Olivia

“Murder!” It is an awful word. No wonder that a shudder ran through the gayly dressed guests. Even Aunt Amelia may be excused for falling into hysterics, which, of course, she did instantly.

Lord Carfield stepped forward and held up his hand to the keeper, warningly; but the warning gesture came too late. Miss Amelia’s shrieks were ringing through the vaulted hall, and at the head of the stairs, looking down upon the scene of confusion and consternation, stood Olivia. Bessie was by her side with her traveling wrap over her arm, and instinctively she stretched out her hand and grasped her mistress’. So the two girls stood and waited.

“Now, my man,” said Lord Carfield, sternly, “if you haven’t taken leave of your senses, tell me what has happened.”

The keeper looked round, confused in his excitement by the crowd of anxious faces, and still more by the sight of the squire, who came forward and stood beside the earl.

“Shall we go in the library?” whispered Lord Carfield.

The squire shook his head and glanced round.

“It is too late now,” he replied, in as low a tone. “He may as well speak out before them now. Go on, Browne.”

The keeper touched his front lock.

“I beg your pardon, squire, but I’m skeard-like. It—it come so sudden. I was passing through the wood to the big tent, when I see it lying on the ground just by the felled oak there——”

“Saw what?” said the earl.

“The woman, my lord,” replied Browne, with a shudder. “I—I thought, seein’ as she was a stranger, that—beggin’ your pardon, my lord—she might have had too much drink in the tent—some of ’em has, you see—and was just lyin’ asleep; but when I stooped down to wake her, I saw that she was—dead.”

A thrill of horror ran through the group of silent listeners. Death is a grim visitor at all seasons; but at a marriage feast!

“Dead!” echoed the earl.

“Yes, my lord; quite dead. There weren’t no difficulty in telling how, for there was the wound in her side plain enough. She’d been shot, squire; shot.”

Bessie’s hand closed more tightly on Olivia’s.

“I called out for help, squire, and then——”

He stopped and hesitated, like a man reluctant to go farther.

“Go on,” said the earl, gravely.

“Well, my lord, a gentleman came up. I—I think he was waiting near. I—I—don’t know; but he came up at once. He—he—says to me”—he stopped again and looked troubled—“‘Go for the constable, Browne. You’ll find him at the entrance to the lawn. I’ll wait and watch here.’ I—I ran off at once, and I found the p’liceman and sent him to the wood, and—and then I came on here.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Lord Carfield said, solemnly:

“Who was this gentleman, Browne?”

The keeper opened his lips, and, glancing round, hesitated.

“Am I to say, squire?” he asked.

Before the squire could reply, a roar as of an approaching crowd reached the hall. It came nearer and nearer, until it seemed as if it were just outside; then, as the footman opened the door, the wedding guests saw an immense throng of people gathered outside. The policeman, with another man beside him, separated themselves from the mass, and walked into the hall.

A thrill of surprise ran through the spectators, for the man beside whom the policeman stood so closely and watchfully was Harold Faradeane.

His ordinarily pale face was graver even than usual, but it was perfectly calm, and he looked round and met the curious gaze of those about him with a calm steadfastness. For a moment only, as he saw Olivia on the staircase, his eyes wavered and his lips trembled; then he seemed to recover himself, and stood silent and self-possessed.

“Faradeane!” exclaimed the squire. “What is this?” and he went toward him agitatedly.

If Faradeane intended responding, the constable prevented him. Almost stepping in between him and the squire, he said, respectfully enough, but firmly:

“Beg pardon, squire; but I caution Mr. Faradeane. I’ve done so already, as he’ll bear witness. I’ve told him that anything he says may be used against him.”

There was a movement of suppressed excitement. Faradeane stood perfectly silent and calm.

“You have cautioned Mr. Faradeane!” said Lord Carfield. “Do you mean to say——”

He stopped, unable to form the question.

The constable nodded grimly.

“Yes, my lord. I’m very sorry to have to do it, but it’s my duty to charge Mr. Faradeane with willful murder.”

The crowd of guests exchanged murmurs and glances of amazement, and in the midst of the excitement Olivia glided down the stairs and stood beside her father. She clung to his arm, but did not remove her eyes from the face of the accused.

The last person who was expected to speak broke the silence. It was Mr. Bartley Bradstone. In moments of great peril, sometimes, your thorough-paced coward is stung into something that has, at any rate, the appearance of courage.

With flushed face and a forced laugh, he stepped forward.

“What nonsense is this?” he said, and he looked round with an air of impatience. “Mr. Faradeane charged with——It’s perfectly ridiculous!” and he laughed the forced laugh again. “Of course Mr. Faradeane can explain this—this absurd mistake. Better do it at once, and let the constable look for the right man, Faradeane.”

Faradeane just glanced at him; it looked a mere casual glance, but Bartley Bradstone read it as one of warning, and changed color slightly.

“Let—let us go into the library,” faltered Lord Carfield.

But the poor squire shook his head.

“There is no need for that,” he said, confidently. “As—as Mr. Bradstone says, Mr. Faradeane can explain this mistake at once, and in a few words,” and he looked at him with anxious appeal.

The constable waited a second. Every one seemed to wait while the clock ticked a full minute; then, as Faradeane remained silent, the constable, after a glance round, said:

“This is the case, squire; I was at the end of the lane when Browne ran up and told me to come with him into the wood—something had happened. I went, and I found the body of a young woman. She was quite dead—been shot. Close beside her stood Mr. Faradeane. I asked him what he knew about it, and he——” He paused a moment. “Well, squire, he refused to say anything!”

“Well!” said the squire, sharply. “That is not sufficient reason for charging Mr. Faradeane with—with——”

“No, squire,” assented the man, respectfully. “But while I was trying to persuade him to answer my questions and tell me what he knew, I saw something lying on the ground. It was this,” and he took the revolver from his pocket and handed it to the squire.

He took it and looked at it, and then at Faradeane. Every eye was fastened on the tiny toy.

“Well? What has this to do with Mr. Faradeane?” demanded Lord Carfield.

“Yes, what has it to do——” echoed Bartley Bradstone, indignantly.

The constable glanced at him.

“If the squire will please to look at the pistol, he’ll see why I arrested the gentleman,” he said, stubbornly.

The squire held the revolver to the light, looked at it, and let it drop. It fell upon the tiled hall with an ominous clang, and Lord Carfield stooped and picked it up.

“That revolver has got Mr. Faradeane’s name engraved on it,” said the constable. “I asked him to explain—he’ll bear me out, squire—how it came there, just close to the body, and he wouldn’t tell me. There wasn’t nothing for it but for me to do my duty, and I did it. I told Mr. Faradeane he’d better come with me to you and my lord, the magistrates, and I advised him to clear the matter up, squire. Perhaps he’ll explain what he was doing there, and how his revolver happened to be lying beside the woman as was shot, my lord.”

Lord Carfield nodded.

“You did quite right,” he said. “Mr. Faradeane will explain, of course,” and he looked at him.

Every eye was fixed on him, every ear strained for his response to this appeal.

Slowly and distinctly came the accused man’s reply:

“I have nothing to say.”

A thrill ran through the listening and watching crowd. Charged with a cruel murder, and—nothing to say! A half-articulate groan burst from the squire’s lips.

“Faradeane!” he made a movement toward him. “You—you have nothing to say! No answer! Impossible!”

Faradeane’s grave, sad eyes met his anxious ones steadily.

“What the constable says is true,” he said, slowly. “I have nothing to add to it—nothing to explain.”

Insensibly—but how significantly!—the constable drew closer to him.

“That’s what he said over and over again, squire. I couldn’t persuade him into anything else. It’s my duty to ask for a warrant——”

“No! no! Impossible!” said the squire, hoarsely.

“A warrant on the charge of willful murder,” said the constable, firmly, but respectfully.

As the words rang in the ears of the horrified group, Olivia left her father’s side, and approached Faradeane.

For a moment she stood speechless, her dilated eyes fixed on his face, her lips moving, her hand pressed to her heart.

He did not flinch; but there was no assurance of his innocence in his eyes, nothing but a sad impassiveness.

“Why—why do you not tell them?” broke from her, at last. “Why do you not tell them that you are—innocent?” and she caught his arm and clung to it. “You are innocent! Tell them so! Tell them so!”

It was an awful moment. It was an ordeal compared with which the torture of the rack is as nothing. Bartley Bradstone’s face blanched, and he made a slight movement; then, as Faradeane raised his eyes, he fell back, for he read in them the assurance that his substitute would remain firm.

“I have nothing to say,” said the calm, sad voice; “I am quite ready,” and he turned his face away from her.

Her hand lingered on his arm in an imploring clasp for a moment, then, without a cry, she swayed slightly and fell to the ground.

Faradeane bent down to raise her, but Bradstone and the squire—half a dozen of the horrified crowd, indeed—sprang forward, and he drew back with a sigh.

“For God’s sake take me away!” he said to the constable, hoarsely. “I—I cannot bear much more!”

Lord Carfield signed to the constable to go into the library, and Faradeane followed, stopping for a second to glance back as they carried Olivia up the stairs, with a yearning and agonized expression in his eyes.

Bartley Bradstone pushed his way into the library.

He was very white, but calmer and more self-possessed than he had been all day notwithstanding that his bride had been carried from him lifeless.

“This—this is all nonsense, of course,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “Faradeane can explain it, if he likes, I’m sure. I don’t know why on earth he don’t. But, anyway, I’ll be bail for him, Lord Carfield.”

There was a murmur of approval, for not one of the spectators who looked in the face of the accused believed in the possibility of his guilt.

“Bail is not granted in cases of—in cases of this kind,” said Lord Carfield, in a low voice, and he sat down and wrote out the warrant. “If—if you choose to confine Mr. Faradeane in his own house——”

The constable shook his head.

“I couldn’t take that responsibility, my lord,” he said, respectfully. “The gentleman will have to go to the lockup.”

“I am quite ready,” said Faradeane, again. “Do not make any exception in my favor.”

“Once more, Faradeane,” said Lord Carfield, rising and stretching out his hands, “will you not explain?”

He shook his head.

“I have nothing to explain, my lord. Ah”—and his voice almost broke—“don’t think me ungrateful for your consideration! If you knew——”

He stopped and turned aside.

Lord Carfield sank into the chair, and covered his eyes with his hands, and the constable retired with his prisoner.

At sight of them the crowd, which had been impatiently waiting at the front, set up a roar; but as Faradeane looked down at them, something in his face silenced them, and a man’s voice cried out:

“Shame on ye! What! will ye judge a man guilty ’fore he’s tried?”

It was Alford, and he forced himself to the front, and made a lane through the mob by the simple expedient of swinging his huge arm. “Don’t be cast down, sir. We knows you’re innocent, right enough; but most of us have had too much liquor. Now, make way there!”

“Thank you, Alford,” said Faradeane, simply, and the three passed through the crowd, which closed up behind them, and followed them to the end of the drive.

The constable had taken the precaution to order a carriage to await them at this point, and he and Faradeane got in, and were driven sharply away.

Faradeane sank back with a sigh, and closed his eyes, and remained silent for a few minutes; then he said, quietly:

“Where are you taking me?”

“To Wainford, sir,” replied the constable. “You’ll be more comfortable in the regular prison there than in the Hawkwood lockup.”

“Thank you,” said Faradeane. “That is thoughtful of you.”

The man eyed him with a strange expression.

“Come, sir,” he said, bending forward. “You know, and I know, that you didn’t do this. Why not up and out with the truth? If you didn’t like to do it before all these people, why not tell me? I know it’s not quite regular, but I’ll be hanged if I uses a word against you!”

Faradeane shook his head.

“You mean well,” he said, wearily. “I appreciate and understand your kindness, my good fellow; but you cannot help me. You must do your duty.”

“Yes, I must do that,” said the man, gravely. “But every minute you let this charge hang over you, settles it more firmly down, and—there’s danger in it, sir.”

“Yes, I know that,” assented Faradeane, calmly.

They reached Wainford, and found the prison officials prepared for them by telegraph.

The governor, as he read the warrant, glanced once or twice at the pale face.

“All right and regular, Wilcox, I suppose?” he said. “No mistake, eh?”

“No, sir,” said the constable, and he rapidly recounted the facts, and showed the revolver.

The governor nodded.

“Anything to say?” he asked of the prisoner, courteously.

“Nothing,” replied Faradeane, gravely.

The governor signed to a turnkey, and Faradeane was conducted to his cell.

As the lock sprang into its place with an ominous click, and he found himself alone, he started, and looked round like a man awaking from some hideous dream, and made a step toward the iron door; then he stopped, and, with a sigh, sank on to the prison bed.

“God give me strength to go through with it!” he murmured. “Let me remember it is for her sake! Oh, my darling, for your sake!”