They have their answer in the crier’s voice, heard pronouncing the name—
“Louise Poindexter!” Calhoun has kept his word.
Chapter Eighty Eight. 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.