Olivia

Faradeane was led to the cell in which he was to wait during the adjournment. Five minutes afterward the warder announced Mr. Edgar.

Mr. Edgar waited until the door closed, and then held out his hand.

Faradeane took it with the faintest gesture of surprise.

“I suppose you don’t remember me, my lord!” said Mr. Edgar. “I was a guest at a river party you gave some years ago.”

Faradeane passed his hand across his brow.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “I had forgotten. I am sorry that we should meet again under such circumstances.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Edgar, “and yet I cannot help feeling glad that the judge should have trusted your case to me. We have so short a time in which to confer, that I am sure you will forgive me if I proceed at once to discuss the matter. I need not say, my lord, that I myself, speaking as a counsel, am quite convinced of your innocence. It is not for me to ask you why you have seen fit to plead guilty to a crime for which I, for one, am perfectly sure you were utterly incapable. But I wish most earnestly, in fact, it is my duty, to point out to you that unless some evidence can be produced to rebut that which the prosecution have already produced, and that which I believe they have still in hand, you stand in the most terrible peril. I will ask you only one question bearing directly on the death of this unfortunate woman. Will you tell me, my lord, as man to man—as prisoner to his counsel—did she commit suicide?”

Faradeane turned his head away, and was silent for a moment; then he said, “No.”

An expression of surprise crossed Mr. Edgar’s face, and he looked down and bit his lip as if puzzled.

“She did not commit suicide?” he said. “Then how am I to account for the presence of the revolver bearing your name? If she had committed suicide, I could have accounted for the revolver being in her possession, as part of the property which may have fallen into her hands as your wife. How am I to account for this?”

“Mr. Edgar,” said Faradeane, gravely, “I can understand your desire to do your duty, and to assist me; and, believe me, it costs me a great deal not to be able to tell all that I should like to tell you; but I have reasons for remaining silent. That these reasons are all-powerful with me you may well believe, when I am content to plead guilty to a crime the penalty for which is the scaffold. I can render you no assistance. It was not by my wish that you were appointed my counsel. I cannot close your lips. I cannot, in the face of the court, decline the aid which it has appointed; but I can say nothing to help you in this matter.”

Mr. Edgar took one or two paces up and down the narrow cell.

“Every word you have said, my lord,” he said, “goes further and further to convince me that you are not guilty. Oh! I do beg of you—with all the earnestness of which I am capable—consider the position in which you stand. Such a name as that which you bear, surely you owe something to that. If you have no thought for your own life, think of that name which has been handed down to you honored and stainless——”

Faradeane put up his hand.

“Stainless no longer,” he said. “The story of my shame, and my wife’s, is by this time all over England. In a word, Mr. Edgar, I am utterly weary of the life which you would endeavor to save. I repeat, I can tell you nothing; my lips are closed, let the end be what it may.”

The young counsel’s face paled, and he bit his lips.

“So be it, my lord,” he said; “but give me leave to tell you that though you will render me no assistance, will give me no information, I shall still do my duty. Forgive me if I tell you that there are no reasons grave enough to warrant a man sacrificing his life, and I shall still do my very utmost to prove that the plea of guilt which you set up this morning is an utterly false one.”

Faradeane inclined his head.

“I am sure you will do that, Mr. Edgar,” he said, “and I am sorry I cannot wish you success.”

Mr. Edgar bowed, and was leaving the cell, when Faradeane put out his hand with a gesture to arrest him.

“One moment,” he said. “You can do something for me.”

Mr. Edgar stopped, and looked at him with a sudden hope.

“There is a lady in court,” said Faradeane, in a very low voice, “Mr. Vanley’s daughter—Mrs. Bradstone. Will you do me a favor?”

“I will do anything you ask me, except believe you guilty of this murder, my lord.”

“You will go to her and ask her—beg her to leave the court. I ask it as the last favor I shall ever demand of her; I beg of her, in the name of the friendship which existed between us, to leave the court and go home.”

Mr. Edgar inclined his head.

“I will do as you wish, my lord,” he said; and he left the cell.

If that were possible, the excitement had increased during the luncheon hour, and the crush in and about the court was greater than it had been when the trial commenced.

Olivia, the squire, and Bessie had not left their seats.

Mr. Edgar, when he entered the court, made his way toward them.

“Mr. Vanley, I believe?” he said.

The squire nodded.

“I ask your permission to speak a few words to Mrs. Bradstone,” he said.

Olivia rose, inwardly trembling, but outwardly calm.

“I have just seen Lord Clydesfold, madam,” he said, “and he has asked me to be the bearer of a message to you.”

Olivia’s lips moved.

“He has asked me to beg you to leave the court and avoid this, which must be a most painful scene.”

“He asked you that?” said Olivia. “He wishes me to go?”

“Yes, madam; he does most earnestly.”

“Will you tell him,” said Olivia, “that I will do anything he asks me but that? I cannot go.”

Mr. Edgar bowed respectfully and went toward his place, an expression of keen, earnest thought on his face.

There was a buzz of the most profound interest and curiosity when, pale and haggard, but still calm, and with a kind of weary indifference, the prisoner was led into the dock.

As the judge took his seat upon the bench, Mr. Edgar rose.

“My lord,” he said, “I have had an interview with the prisoner, and upon the result of that interview I have to ask your lordship to adjourn the trial until next sessions.”

A murmur of astonishment ran through the court.

The judge looked grave.

“This is a very unusual application, Mr. Edgar, at such a period. I do not know that I should be warranted in adjourning the trial, unless you can assure me that you have evidence directly bearing upon the alleged murder, evidence which has only just come into your possession.”

An older man might have made the assertion with brazen confidence, but Mr. Edgar labored under the disadvantage of being a young and honest man.

“As to evidence, my lord,” he began, with a slight hesitation.

But Mr. Sewell rose.

“My lord,” he said, “it is my duty to oppose the application of my learned friend. If, as your lordship said, he had come into possession of material evidence, I, as representing the Crown, should certainly not oppose his application. But I would point out to your lordship that, as we think, our chain of evidence for the prosecution is complete and unbroken, and I submit that the adjournment would be both unusual and uncalled for.”

“I am afraid I must agree with Mr. Sewell,” said the judge, gravely. “The trial must proceed; we must go on.”

The spectators drew a long breath. It would have been a terrible disappointment to have been robbed of so exciting a drama at the conclusion of only the first act.

Mr. Sewell proceeded to call his witnesses.

The first was Browne, who had found the body, and Faradeane standing beside it. The revolver was produced and handed to the jury.

Mr. Edgar asked: “Do you identify this?”

There was a moment’s pause.

“It bears the prisoner’s initials,” said Mr. Sewell.

Mr. Edgar examined the revolver closely. Then he said:

“Has any one a magnifying glass?”

A buzz went round, and a gentleman—a doctor—handed his pocket glass to him.

He took it and examined the initials closely, long and closely, while every eye was fixed upon him.

“I call your attention, gentlemen of the jury, to the fact,” he said, slowly and impressively, “that these initials have been recently made. Now, Browne, I ask you—and be careful how you answer—were those initials upon this revolver when you picked it up?”

Every soul in the court waited for the answer.

“They were, sir,” said Browne.

Mr. Edgar drew a penknife from his pocket and handed it with the revolver to the jury.

“I ask you, gentlemen, to compare the engraving upon that pocketknife and the initials scratched upon the revolver. Further than that I cannot go, unless his lordship permits me to go into the dock and swear that the initials on that knife were engraved nine months ago.”

Mr. Sewell rose.

“My learned friend cannot be witness and counsel at the same time.”

“I am aware of that,” said Mr. Edgar, boldly. “I simply place the knife beside the revolver for the jury’s inspection.”

While this little scene had been enacting, Olivia had leaned forward with parted lips and dilating eyes, her heart throbbing with a faint hope. Then she sank back, her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

Inch by inch, with terrible sequence, Mr. Sewell unfolded his case, and minute by minute the case for the prosecution looked darker and more unanswerable.

Faradeane stood apparently unmoved, his hand resting without a tremor upon the front of the dock, his eyes fixed upon the ground.

At last Mr. Sewell said: “This is our case, my lord.”

Mr. Edgar rose, and squaring his shoulders as a man does who is facing a more than ordinarily difficult task, said:

“My lord and gentlemen of the jury: I know that I have no need to ask your indulgence. I know that I need not point out to you how terrible is the responsibility which rests upon my shoulders. With you lies the verdict, but with me lies the awful responsibility of so pleading for the life of the prisoner at the bar that no chance, however slight, shall escape my notice. I am aware that expressions of belief in the innocence or guilt of a client made by a counsel can have but little weight; but, gentlemen, I feel that I must tell you that if there should be any shortcomings in my pleading on this man’s behalf, such shortcomings will not arise from any doubt of his innocence.

“I stand here to fight for his life, and if I needed any spur beyond that of a sense of duty, I should find it in the thorough belief which I entertain of his innocence, and that notwithstanding that he has, for reasons of which I am not afraid to state I am ignorant, seen fit in the first instance to plead guilty.

“Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard from the eloquent lips of the counsel for the prosecution the story of my client’s life. You have heard how, in a moment of unreasoning passion, he, the bearer of a high and noble name, married an ignorant and low-born gypsy girl.

“Now, mark, gentlemen of the jury, this man who is accused of this crime. He did not—as, alas! too many men of his position have done—take advantage of the lowliness of this girl, use her as a toy, and as a toy tired of, throw her away; but, remembering his noble name and all that belonged to it, he married her.

“Is that consistent with the story, gentlemen, of the prosecution? But let me proceed. Having soon after this marriage discovered the character of the woman he had made his wife; having found to his cost that he had committed a folly which must mar his life, what does he do?

“Most men, as my learned friend truly said, would have rid themselves of what had become an unbearable burden But Lord Clydesfold, the prisoner, does not do this. Rather than drag the honored name of his forefathers in the mud, he elects to leave this woman, to drop the name which he had given her, and, providing for her every want—ay, and luxury—he separates from her, bargaining only that she shall leave him in peace.

“I ask you, gentlemen, is this consistent with the guilt which the prosecution lays to his charge? Under this assumed name my client seeks refuge in this secluded spot. He does not dash into a life of dissipation, he does not seek forgetfulness in a reckless course of living, but he comes here, and for months leads the life of a student and of a gentleman.

“The only notice that is bestowed upon him by his neighbors is that which is attracted by deeds of charity. It is impossible that such a man as my client should live, however much he might desire it, a life of seclusion. And though he shrank from making friends, friendships are, so to speak, thrust upon him. He is the honored guest of the highest and the best known of the inhabitants.

“I think I shall not go too far when I say that I shall call witnesses who will speak of this man, not only with respect most deep and profound, but with affection. And this man you are asked to sentence to death for a crime of the most vulgar and sordid description.

“What is the story? That this unfortunate woman came to Lord Clydesfold’s cottage on the night before her death, and demanded to see him. I shall not attempt to disprove the evidence of the servant or of Alford, who heard the deceased declare that her husband wished her death.

“But, gentlemen, I call upon you to draw a distinction between such words used by her, and such words used by him. All through this interview his manner to her was one of patient forbearance, while hers was one of furious taunting. Had Lord Clydesfold intended murdering her he would have committed the crime that night, and not have waited until she had time to go back to the village and spread the story of her marriage.”

There was a buzz of excitement. Olivia’s hands clasped each other more tightly.

“He goes to meet her in the Hawkwood Spinney at four o’clock the following day. He knows that on that day the marriage of a well-known and well-beloved young lady takes place at Hawkwood itself; that there will be an excitement attending such a marriage; that the whole of the village will be congregated in those very grounds; that persons will be roaming all over the place.

“And yet the prosecution ask you to believe that this man, who throughout has shown so much patient resignation, a man possessed of no ordinary intelligence—that this man, my client, whose demeanor you have an opportunity of witnessing at this moment——”

Here he raised his hand and pointed with a really splendid gesture to Faradeane’s calm and dignified face.

“That this man was mad enough, fool enough, to go and meet this woman with the intention of murdering her, surrounded by a crowd, and murdering her not in a silent manner, but by shooting her. Do you think any man in his senses would have conceived so wildly and ridiculously foolish a plan?

“Gentlemen, I have not to establish the innocence of the prisoner at the bar. It is sufficient for him if I convince you that his guilt is not certain. If I can show you that there is a doubt—a doubt of the faintest or slightest shadow—his lordship will tell you that I have the right to demand a verdict of ‘not guilty,’ and I say that such a doubt cannot but exist.

“It is not incumbent upon me to show how this woman met with her death. She may in a moment of passion and disappointment have committed suicide. She may have attempted to take the life of the husband who had put her from him, and, in the struggle which took place, the weapon may have been pointed toward her, and she may thus have received her death.

“These hypotheses are for your consideration. No one saw that woman die. No man can come forward and say that Lord Clydesfold’s hand committed the deed. Therefore, no one on my behalf can come forward to say that she did not meet with her death in either of the ways I suggested. Gentlemen, there is a doubt, and that doubt, I venture to assert, will grow into certainty when you have heard the testimony of this man’s character, which I shall now produce.”