to the lad's identity, of his final success, of Ralph's unaccountable disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat.
He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an extent, and his sympathy for the child's parents was such, that he could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him.
He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the boy's whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery at the tent in Scranton.
"Well," said Sharpman, "when you had found the boy, what did you do?"
"I went, the very next day," was the reply, "to Robert Burnham to tell him that his son was living."
"What conversation did you have with him?"
"I object," interposed Goodlaw, "to evidence of any alleged conversation between this witness and Robert Burnham. Counsel should know better than to ask for it."
"The question is not a proper one," said the judge.
"Well," continued Sharpman, "as a result of that meeting what were you to do?"
"I was to bring his son to him the following day."
"Did you bring him?"
"I did not."
"Why not?"
"Mr. Burnham died that night."
"What did you do then?"
"I went to you for advice."
"In pursuance of that advice, did you have an interview with the boyRalph?"
"I did."
"Where?"
"At your office."
"Did you explain to him the facts concerning his parentage and history?"
"They were explained to him."
"What did he say he wished you to do for him?"
Goodlaw interrupted again, to object to the testimony offered as incompetent and thereupon ensued an argument between counsel, which was cut short by the judge ordering the testimony to be excluded, and directing a bill of exceptions to be sealed for the plaintiff.
The hour for the noon recess had now come, and court was adjourned to meet again at two o'clock.
When the afternoon session was called, Sharpman announced that he was through with the direct examination of Craft.
Then Goodlaw took the witness in hand. He asked many questions about Craft's personal history, about the wreck, and about the rescue of the child. He demanded a full account of the way in which Robert Burnham had been discovered, by the witness and found to be Ralph's father. He called for the explicit reason for every opinion given, but Old Simon was on safe ground, and his testimony remained unshaken.
Finally, Goodlaw asked:—
"What is your occupation, Mr. Craft?" and Craft answered: "I have no occupation at present, except to see that this boy gets his rights."
"What was your occupation during the time that this boy lived with you?"
"I was a travelling salesman."
"What did you sell?"
"Jewelry, mostly."
"For whom did you sell the jewelry?"
"For myself, and others who employed me."
"Where did you obtain the goods you sold?"
"Some of it I bought, some of it I sold on commission."
"Of whom did you buy it?"
"Sometimes I bought it at auction, or at sheriff's sales; sometimes of private parties; sometimes of manufacturers and wholesalers."
Goodlaw rose to his feet. "Now, as a matter of fact, sir," he said, sternly, "did not you retail goods through the country that had been furnished to you by your confederates in crime? and was not your house in the city a place for the reception of stolen wares?"
Craft's cane came to the floor with a sharp rap. "No, sir!" he replied, with much indignation; "I have never harbored thieves, nor sold stolen goods to my knowledge. You insult me, sir!"
Goodlaw resumed his seat, looked at some notes in pencil on a slip of paper, and then resumed the examination.
"Did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" he asked.
"Well, you see, we had pretty hard work sometimes to get along and get enough to eat, and—"
"I say, did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?"
"Well, I'm telling you that sometimes we had either to beg or to starve. Then the boy went out and asked aid from wealthy people."
"Did you send him?"
"Yes, I did; but not against his will."
"Did you sometimes whip him for not bringing back money to you from his begging excursions?"
"I punished him once or twice for telling falsehoods to me."
"Did you beat him for not bringing money to you when you sent him out to beg?"
"He came home once or twice when I had reason to believe that he had made no effort to procure assistance for us, and—"
Goodlaw rose to his feet again.
"Answer my question!" he exclaimed. "Did you beat this boy for not bringing back money to you when you had sent him out to beg?"
"Yes, I did," replied Craft, now thoroughly aroused, "and I'd do it again, too, under the same circumstances."
Then he was seized with a fit of coughing that racked his feeble body from head to foot. A tipstaff brought him a glass of water, and he finally recovered.
Goodlaw continued, sarcastically,—
"When you found it necessary to correct this boy by the gentle persuasion of force, what kind of a weapon did you use?"
The witness answered, mildly enough, "I had a little strip of leather that I used when it was unavoidably necessary."
"A rawhide, was it?"
"I said a little strip of leather. You can call it what you choose."
"Was it the kind of a strip of leather commonly known as a rawhide?"
"It was."
"What other mode of punishment did you practise on this child besides rawhiding him?"
"I can't recall any."
"Did you pull his ears?"
"Probably."
"Pinch his flesh?"
"Sometimes."
"Pull his hair?"
"Oh, I shouldn't wonder."
"Knock him down with your fist?"
"No, sir! never, never!"
"Did you never strike him with the palm of your hand?"
"Well, I have slapped him when my patience with him has been exhausted."
"Did any of these slaps ever happen to push him over?"
"Why, he used to tumble onto the floor sometimes, to cry and pretend he was hurt."
"Well, what other means of grandfatherly persuasion did you use in correcting the child?"
"I don't know of any."
"Did you ever lock him up in a dark closet?"
"I think I did, once or twice; yes."
"For how long at a time?"
"Oh, not more than an hour or two."
"Now, didn't you lock him up that way once, and keep him locked up all day and all night?"
"I think not so long as that. He was unusually stubborn. I told him he could come out as soon as he would promise obedience. He remained in there of his own accord."
"Appeared to like it, did he?"
"I can't say as to that."
"For how long a time did you say he stayed there?"
"Oh, I think from one afternoon till the next."
"Did he have anything to eat during that time?"
"I promised him abundance if he would do as I told him."
"Did he have anything to eat?" emphatically.
"No!" just as emphatically.
"What was it he refused to do?"
"Simply to go on a little errand for me."
"Where?"
"To the house of a friend."
"For what purpose?"
"To get some jewelry."
"Was the jewelry yours?"
"I expected to purchase it."
"Had it been stolen?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Did the boy think it had been stolen?"
"He pretended to."
"Was that the reason he would not go?"
"It was the reason he gave."
"Have the city police found stolen goods on your premises?"
"They have confiscated goods that were innocently purchased by me; they have robbed me."
"Did you compel this boy to lie to the officers when they came?"
"I made him hold his tongue."
"Did you make him lie?"
"I ordered him not to tell where certain goods were stored in the house, on pain of being thrashed within an inch of his life. The goods were mine, bought with my money, and it was none of their business where they were."
"Did you not command the boy to say that there were no such goods in the house?"
"I don't know—perhaps; I was exasperated at the outrage they were perpetrating in the name of law."
"Then you did make him lie?"
"Yes, if you call it lying to protect your own property from robbers,I did make him lie!"
"More than once?"
"I don't know."
"Did you make him steal?"
"I made him take what belonged to us."
"Did you make himsteal, I say!"
"Call it what you like!" shouted the angered and excited old man. He had become so annoyed and harassed by this persistent, searching cross-examination that he was growing reckless and telling the truth in spite of himself. Besides, it seemed to him that Goodlaw must know all about Ralph's life with him, and he dared not go far astray in his answers.
But the lawyer knew only what Craft himself was disclosing. He based each question on the answers that had preceded it, long practice having enabled him to estimate closely what was lying in the mind of the witness.
"And so," continued Goodlaw, "when you returned from one of your trips into the country you found that the boy had disappeared?"
"He had."
"Were you surprised at that?"
"Yes, I was."
"Had you any idea why he went away?"
"None whatever. He was well fed and clothed and cared for."
"Did it ever occur to you that the Almighty made some boys with hearts so honest that they had rather starve and die by the roadside than be made to lie and steal at home?"
The old man did not answer, he was too greatly surprised and angered to reply.
"Well," said Sharpman, calmly, "I don't know, if your Honor please, that the witness is bound to be sufficiently versed in the subject of Christian ethics to answer questions of that kind."
"He need not answer it," said the judge.
Then Sharpman continued, more vehemently: "The cross-examination, as conducted by the eminent counsel, has, thus far, been simply an outrage on professional courtesy. I ask now that the gentleman be confined to questions which are germane to the issue and decently put."
"I have but a few more questions to ask," said Goodlaw.
Turning to the witness again, he continued: "If you succeed in establishing this boy's identity, you will have a bill to present for care and moneys expended and services performed on his account, will you not?"
"I expect so; yes, sir."
"As the service continued through a period of years, the bill will amount now to quite a large sum, I presume?"
"Yes, I nave done a good deal for the boy."
"You expect to retain the usual commission for your services as guardian, do you not?"
"I do."
"And to control the moneys and properties that may come into your hands?"
"Well—yes."
"About how much money, all together, do you expect to make out of this estate?"
"I do not look on it in that light, sir; I am taking these proceedings simply to compel you and your client to give that boy his rights."
This impudent assertion angered Goodlaw, who well knew the object of the plot, and he rose from his chair, saying deliberately:—
"Do you mean to swear that this is not a deep-laid scheme on the part of you and your attorney to wrest from this estate enough to make a fortune for you both? Do you mean to say mat you care as much for this boy's rights as you do for the dust in your path?"
Craft's face paled, and Sharpman started to his feet, red with passion.
"This is the last straw!" he exclaimed, hoarsely; "now I intend"—
But the judge, fearing an uncontrollable outbreak of temper, interrupted him, saying:—
"Your witness need not answer the question in that form, Mr. Sharpman.Mr. Goodlaw, do you desire to cross-examine the witness further?"
Goodlaw had resumed his seat and was turning over his papers.
"I do not care to take up the time of the court any longer," he said, "with this witness."
"Then, Mr. Sharpman, you may proceed with further evidence."
But Sharpman was still smarting from the blow inflicted by his opponent. "I desire, first," he said, "that the court shall take measures to protect me and my client from the unfounded and insulting charges of counsel for the defence."
"We will see," said the judge, "that no harm comes to you or to your cause from irrelevant matter interjected by counsel. But let us get on with the case. We are taking too much time."
Sharpman turned again to his papers and called the name of "AnthonyHenderson."
An old man arose in the audience, and made his way feebly to the witness-stand, which had just been vacated by Craft.
After he had been sworn, he said, in reply to questions by Sharpman, that he was a resident of St. Louis; that in May, 1859, he was on his way east with his little grandson, and went down with the train that broke through the bridge at Cherry Brook.
He said that before the crash came he had noticed a lady and gentleman sitting across the aisle from him, and a nurse and child a few seats further ahead; that his attention had been called to the child particularly, because he was a boy and about the age of his own little grandson.
He said he was on the train that carried the rescued passengers to Philadelphia after the accident, and that, passing through the car, he had seen the same child who had been with the nurse now sitting with an old man; he was sure the child was the same, as he stopped and looked at him closely. The features of the old man he could not remember. For two days he searched for his grandson, but being met, on every hand, by indisputable proof that the child had perished in the wreck, he then started on his return journey to St. Louis, and had not since been east until the week before the trial.
"How did the plaintiff in this case find you out?" asked Goodlaw, on cross-examination.
"I found him out," replied the witness. "I learned, from the newspapers, that the trial was to take place; and, seeing that it related to the Cherry Brook disaster, I came here to learn what little else I might in connection with my grandchild's death. I went, first, to see the counsel for the plaintiff and his client."
"Have you learned anything new about your grandson?"
"No, sir; nothing."
"Have you heard from him since the accident?"
"I have not."
"Are you sure he is dead?"
"I have no doubt of it."
"Can you recognize this boy," pointing to Ralph, "as the one whom you saw with the nurse and afterward with the old man on the night of the accident?"
"Oh, no! he was a mere baby at that time."
"Are you positive that the boy in court is not your grandson?"
"Perfectly positive, there is not the slightest resemblance."
"That will do."
The cross-examination had done little more than to strengthen the direct testimony. Mrs. Burnham had thrown aside her veil and gazed intently at the witness from the moment he went on the stand. She recognized him as the man who sat across the aisle from her, with his grandchild, on the night of the disaster, and she knew that he was telling the truth. There seemed to be no escape from the conclusion that it was her child who went down to the city that night with Simon Craft. Was it her child who escaped from him, and wandered, sick and destitute, almost to her own door? Her thought was interrupted by the voice of Sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was calling the name of another witness: "Richard Lyon!"
A young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand.
"What is your occupation?" asked Sharpman, after the man had given his name and residence.
"I'm a driver for Farnum an' Furkison."
"Who are Farnum and Furkison?"
"They run the Great European Circus an' Menagerie."
"Have you ever seen this boy before?" pointing to Ralph.
"Yes, sir."
"When?"
"Three years ago this summer."
"Where?"
"Down in Pennsylvania. It was after we left Bloomsburg, I think, I picked 'im up along the road an' give 'im a ride on the tiger wagon."
"How long did he stay with you?"
"Oh, I don't remember; four or five days, maybe."
"What did he do?"
"Well, not much; chored around a little."
"Did he tell you where he came from?"
"No, nor he wouldn't tell his name. Seemed to be afraid somebody'd ketch 'im; I couldn't make out who. He talked about some one he called Gran'pa Craft two or three times w'en he was off his guard, an' I reckoned from what he said that he come from Philadelphy."
"Where did he leave you?"
"Didn't leave us at all. We left him; played the desertion act on 'im."
"Where?"
"At Scranton."
"Why?"
"Well, he wasn't much use to us, an' he got sick an' couldn't do anything, an' the boss wouldn't let us take 'im no further, so we left 'im there."
"Are you sure this is the boy?"
"Oh, yes! positive. He's bigger, an' looks better now, but he's the same boy, I know he is."
"Cross-examine."
This last remark was addressed to the defendant's attorney.
"I have no questions to ask," said Goodlaw, "I have no doubt the witness tells the truth."
"That's all," said Sharpman, quickly; then, turning again toward the court-room, he called:
"William Buckley!"
Bachelor Billy arose from among the crowds on the front benches, and made his way awkwardly around the aisle and up to the witness-stand. After the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered, he waited, looking out over the multitude of faces turned toward him, while Sharpman consulted his notes.
"Do you know this boy?" the lawyer asked, pointing to Ralph.
"Do I know that boy?" repeated Billy, pointing also to Ralph, "'deed I do that. I ken 'im weel."
"When did you first see him?"
"An he's the son o' Robert Burnham, I seen 'im first i' the arms o' 'is mither a matter o' ten year back or so. She cam' t' the breaker on a day wi' her gude mon, an' she had the bairnie in her arms. Ye'll remember it, na doot, Mistress Burnham," turning to that lady as he spoke, "how ye said to me 'Billy,' said ye, 'saw ye ever so fine a baby as'"—
"Well, never mind that," interrupted Sharpman; "when did you next see the boy?"
"Never till I pickit 'im up o' the road."
"And when was that?"
"It'll be three year come the middle o' June. I canna tell ye the day."
"On what road was it?"
"I'll tell ye how it cam' aboot. It was the mornin' after the circus. I was a-comin' doon fra Providence, an' when I got along the ither side o' whaur the tents was I see a bit lad a-layin' by the roadside, sick. It was him," pointing to Ralph and smiling kindly on him, "it was Ralph yonner. I says to 'im, 'What's the matter wi' ye, laddie?' says I. 'I'm sick,' says 'e, 'an' they've goned an' lef me.' 'Who's lef' ye?' says I. 'The circus,' says he. 'An' ha' ye no place to go?' says I. 'No,' says 'e, 'I ain't; not any.' So I said t' the lad as he s'ould come along wi' me. He could na walk, he was too sick, I carried 'im, but he was no' much o' a load. I took 'im hame wi' me an' pit 'im i' the bed. He got warse, an' I bringit the doctor. Oh! but he was awfu' sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu' as ye please. An' the Widow Maloney she 'tended 'im like a mither, she did."
"Did you find out where he came from?"
"Wull, he said little aboot 'imsel' at the first, he was a bit afraid to talk wi' strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam' fra Philadelphy. He tellit me, in fact," said Billy, in a burst of confidence, "that 'e rin awa' fra th'auld mon, Simon Craft, him that's a-settin' yonner. But it's small blame to the lad; ye s'ould na lay that up again' 'im. Hehadto do it, look ye! had ye not, eh, Ralph?"
Before Ralph could reply, Sharpman interrupted: "And has the boy been with you ever since?"
"He has that, an' I could na think o' his goin' awa' noo, an it would na be for his gret good."
"In your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found among the boys who work about the mines? I mean, do his manners, modes of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better blood than ordinary?"
"Why, yes," replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, "yes. He has a way wi' 'im, the lad has, that ye'd think he did na belong amang such as we. He's as gentle as a lass, an' that lovin', why, he's that lovin' that ye could na speak sharp till 'im an ye had need to. But ye'll no' need to, Mistress Burnham, ye'll no' need to."
The lady was sitting with her veil across her face, smiling now and then, wiping away a tear or two, listening carefully to catch every word.
Then the witness was turned over to the counsel for the defence, for cross-examination.
"What else has the boy done or said to make you think he is of gentler birth than his companions in the breaker?" asked Goodlaw, somewhat sarcastically.
"Why, the lad does na swear nor say bad words."
"What else?"
"He's tidy wi' the clothes, an' hewullbe clean."
"What else?"
"What else? wull, they be times when he says things to ye so quick like, so bright like, so lofty like, 'at ye'd mos' think he was na human like the rest o' us. An' 'e fears naught, ye canna mak' 'im afeard o' doin' what's richt. D'ye min' the time 'e jumpit on the carriage an' went doon wi' the rest o' them to bring oot the burnit uns? an' cam' up alive when Robert Burnham met his death? Ah, mon! no coward chiel 'd 'a' done like that."
"Might not a child of very lowly birth do all the things you speak of under proper training and certain influences?"
"Mayhap, but it's no' likely, no' likely. Hold! wait a bit! I dinna mean but that a poor mon's childer can be bright, braw, guid boys an' girls; they be, I ken mony o' them mysel'. But gin the father an' the mither think high an' act gentle an' do noble, ye'll fin' it i' the blood an' bone o' the childer, sure as they're born. Now, look ye! I kenned Robert Burnham, I kenned 'im weel. He was kind an' gentle an' braw, a-thinkin' bright things an' a-doin' gret deeds. The lad's like 'im, mind ye; he thinks like 'im, he says like 'im, he does like 'im. Truth, I daur say, i' the face o' all o' ye, that no son was ever more like the father than the lad a-settin' yonner is like Robert Burnham was afoor the guid Lord took 'im to 'imsel'."
Bachelor Billy was leaning forward across the railing of the witness-stand, speaking in a voice that could be heard in the remotest corner of the room, emphasizing his words with forceful gesticulation. No one could for a moment doubt his candor and earnestness.
"You are very anxious that the plaintiff should succeed in this suit, are you not?" asked Goodlaw.
"I dinna unnerstan' ye, sir."
"You would like to have this boy declared to be a son of RobertBurnham, would you not?"
"For the lad's sake, yes. But I canna tell ye how it'll hurt me to lose 'im fra ma bit hame. He's verra dear to me, the lad is."
"Have you presented any bill to Ralph's guardian for services to the boy?"
"Bill! I ha' no bill."
"Do you not propose to present such a bill in case the plaintiff is successful in this suit?"
"I tell ye, mon, I ha' no bill. The child's richt welcome to all that I 'a' ever done for 'im. It's little eneuch to be sure, but he's welcome to it, an' so's 'is father an' 'is mother an' 'is gardeen; an' that's what I tellit Muster Sharpman 'imsel'. An the lad's as guid to them as 'e has been wi' me, they'll unnerstan' as how his company's a thing ye canna balance wi' gold an' siller."
Mrs. Burnham leaned over to Goodlaw and whispered something to him. He nodded, smiled and said to the witness: "That's all, Mr. Buckley," and Bachelor Billy came down from the stand and pushed his way back to a seat among the people.
There was a whispered conversation for a few moments between Sharpman and his client, and then the lawyer said:—
"We desire to recall Mrs. Burnham for one or two more questions. Will you be kind enough to take the stand, Mrs. Burnham?"
The lady arose and went again to the witness-stand.
Craft was busy with his leather hand-bag. He had taken a parcel therefrom, unwrapped it and laid it on the table. It was the cloak that Old Simon had shown to Robert Burnham on the day of the mine disaster. Sharpman took it up, shook it out, carried it to Mrs. Burnham, and placed it in her hands.
"Do you recognize this cloak?" he asked.
A sudden pallor overspread her face. She could not speak. She was holding the cloak up before her eyes, gazing on it in mute astonishment.
"Do you recognize it, madam?" repeated Sharpman.
"Why, sir!" she said, at last, "it is—it was Ralph's. He wore it the night of the disaster." She was caressing the faded ribbons with her hand; the color was returning to her face.
"And this, Mrs. Burnham, do you recognize this?" inquired the lawyer, advancing with the cap.
"It was Ralph's!" she exclaimed, holding out her hands eagerly to grasp it. "It was his cap. May I have it, sir? May I have them both? I have nothing, you know, that he wore that night."
She was bending forward, looking eagerly at Sharpman, with flushed face and eyes swimming in tears.
"Perhaps so, madam," he said, "perhaps; they go with the boy. If we succeed in restoring your son to you, we shall give you these things also."
"What else have you that he wore?" she asked, impatiently. "Oh! did you find the locket, a little gold locket? He wore it with a chain round his neck; it had his—his father's portrait in it."
Without a word, Sharpman placed the locket in her hands. Her fingers trembled so that she could hardly open it. Then the gold covers parted and revealed to her the pictured face of her dead husband. The eyes looked up at her kindly, gently, lovingly, as they had always looked on her in life. After a moment her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears, she drew the veil across her face, and her frame grew tremulous with deep emotion.
"I do not think it is necessary," said Sharpman, courteously, "to pain the witness with other questions. I regard the identification of these articles, by her, as sufficiently complete. We will excuse her from further examination."
The lady left the stand with bowed head and veiled face, and ConductorMerrick was recalled.
"Look at that cloak and the cap," said Sharpman, "and tell me if they are the articles worn by the child who was going to the city with this old man after the accident."
"To the best of my recollection," said the witness, "they are the same. I noticed the cloak particularly on account of the hole burned out of the front of it. I considered it an indication of a very narrow escape."
The witness was turned over to the defence for cross-examination.
"No questions," said Goodlaw, shortly, gathering up his papers as if his defeat was already an accomplished fact.
"Mr. Craft," said Sharpman, "stand up right where you are. I want to ask you one question. Did the child whom you rescued from the wreck have on, when you found him, this cap, cloak, and locket?"
"He did."
"And is the child whom you rescued that night from the burning car this boy who is sitting beside you here to-day?"
"They are one and the same."
Mrs. Burnham threw back her veil, looked steadily across at Ralph, then started to her feet, and moved slightly toward him as if to clasp him in her arms. For a moment it seemed as though there was to be a scene. The people in the audience bent forward eagerly to look into the bar, those in the rear of the room rising to their feet.
The noise seemed to startle her, and she sank back into her chair and sat there white and motionless during the remainder of the session.
Sharpman arose. "I believe that is our case," he said.
"Then you rest here?" asked the judge.
"We rest."
His Honor continued: "It is now adjourning time and Saturday night. I think it would be impossible to conclude this case, even by holding an evening session; but perhaps we can get through with the testimony so that witnesses may be excused. What do you say, Mr. Goodlaw?"
Goodlaw arose. "It may have been apparent to the court," he said, "that the only effort being put forth by the defence in this case is an effort to learn as much of the truth as possible. We have called no witnesses to contradict the testimony offered, and we expect to call none. But, lest something should occur of which we might wish to take advantage, we ask that the evidence be not closed until the meeting of court on Monday next."
"Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge.
"Perfectly," replied that lawyer, his face beaming with good nature. He knew that Goodlaw had given up the case and that his path was now clear.
"Then, crier," said the judge, "you may adjourn the court until Monday next, at two o'clock in the afternoon."
The result of the trial seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Every one said there was no doubt, now, that Ralph was really Robert Burnham's son. People even wondered why Mrs. Burnham did not end the matter by acknowledging the boy and taking him to her home.
And, indeed, this was her impulse and inclination, but Goodlaw, in whose wisdom she put much confidence, had advised her not to be in haste. They had had a long consultation after the adjournment of court on Saturday evening, and had agreed that the evidence pointed, almost conclusively, to the fact that Ralph was Mrs. Burnham's son. But the lawyer said that the only safe way was to wait until the verdict of the jury should fix the status of the boy beyond question. It would be but a day or two at the most.
Then Ralph might be taken by his mother, and proceedings could be at once begun to have Simon Craft dismissed from the post of guardian. Indeed, it had been with this end in view that Goodlaw had made his cross-examination of Craft so thorough and severe. He had shown, as he intended to, from the man's own lips that he was unfit to have possession either of the child or of his property.
This danger was now making itself more and more apparent to Sharpman. In the excitement of the trial, he had not fully realized the probable effect which the testimony elicited from his client by the opposing counsel might have.
Now he saw what it could lead to; but he had sufficient confidence in himself to believe that, in the time before action in that phase of the case should become necessary, he could perfect a plan by which to avert disaster. The first and best thing to be done, however, under any circumstances, was to keep the confidence and friendship of Ralph. With this thought in mind, he occupied a seat with the boy as they rode up from Wilkesbarre on the train that night, and kept him interested and amused until they reached the station at Scranton.
He said to him that he, Sharpman, should go down to Wilkesbarre early on Monday morning, and that, as it might be necessary to see Ralph before going, the boy had better call at his office for a few moments on Sunday evening. Ralph promised to do so, and, with a cordial handshake, the lawyer hurried away.
It is seldom that the probable outcome of a suit at law gives so great satisfaction to all the parties concerned in it as this had done. Simon Craft was jubilant. At last his watching and waiting, his hoping and scheming, were about to be rewarded. It came in the evening of his life to be sure, but—better late than never. He had remained in Wilkesbarre Saturday night. He thought it useless to go up to Scranton simply to come back again on Monday morning. He spent the entire day on Sunday planning for the investment of the money he should receive, counting it over and over again in anticipation, chuckling with true miserly glee at the prospect of coming wealth.
But Ralph was the happiest one of all. He knew that on the comingMonday the jury would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son.
After that, there would be nothing to prevent his mother from taking him to her home, and that she would do so there was no longer any doubt. When he awoke Sunday morning and thought it all over, it seemed to him that he had never been so near to perfect happiness in all his life before.
The little birds that came and sang in the elm-tree by his window repeated in their songs the story of his fortune. The kind old sun beamed in upon him with warmest greeting and heartiest approval.
Out-of-doors, the very atmosphere of the May day was redolent with all good cheer, and Ralph took great draughts of it into his lungs as he walked with Bachelor Billy to the little chapel at the foot of the hill, where they were used to going to attend the Sunday morning service. In the afternoon they went, these two, out by the long way to the breaker. Ralph looked up at the grim, black monster, and thought of the days gone by; the days of watchfulness, of weariness, of hopeless toil that he had spent shut up within its jarring walls.
But they were over now. He should never again climb the narrow steps to the screen-room in the darkness of the early morning. He should never again take his seat on the black bench to bend above the stream of flowing coal, to breathe the thick dust, and listen to the rattling and the roaring all day long. That time had passed, there was to be no more grinding toil, no more harsh confinement in the heat and dust, no more longing for the bright sunlight and the open air, nor for the things of life that lay beyond his reach. The night was gone, the morning was come, the May day of his life was dawning, wealth was lying at his feet, rich love was overshadowing him; why should he not be happy?
"Seems jest as though I hadn't never had any trouble, Uncle Billy," he said, "as though I'd been kind o' waitin' an' waitin' all along for jest this, an' now it's here, ain't it?"
"Yes, lad."
"An' some way it's all so quiet an' smooth like, so peaceful, don't you know. She—she seems to be so glad 'at she needn't keep me away from her no longer after the trial's over. I think she wants me to come, don't you? It ain't like most law-suits, is it?"
"She's a lovin' lady, an' I'm a-thinkin' they're a-meanin' to deal rightly by ye, Ralph."
There was a pause. They were sitting on the bank in the shadow of the breaker, and the soft wind was bringing up to them the perfume of apple-blossoms from the orchard down by the road-side. Silence, indeed, was the only means of giving fitting expression to such quiet joy as pervaded the boy's heart.
A man, driving along the turnpike with a horse and buggy, turned up the road to the breaker, and stopped in front of Bachelor Billy and the boy.
"Is this Ralph?" he asked.
"Yes," said the boy, "that's me."
"Well, Mrs. Burnham would like to see you. She sent me over to bring you. I went to your house, and they said most likely I'd find you up here. Just jump in and we'll drive right down."
Ralph looked up inquiringly at Bachelor Billy.
"Go on, lad," he said; "when the mither sen's for ye, ye mus' go."Ralph climbed up into the buggy.
"Good-by, Uncle Billy," he called out, as they started away down the hill.
Bachelor Billy did not answer. A sudden thought had come to him; a sudden fear had seized him. He stood for a moment motionless; then he started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran. They heard him and stopped. In a minute he had reached them.
"Ralph," he said, hastily, "ye're not goin' now for gude? Ye'll coom back the nicht, won't ye, Ralph? I couldn't—I couldn't abide to have ye go this way, not for gude. It's—it's too sudden, d'ye see."
His voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips was heightened by the forced smile that parted them. Ralph reached out from the buggy and grasped the man's rough hand.
"I ain't leavin' you for good, Uncle Billy," he said. "I'm comin' back agin, sure; I promise I will. Would you ruther I wouldn't go, Uncle Billy?"
"Oh, no! ye mus' go. I shouldn't 'a' stoppit ye. It was verra fulish in me. But ye see," turning to the driver apologetically, "the lad's been so long wi' me it's hard to part wi' 'im. An' it cam' ower me so sudden like, that mayhap he'd not be a-comin' back, that I—that I—wull, wull! it's a' richt, ye need na min' me go on; go on, lad, an' rich blessin's go wi' ye!" and Bachelor Billy turned and walked rapidly away.
This was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of Ralph's happiness. He would have to leave Bachelor Billy alone. But he had fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were now at hand.
His mind was full of plans for his Uncle Billy's happiness and welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with the Sunday quiet resting on them, to the House where Ralph's mother waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son.
She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home until after the conclusion of the trial. He had explained to her that to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. And the time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait. She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. Then, when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence.
That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was nothing. She would not think of that. It was only a prejudice fixed by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out.
But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that Ralph was not her son. He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best that could come to him, and she loved him. Indeed, during these last few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could satisfy it. She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly to its close, would result in giving to her a son. It was a strange defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. On this peaceful Sunday morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his happiness and his education. But the more she thought upon him the greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his face, to hold him in her arms. In the quiet of the afternoon this longing became more intense. She tried to put it away from her, but it would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy's face, rising always in her thought, refuted all her logic. She felt that he must come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by. She called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear.
He came at last, and she met him in the hall. It was a welcome such as he had never dreamed of. They went into a beautiful room, and she drew his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked with him. She made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from the time he could remember, and when he told about Bachelor Billy and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"We'll remember him," she said; "we'll be very good to him always."
"Mrs. Burnham," asked Ralph, "do you really an' truly believe 'at I'm your son?"
She evaded the question skilfully.
"I'm not Mrs. Burnham to you any more," she said. "You are my little boy now and I am your mother. But wait! no; you must not call me 'mother' yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each other the names we like best, shall we not?"
"Yes; an' will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?"
"I hope so. I shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?"
"Oh, yes; but so long as it's comin' out so nice, I don't care so very much. It's all so good now 'at it couldn't be much better. I could stan' it another day or two, I guess."
"Well, my dear, we will be patient. It cannot but come out right. Are you glad you are coming here to live with me, Ralph?"
"Yes, ma'am, I am; I'm very much delighted. I've always wanted a mother; you don't know how much I've wanted a mother; but I never 'xpected—not till Gran'pa Simon come—I never 'xpected to get such a lovely one. You don't know; I wisht I could tell you; I wisht I could do sumpthin' so 'at you'd know how glad I am."
She leaned over and kissed him.
"There's only one thing you can do, Ralph, to show me that; you can come back here when the trial is over and be my boy and live with me always."
"Oh, I'll come!"
"And then we'll see what you shall do. Would you like to go to school and study?"
"Oh, may I?"
"Certainly! what would you like to study?"
"Readin'. If I could only study readin' so as to learn to read real good. I can read some now; but you know they's such lots o' things to read 'at I can't do it fast enough."
"Yes, you shall learn to read fast, and you shall read to me. You shall read books to me."
"What! whole books?—through?"
"Yes, would you like that?"
"Oh!" and the boy clasped his hands together in unspeakable delight.
"Yes, and you shall read stories to Mildred, your little sister. I wonder where she is; wouldn't you like to see her?"
"Yes, ma'am, I would, very much."
"I'll send for her."
"You'll have books of your own, you know," continued the lady, as she returned across the room, "and playthings of your own, and a room of your own, near mine, and every night you'll kiss me good-night, will you not, and every morning you will kiss me good-morning?"
"Oh, indeed I will! indeed!"
In through the curtained door-way came little Mildred, her blond curls tossing about her face, her cheeks rosy with health, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
She had seen Ralph and knew him, but as yet she had not understood that he was her brother. She could not comprehend it at once, there were many explanations to be made, and Ralph's story was retold; but when the fact of his relation to her became fixed in her mind, it was to her a truth that could never afterward be shaken.
"And will you come to live with us?" she asked him.
"Yes," said Ralph, "I 'xpect to."
"And will you play with me?"
"Well, I—I don't know how to play girl's plays, but I guess I can learn," he said, looking inquiringly up into his mother's face.
"You shall both learn whatever you like that is innocent and healthful and pretty to play, my children."
The house-maid, at the door, announced dinner.
"Come," said the lady, placing an arm about each child, "come, let us eat together and see how it seems."
She drew them gently to the dining-room and placed them at the table, and sat where she could look from one to the other and drink in the joy of their presence.
But Ralph had grown more quiet. It was all so new and strange to him and so very beautiful that he could do little more than eat his food, and answer questions, and look about him in admiring wonder.
When dinner was finished the afternoon had grown late, and Ralph, remembering Bachelor Billy's fear, said that he ought to go. They did not try to detain him; but, with many kind words and good-wishes and bright hopes for the morrow, they kissed him good-night and he went his way. The sky was still cloudless; the cool of the coming evening refreshed the air, the birds that sing at twilight were already breaking forth into melody as if impatient for the night, and Ralph walked out through it all like one in a dream.
It was so much sweeter than anything he had ever heard of or thought of, this taste of home, so much, so very much! His heart was like a thistle bloom floating in the air, his feet seemed not to touch the ground; he was walking as a spirit might have walked, buoyed up by thoughts of all things beautiful. He reached the cottage that for years had been his home, and entered it with a cry of gladness on his lips.
"Oh, Uncle Billy! it was—it was just like heaven!" He had thrown himself upon a stool at the man's feet, and sat looking up into the kindly face.
Bachelor Billy did not answer. He only placed his hand tenderly on the boy's head, and they both sat, in silence, looking out through the open door, until the pink clouds in the western sky had faded into gray, and the deepening twilight wrapped the landscape, fold on fold, in an ever thickening veil.
By and by Ralph's tongue was loosened, and he told the story of his visit to Mrs. Burnham. He gave it with all fulness; he dwelt long and lovingly on his mother's beauty and affection, on his sister's pretty ways, on the splendors of their home, on the plans marked out for him.
"An' just to think of it!" he exclaimed, "after to-morrow, I'll be there ev'ry day,ev'ry day. It's too beautiful to think of, Uncle Billy; I can't help lookin' at myself an' wonderin' if it's me."
"It's verra fine, but ye've a richt to it, lad, an' ye desarve it, an' it's a blessin' to all o' ye."
Again they fell into silence. The blue smoke from Billy's pipe went floating into the darkness, and up to their ears came the sound of distant church bells ringing out their music to the night.
Finally, Ralph thought of the appointed meeting at Sharpman's office, and started to his feet.
"I mus' hurry now," he said, "or he'll think I ain't a-comin'."
The proposed visit seemed to worry Bachelor Billy somewhat. He did not like Sharpman. He had not had full confidence in him from the beginning. And since the interview on the day of Ralph's return from Wilkesbarre, his faith in the pureness of the lawyer's motives had been greatly shaken. He had watched the proceedings in Ralph's case as well as his limited knowledge of the law would allow, and, though he had discovered nothing, thus far, that would injure or compromise the boy, he was in constant fear lest some plan should be developed by which Ralph would be wronged, either in reputation or estate.
He hesitated, therefore, to have the lad fulfil this appointment.
"I guess I'd better go wi' ye," he said, "mayhap an' ye'll be afeared a-comin' hame i' the dark."
"Oh, no, Uncle Billy!" exclaimed the boy, "they ain't no use in your walkin' way down there. I ain't a bit afraid, an' I'll get home early. Mr. Sharpman said maybe it wouldn't be any use for me to go to Wilkesbarre to-morrow at all, and he'd let me know to-night. No, don't you go! I'm a-goin' to run down the hill so's to get there quicker; good-by!"
The boy started off at a rapid pace, and broke into a run as he reached the brow of the hill, while Bachelor Billy unwillingly resumed his seat, and watched the retreating form of the lad until it was swallowed up in the darkness.
Ralph thought that the night air was very sweet, and he slackened his pace at the foot of the hill, in order to enjoy breathing it.
He was passing along a street lined with pretty, suburban dwellings. Out from one yard floated the rich perfume of some early flowering shrub. The delicious odor lingered in the air along the whole length of the block, and Ralph pleased his fancy by saying that it was following him.
Farther on there was a little family group gathered on the porch, parents and children, talking and laughing, but gently as became the day. Very happy they seemed, very peaceful, untroubled and content. It was beautiful, Ralph thought, very beautiful, this picture of home, but he was no longer envious, his heart did not now grow bitter nor his eyes fill full with tears. His own exceeding hope was too great for that to-night, his own home joys too near and dear.
Still farther on there was music. He could look into the lighted parlor and see the peaceful faces of those who stood or sat there. A girl was at the piano playing; a young, fair girl with a face like the faces of the pictured angels. They were all singing, a familiar sacred song, and the words came floating out so sweetly to the boy's ears that he stopped to listen:—
"O Paradise! O Paradise!Who doth not crave for rest?Who would not seek the happy land,Where they that loved are blest;Where loyal hearts and trueStand ever in the light,All rapture through and through,In God's most holy sight?"
Oh, it was all so beautiful! so peaceful! so calm and holy!
Ralph tried to think, as he started on, whether there was anything that he could have, or see, or do, that would increase his happiness. But there was nothing in the whole world now, nothing more, he said to himself, that he could think to ask for.
"Where loyal hearts and true,Stand ever in the light."
The words came faintly from the distance to his ears as the music died away, the gentle wind brought perfumed air from out the shadows of the night to touch his face. The quiet stars looked down in peace upon him, the heart that beat within his breast was full with hope, with happiness, with calm content.