Olivia

It was an extraordinary trial, and the interest and excitement increased as it progressed. Of course, the judge and all the lawyers saw plainly that Mr. Edgar knew nothing of the true facts, and that he was fighting in the dark. And Olivia knew also—felt, rather than knew—that Faradeane had refused to tell the story of the murder to the counsel, as he had refused to tell it to every one else.

Mr. Edgar looked round.

“I call Lord Granville,” he said; and Bertie, who had been standing as near the box as he could possibly get, stepped again into the witness-box.

“Now, my lord,” said Mr. Edgar, boldly, “please tell us all you know of Lord Clydesfold. I ask you to reserve nothing. I have no fear of the truth.”

Then Lord Bertie, with an earnestness which went to the hearts of all who heard him, spoke of his long knowledge of Faradeane; how they had been at Eton together—he the younger and the weaker, Faradeane (or Lord Clydesfold) the stronger and the protector; how, all through their lives, Faradeane had proved himself the truest of friends and the most upright, honorable, and lofty-minded of men. “Such a man as my friend Lord Clydesfold is simply incapable of murder!” he wound up, and there was a buzz of applause.

“You knew nothing of this secret marriage with the gypsy?” asked Edgar.

“Nothing,” replied Lord Bertie.

“Have you ever seen this revolver in Lord Clydesfold’s possession?”

Bertie took it in his hand.

“Never. I do not believe it to be his. I feel sure that it is not his. It is quite unlike him to carry, or even possess a revolver. Why, you know, Cly,” he said, turning quickly and reproachfully to the prisoner, “you know you have always ridiculed the practice of carrying a revolver——”

“Silence!” cried the usher. “Do not address the prisoner.”

Bertie crimsoned, and a faint, sad smile passed over Faradeane’s face, as if he should say:

“It is all of no use, Bertie; give it up.”

Olivia clutched her father’s arm.

“You hear! The revolver is not his.”

The squire shook his head silently.

“Look at the revolver again. You see those initials? Is it usual for Lord Clydesfold to cut his initials—the initials of his assumed name—on articles belonging to him?”

“No. I never knew him to do such a thing before.”

“Do you consider that those initials have been recently cut, Lord Granville?”

“Really, my lord,” said Mr. Sewell, “this is not evidence.”

“I shall not interfere,” said the judge, almost grimly.

“They are recently cut,” said Bertie. “It never belonged to Lord Clydesfold. He wouldn’t have bought a revolver of this description; a trumpery, a silver-plated thing!” and he put it from him with a gesture of contempt which made the crowd exchange glances.

“You left England suddenly, Lord Granville,” said Mr. Edgar; “you saw your friend Lord Clydesfold before you left?”

“I did; a few hours before. I have cause to remember it.”

Mr. Edgar pricked up his ears.

“May I ask you what you mean?” he said. “Will you tell us why you left England?”

Bertie glanced for one half-second toward the pale, lovely face which to him was like a star in the eager, crowded court.

“Must I answer that?” he said.

“You must.”

“I—I left in consequence of a great disappointment,” said poor Bertie, his face downcast.

“A love disappointment?” asked Mr. Edgar, who would have spared no one in his endeavor to save the client who would not stretch out a finger to save himself. “Did Lord Clydesfold know of this?”

“He did,” said Bertie in a low voice. “He had been, as he has always been, the truest, stanchest friend through—this trouble. It was he who advised me to go abroad, who gave me the sympathy and counsel of a brother. I owe it to him that I did not give way and go to the bad——”

He stopped and raised his eyes—they were moist—to the spot where Olivia sat.

Mr. Edgar saw the glance, and his own eyes grew keen.

“I am sorry to have to ask you the question, but I must do it. Was the lady with whom you were in love, Miss Vanley?”

Bertie flushed, then he raised his head, and said in a low, grave voice:

“It was Miss Vanley.”

“Now Mrs. Bradstone?” said Mr. Edgar.

Olivia covered her face with her hands, feeling that every eye was fixed upon her. Then she withdrew her hands and looked full at Bertie with an expression of sisterly love and pity.

“And Lord Clydesfold knew of your devotion? Now, Lord Granville, I am going to ask you a question which may give you and others pain; but I am fighting for my client’s, your friend’s, life, and I charge you answer it! Have you reason to believe that Lord Clydesfold also loved that young lady?”

Bertie started, and his face went pale, then he said:

“I did not think so, but——”

“Go on.”

“I think so now!”

The crowded court swayed to and fro in its intense excitement, and looked from the pale face of the prisoner to Bertie, and then to Olivia as she sat white as a statue, her eyes fixed on vacancy, and yet seeing the dark, sad ones of the prisoner.

Mr. Edgar’s brain went to work. He was still in the dark, and yet he began to feel as if a glimmer of light were penetrating the mystery.

“Knowing that he was already married, he would not admit this to you?” he asked.

“No, a thousand times no!” said Bertie. “I have already said my friend is the soul of honor,” and he half-turned to the dock.

Mr. Edgar bowed to him.

“Thank you, Lord Granville. I call now Mr. Vanley.”

The poor squire went into the box, Bertie taking his hand and pressing it as he passed.

“How pale and worried the poor squire do look!” murmured a man, and an echo of sympathy ran around.

“Tell us what you know of Lord Clydesfold, if you please, sir,” said Mr. Edgar, with all a young man’s respect for age.

The squire, in a low yet distinct voice, told the story the reader knows so well.

“Do you think him capable of committing a murder?”

“Quite—quite incapable,” said the squire, and he was about to leave the box, when Mr. Edgar stopped him with a question.

“This murder was discovered some few hours after the marriage of Miss Vanley to Mr. Bradstone?”

“It was,” said the squire, gravely.

“He was a friend of Lord Clydesfold’s. I will call him next. He is in court, I suppose?” and he looked around.

“He is not in court. He is abroad,” said the squire.

Mr. Edgar’s eyes glittered.

“Abroad,” he said, as if carelessly. “Why has he gone abroad?”

“He was called by business.”

“When did he leave, sir?” asked Mr. Edgar.

“Two nights ago,” said the squire.

“Really, my lord, I must submit that this appears to me quite irrelevant and calculated to cause unnecessary pain to others,” said Mr. Sewell.

“I see no reason to interfere,” said the judge again.

“When did you see him last?”

The squire thought a moment before answering.

“When did Mrs. Bradstone see him last?” asked Mr. Edgar again.

The squire paused a second.

“On the wedding day.”

Mr. Edgar began to fidget with his brief; his keen eyes veiled by their lids.

“The tidings of the murder were brought into the hall while the wedding party was waiting, and—and my daughter fell in a swoon. She has been ill for some time since—is ill now,” and the poor squire’s voice quavered.

Mr. Edgar inclined his head.

“Be assured, sir,” he said, “that you have my sympathy, and that of all well-intentioned men. But it is my painful duty to ask you more questions. She has not seen Mr. Bradstone since the wedding day?”

“You cannot ask him that; how can he answer it with any certainty?” said Mr. Sewell, as if really his patience at these irregular questions had become exhausted.

“Good,” said Mr. Edgar, promptly. “I call Mrs. Bradstone.”

A thrill ran through the court; and suddenly Faradeane leaned forward and laid his hand on Mr. Edgar’s shoulder.

“No!” he said, sternly.

Mr. Edgar looked up at him with respectful firmness.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he said. “Mrs. Bradstone, please!”

Olivia rose trembling, and now, for the moment, her pale face was crimson. Bertie sprang forward and gave her his arm, and she walked into the box. And now, for the first time, the calm demeanor which the prisoner had maintained with apparently no effort, broke down. He was seen to tremble, and his hands clasped and unclasped each other on the edge of the dock.

As she passed, she raised her eyes to his, and looked at him with such a steadfast gaze of pity and trust and devotion, that his own gaze faltered, and, with an almost audible groan for the suffering she was about to endure, he turned his head away.

She grasped the front of the box tightly; Bertie stood close beside her, her father just below her. Mr. Edgar arranged his notes to give her a few moments to prepare herself, then he said:

“Mrs. Bradstone, I deeply regret having to call you, and believe me I will cause you as little pain as possible, and will detain you not one moment longer than I am obliged. You know Lord Clydesfold—that is, Mr. Faradeane?”

“Yes,” came from her pale lips.

“He is as close a friend of yours as he is of your father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he was married?”

“No,” and a spasm of pain passed over her lovely face.

“You did not, until this morning, here in court?”

“No.”

“I ask you—I am sorry to have to do so—has Lord Clydesfold ever expressed his love for you?”

It was an awful moment.

She raised her eyes bravely.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“He spoke—in an unguarded moment—a few words; that was all.”

“And recalled them instantly, I imagine?”

“He did; ah, yes, he did!” she said.

“Did he know that you were engaged to Mr. Bradstone; did you tell him?”

“I did.”

“So that,” said Mr. Edgar, with one eye on the jury, “he knew there would be no hope of winning you, even if he were free?”

“No,” she answered, faintly.

“And you still continued friends?”

“Yes.”

“Such friends that you would have gone to him in any trouble?”

“Ah, yes!” she breathed.

“Then you married Mr. Bradstone, with whom you were in love?” he went on, his keen eyes, made pitiless by his desire to win the unequal battle, fixed searchingly on her.

“I married him, yes,” was the almost inaudible reply.

“With whom you were in love?”

“I submit, my lord——” began Mr. Sewell; but the judge held up his hand. With the rest he was hanging upon these questions in breathless silence.

“Answer me, please. Wait! I shall ask you, I must ask you: Did you love, had you given your heart to my client, Lord Clydesfold?”

She covered her face with her hands and seemed as if she were praying for strength; then she let her hands fall, and said in a whisper that, low as it was, reached the farthest corner of the court:

“Yes, I loved him.”

Faradeane’s face worked, and he sank down in the chair that had been provided for him, and leaned his head upon his hand.

The crowd drew a long breath. Surely there had never been so enjoyable a sensation as this!

Mr. Edgar, still groping for light, went on:

“Again my duty compels me to ask you why, if you loved Lord Clydesfold, and knew nothing of his marriage, did you marry Mr. Bradstone?”

Intense silence.

Her face went white, almost deathlike; then Mr. Edgar pointed to the Testament on which she had sworn.

“The whole truth; you have sworn!” he said.

“Because”—her voice faltered—“because he promised to give me the money to save my father——”

A cry rose from beneath her, and the squire sprang forward.

“Silence! Silence!” shouted the usher.

The judge leaned forward, the crowd murmured their astonishment.

But the effect upon Faradeane was more marked than upon others.

He sprang to his feet and regarded Olivia with a horrified gaze.

“To save your father—Mr. Vanley? He was in debt? Mr. Bradstone offered to assist him?”

“Yes,” came the reply, dropping like an icicle from the pale, set lips. “He gave me the money.”

The squire moaned.

“I—I—before God I knew, I guessed nothing of this!” he exclaimed in accents of misery.

“Silence!”

“My father knew nothing,” said Olivia, and she reached down, and put out her hand to him over the box.

“Have you that money still?”

Olivia started.

“Yes,” she said. “But I shall not have it an hour longer.”

As she spoke she glanced at Bessie.

For a moment Bessie looked as if she were trying to understand the glance; then a light broke over her face, and she rose and made her way out of the court.

Olivia watched her until she disappeared, then drew a breath of relief.

“Now tell me,” said Mr. Edgar, when the excitement had subsided. “When did you see Mr. Bradstone last?”

“On the day of the wedding,” she replied, and she gave the answer coldly. The worst had passed; there could be no keener shame for her to endure than that which she had already borne.

“At what time?”

“Nearly four o’clock.”

“You have not seen or exchanged a word with him since?”

“No.”

The crowd pressed as close as they could to the witness-box, that they might not lose a word of this never-to-be-forgotten evidence.

“Do you know where he is?” asked Mr. Edgar, still with deep respect.

Olivia shook her head.

“I do not.”

Mr. Edgar paused a moment; the faint light which he thought he had descried seemed fading, and leading him nowhere.

“Did you ever hear Mr. Bradstone allude to Bella-Bella, the deceased?” he asked, in the vague hope that the question might lead to something, some new thread or clew to the mystery. For he was more than ever convinced that Faradeane was not guilty, and that if he—Mr. Edgar—could gain time, he could succeed in proving his client’s innocence.

“Never,” said Olivia.

“Have you received any communication from Mr. Bradstone in reference to this murder?” he asked.

All eyes were fixed upon her, and all saw her wince and shrink.

“You have?” said Mr. Edgar, prompt to mark every change of expression in her eloquent face. “Answer, please. Remember your oath, remember that a man’s life—Lord Clydesfold’s life—is hanging by a thread.”

She cast a piteous glance at Faradeane, who had risen and stood looking at her in a silent agony of sympathy. He had risked his life, would lose it in all probability, to save her husband from the hangman’s hands, the convict’s shame, and yet she had come to this!

“You have?” said Mr. Edgar. “Tell me, please. I must, unfortunately, press for an answer.”

“I have!” she replied, almost voicelessly.

“What was it? Have you the letter here?”

She uttered a piteous little cry, and drew Bartley Bradstone’s letter from her pocket.

Mr. Edgar took it calmly, though his heart beat. He read it, and his face fell slightly, master of it though he was.

Mr. Sewell was on his legs in a moment.

“I must see that letter,” he said, firmly.

“It is——” began Mr. Edgar, but the solemn voice of the judge broke in:

“You must put in the letter, Mr. Edgar; the prosecution, the jury, all of us must see it, please.”

“As your lordship pleases,” said Mr. Edgar, resignedly, and he held out the letter.

Mr. Sewell’s face cleared.

“My lord,” he said, “the letter is evidence, such as it is, on the side of the prosecution,” and he read it.

“Where is this Mr. Bradstone?” inquired the judge, sternly.

“One moment!” put in Mr. Edgar. “Do you know if Mr. Bradstone was aware of Lord Clydesfold’s affection for you?”

Olivia’s face flushed, then grew white again.

“He may have known.”

“Had Lord Clydesfold and Mr. Bradstone ever quarreled?”

“Yes,” she faltered, clutching the front of the witness-box.

“So that I should not be far wrong if I said that Mr. Bradstone bore Lord Clydesfold a grudge?”

“No,” dropped almost inaudibly from her white lips.

Mr. Edgar bowed with deep respect.

“Thank you, madam.”

As she left the box Bertie and the squire took her hands.

“You will leave the court now?” whispered Bertie.

She shook her head.

“I cannot! I cannot!” and they took her back to her old seat.

Mr. Sewell rose, and in a few words seemed to scatter Mr. Edgar’s defense to the winds. The evidence for the prosecution was complete, unanswerable. If there had ever been any doubt in the minds of the jury on the score of motive, Mr. Edgar had supplied it. Lord Clydesfold was in love with Miss Vanley, and married to this gypsy, and he, driven desperate, had rid himself of his lawful wife. He called upon the jury to find the prisoner guilty.

Then, amid a solemn silence, the judge arranged his notes and summed up.

It was evident to all that he put forward every iota in favor of the prisoner; but the awful evidence of his presence by the body, his connection with the deceased, the revolver, and his blood-stained clothes, the judge was compelled to give; and it was evidence which Mr. Edgar had not been able to overweigh by rebutting testimony.

The crowd grew pale in the intensity of their excitement and suspense, and the jury were rising to leave the box, when a loud noise was heard at the entrance of the court, and a smooth-faced, commonplace-looking man was seen to push his way through the throng, followed by a dark, sinister-looking man, who, as he advanced, looked from right to left in a furtive, half-suspicious, half-frightened way.

“McAndrew!” muttered Mr. Sewell; “where on earth has he been, and what is he doing? We have got a conviction!”

McAndrew—for it was he—went straight for Mr. Sewell, and whispered to him, and an eager dispute followed between them.

“Eh?” then said Mr. Sewell. “Oh, if you like, I don’t care!”

Then he looked up to the bench.

“My lord, the only desire of the Crown is that the truth of this matter should be made apparent. I call Seth Lee!”

The judge looked and frowned, and held up his hand.

“You may call him,” he said.