Olivia

Seth glided into the box, and stood with his eyes fixed upon Mr. McAndrew, as if he looked to him for guidance and protection. McAndrew, close to Mr. Sewell’s elbow, whispered his instructions, and that eminent counsel, evidently struggling against an overwhelming astonishment not unmingled with a certain professional indignation, addressing the judge, said:

“My lord, I have received—I am indeed only now receiving—intelligence bearing upon this trial, of the most extraordinary nature. I am sure I shall have the indulgence of your lordship and the jury, and that they will credit me with my sincere desire to obtain the truth. Mr. Edgar, I think this witness should belong to you, but as I am in possession of the information, I will examine him.”

Mr. Edgar bowed, scarcely taking his eyes from Seth’s cunning face.

“I reserve all my rights, my lord,” he said.

“Your name is Seth Lee?”

“It is,” said Seth, clearly enough, and as readily, his gaze still fixed on Mr. McAndrew.

“What do you know of this murder?”

“Everything,” came the response.

The crowded court was so still that the ticking of the clock in the corridor could be heard distinctly.

“Do you know the prisoner at the bar?”

“I do. He’s Lord Clydesfold.”

“Did you know the deceased?”

“I did. She was a gypsy, one of my tribe, a Lee.”

“When did you see the prisoner—Lord Clydesfold—last?”

“In Harkwood Spinney, the day of the murder.”

A rustle in the crowded court as people turned and looked at one another.

“At what time did you see him?”

“A little after four,” said Seth. “Say twenty minutes, half-an-hour.”

“Who was with him? The deceased?”

“She was.”

“Alive?”

“Alive.”

“Then you saw her killed? Be careful.”

“I’m careful,” replied Seth, doggedly. “I saw her killed; yes, shot.”

“Now, on your oath; who fired the shot?”

“Bartley Bradstone!” was the grim reply.

No pen can describe the sensation which for the moment seemed to paralyze the court. The judge raised his head, the jury craned forward; a murmur that was almost a cry ran round.

Faradeane drew a deep sigh, and looked toward Olivia. For a second it seemed as if she were about to fall; but she caught her father’s arm, and hid her face on his shoulder; then she turned and looked at Faradeane.

“Bartley Bradstone,” said Seth. “I see it all. I knew he was to meet her. I watched ’em from under the bracken; I could have touched ’em a’most.”

And in rapid but perfectly distinct words he told the story of the crime.

Amazement sat upon every face. Mr. Sewell, himself pale and disturbed, held up his hand as McAndrew whispered in his ear.

“More slowly, please; every word is of importance.”

“Do you know the relationship between the deceased and Bartley Bradstone? You know that they were married?”

“They were,” said Seth.

“Before or after her marriage with Lord Clydesfold?”

“Before,” replied Seth.

Olivia sank into a seat, and hid her face.

“Come away, my poor darling,” murmured the squire.

But she made a gesture of refusal.

“Then she was his wife?” asked Mr. Sewell.

“No,” said Seth, grimly, “she was neither his nor his lordship’s here. She was mine. We was married years ago, quite boy and girl like. She was a reckless one, was Bella. I allus told her that she’d get into trouble with her desperate ways, but she took no heed of anybody. She’d have married twenty times over, to get money. She was my wife, true and fast enough.”

Faradeane made a strange and involuntary movement; it was the gesture of a man who had suddenly been relieved from an intolerable, galling burden—a burden weighing down the soul, instead of the body.

“What followed when Lord Clydesfold came up?” inquired Mr. Sewell. He used the word “prisoner” no longer.

Seth told them, and the recital of Faradeane’s great sacrifice of self, of honor, of life, for the woman he loved, so thrilled the crowded court that it was in vain the usher shouted “Silence!”

“It was for her, the lady, Miss Olivia, he did it,” said Seth. “He’d have hung rather than let her be pointed at as the wife of a murderer.”

The judge held up his hand to still the murmur of excitement.

“Silence!” he said. “The court shall be cleared if these demonstrations are repeated. Why did you not appear before, and tell us what you have now told us?” he demanded of Seth, sternly.

Seth hung his head, then looked furtively this way and that.

“I’m a poor man,” he whined, “and he said he’d give me a thousand pounds. Curse him!” he snarled, with a sudden change of voice and manner. “A thousand pounds! And he did! Yes! And when I takes it to the bank, they laughs at me. He’d drawed all the money, every penny,” and he shook the check in the air.

Mr. Edgar deftly seized it, glanced at it, and handed it to the judge.

“Then when I come outside, vowing as I’ll go for him and settle him, this gentleman collared me, and brought me down,” and he pointed to McAndrew.

The judge passed the check to the jury without a word. There were some among them who had often seen Bartley Bradstone’s writing, and they recognized it instantly.

“When did you see Mr. Bartley Bradstone last?” asked Mr. Edgar, springing to his feet.

“At his own house, the night afore last!” said Seth.

Amazement again.

“At his own house!” said Mr. Edgar. “My lord”—and he turned quickly to the judge—“I ask for a warrant, for the arrest of Bartley Bradstone.”

Mr. McAndrew looked up gravely.

“That’s been done already,” he said.

“Have you any other evidence?” said the judge. “Can you call some one, produce something confirmatory of this man’s testimony?”

Before he could reply a commotion arose in the corridor, and, with much shouting and talking and pushing to and fro, a policeman entered, followed closely by Bessie.

He went up to Mr. McAndrew, and said something, amid a dead silence; then Mr. Sewell very gravely and solemnly said:

“I have one piece of evidence more to produce, my lord. It is a letter written by Mr. Bartley Bradstone. It is addressed to Mrs. Olivia Bradstone, and is a distinct and clear confession that he was the murderer of Bella Lee.”

“Read it,” said the judge.

Mr. Sewell read it slowly and solemnly, then handed it to the judge, who passed it to the jury.

Mr. Sewell then motioned the policeman to the box.

“How did you obtain this letter?” he said.

“One piece of it from the hand of Mr. Bartley Bradstone,” he replied, evidently with suppressed emotion; “the other was on the table just beside him, sir, and near the burnt-out candle.”

Intense silence.

“Then Mr. Bartley Bradstone—where is he?” asked the judge.

“At his own house, The Maples, sir. When I went with the warrant Mr. McAndrew had brought this morning from London, I met this young woman—Miss Bessie. She’d got a letter from her mistress to give to Mr. Bradstone, or to leave at the house if he was away. And she and me went into the hall together. The servants said Mr. Bradstone was out—had gone to London some days since. Then I told them that I’d information that he’d been back. They all said they hadn’t seen him. But they owned that he might be in the library, which they weren’t allowed to enter lately. I went to the door and found it locked, my lord, and me and the butler forced it. The room was quite dark, with the blinds down; but when we’d pulled ’em up, we found Mr. Bartley Bradstone lying face downward across the table with the half of the letter clutched in his hands. He was quite dead and stiff. There wasn’t no mark nor speck upon him, and the doctor as we fetched says that he died all in a minute of heart disease.”

They let him go on with his tragic story uninterruptedly, and, when he had finished, the judge said, solemnly, amid profound silence:

“Gentlemen, this case has been tried by a higher court than this. It still remains for us to humbly put on record man’s verdict as made plain by Him who sees all things and weighs all hearts. Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?”

“Not guilty!” came the quick, sharp response.

A roar burst forth from the hot, parched throats of the excited crowd. Two or three men standing near the dock made a rush for it; in an instant they were followed by a hundred others, and before the police could interfere, Faradeane was torn out of the box and carried through the corridor and into the streets—a free man!

A scene of the wildest confusion followed. Men—ay, and women, too—shouted and danced, as if they had suddenly gone mad. It was in vain for the police to attempt to clear the streets, in which the crowd seemed to grow thicker every moment. Amid the intense excitement, the Grange carriage was seen to be making its way slowly through the throng, and the mob instantly surrounded it, and cheered for the squire and Olivia.

At last they set Faradeane down on the steps of the marketplace, and permitted him to speak.

At first he seemed unable to speak, and stood looking at the crowd with his grave eyes moist with emotion; then he said:

“I thank you—I thank you with all my heart for your kindness. I think that many of you believed in my innocence——”

“All of us! All of us!” some one shouted. “You’re a nobleman all round, that’s what you are, my lord!”

“What I have done, any man placed as I was would have done—yes, every man worthy the name of man. And now will you go home quietly, my friends, remembering how dark and heavy a trouble hangs over those both you and I—love?”

“That we will; we’ll do anything you ask us, my lord,” shouted the same man, and the crowd began slowly and reluctantly to melt away.

Colonel Summerford sprang up the steps, and held out his hand.

“Thank God, thank God, my lord!” he said, and his strong voice trembled. “I can never be too grateful that I believed in you all through.”

“And I,” said Mr. McAndrew, quietly. “I’m afraid your lordship thinks I was rough on you in letting the case go so far. But what was I to do?”

“You did your duty—I am sure,” said Lord Clydesfold, holding out his hand.

Mr. McAndrew took it respectfully.

“You see, my lord, I had my doubts from the first. The very first time I saw Bradstone in the squire’s library I felt—well, we detectives have our presentiments like other people. But what could I do? I knew you would stand firm and bear the brunt to the last, and I could only wait and hunt up evidence; and it was difficult work. It was all so strong against you; and Bradstone was clever and cunning. If it hadn’t been for the gypsy Seth tracking him down and getting the check I should have been driven hard. If it hadn’t been for the confession, indeed, I wouldn’t have answered for the case even now!”

“And he is dead?” said Lord Clydesfold in a low voice.

Mr. McAndrew nodded gravely.

“Yes; they found him as the constable said. He must have fallen across the table almost the moment Seth left the room with the check. Heart disease. The strain that man must have endured—without food, and drinking continually—must have been a perfect hell. And to think that he committed the murder without any real reason. Ah, she was a wonderful woman, and deceived you both. If Bradstone can know what is going on, and is conscious that she was not his wife after all, and that he might have been living still——” He stopped and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I could almost pity him. Not that he deserves it, my lord, for he was a bad lot. He fairly trapped that poor young lady; got his net round her father, unbeknown to him, and fairly drove her to marry him. When I tell you all we’ve discovered you’ll be surprised, my lord.”

“He is dead now,” said Lord Clydesfold, solemnly.

Mr. McAndrew nodded.

“I’ve a message from Lord Carfield,” said Colonel Summerford. “He wishes me to tell you that Lord Bertie has gone home with the squire—poor fellow! and that he—Lord Carfield—doesn’t wish to intrude upon you; but that he will feel honored—I repeat his words, Lord Clydesfold—if you will go straight to him and stay with him.”

Lord Clydesfold inclined his head, deeply moved.

“Thank him for me, Summerford,” he said; “but I will go to my own place. I—I must have time to think. Bertie has gone with the squire?” and he breathed a sigh of satisfaction. “That is like his thoughtfulness!”

“Yes; he said he knew you would rather he went and took care of him and Miss Vanley than come to you. And now, if there is anything I can do, my lord, I shall be only too happy.”

Lord Clydesfold thought for a moment or two.

“This unhappy man who lies dead,” he said; “we must not forget that she bore his name, though for only a few days, Summerford.”

“I understand, my lord,” said the colonel, gravely. “Everything shall be done as quietly as possible. Leave it all to me and McAndrew here, who feels that he owes you something for his part—unwilling one as it was—in the terrible trial you have so nobly borne. And now, will you have my carriage?”

But Lord Clydesfold shook his head.

“I think I should like to walk,” he said quietly, and, shaking hands with them, he set off, followed by the cheers of the people, who still lingered and watched him with eager but respectful interest.

An hour later Lord Clydesfold was seated in his little dining-room of The Dell. His man had rushed home and prepared a meal, and with affectionate anxiety had insisted upon his master’s eating some of it; and Clydesfold sat thinking of the woman he loved, the woman for whose sake he would have given his life, and yet whom he dared not go near, when the door opened and the servant announced:

“Mr. Vanley.”

Faradeane sprang to his feet, and took the trembling hands which the squire held out to him; and for a space the two men looked into each other’s eyes in silence.

Then the old man found his voice.

“What can I say, my lord?” he faltered. “No words I could find would express a tenth part of all I feel—of my gratitude, my unspeakable gratitude to you! I have never read of a nobler act than yours. You would have given your life to shield my child’s name from even the reflection of shame!”

“Yes,” said the other in a low, grave voice, as he led the old man to a chair, “and would do it again to-morrow. Tell me how she is, sir. All concealment between us is destroyed forever. You know how it is with me, how it has been ever since we first met. I have loved her, sir——”

He stopped.

“Dearer than your own life,” said the squire, solemnly. “I do not know how she is. I expected to carry her home more dead than alive; but she has not broken down or given way. Bessie, who has been like a sister and as good as gold, says that my girl will not give way; that—that—I can scarcely speak of him”—and he shuddered—“that the sense of freedom, absolute freedom from that man, will sustain Olivia even through so terrible an ordeal as that through which she has passed; the sense of freedom and—and”—he pressed Clydesfold’s hand—“the knowledge that you are safe.”

Clydesfold turned his head to hide the expression of joy which lit up his face.

“I have come to you not only to try and thank you, but to ask you what I am to do. When Bessie left the court at an intimation—a mere word and look—from Olivia, the girl went to the Grange and got a letter of Bradstone’s which he had given to Olivia on her wedding day.” He shuddered again. “This letter contained the voucher for a large sum of money he had given her, the price”—he went on bitterly—“of her hand; the money to save me from the ruin which hung over me, and which will now crush me. I care nothing for that. But I do care most earnestly and deeply that you should know I was ignorant of this—this barter.”

“I need no such assurance, sir,” said Lord Clydesfold, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder tenderly.

“Thank you, thank you!” faltered the squire. “Will you take it and restore it? You see, I still come to you in my trouble.”

“Will you always do so? Let me see it.”

He opened the paper, and looked at it; then went to his desk and compared it with some letters and papers.

“It is a large sum. There may be near relations to inherit the unhappy wretch’s ill-got gold——”

“No man will be the richer for this,” said Clydesfold, solemnly. “It is useless. It is—a forgery.”

The squire started and looked at him with horror.

“A forgery!” repeated Lord Clydesfold. “I know the manager’s writing quite well. See—there are his signatures to these papers. Compare them with this one on the voucher. It is a forgery.” He took it from the squire’s trembling hand and tore it in pieces, which he threw on the fire. “Do not tell her this,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “It is better that she should not know it. From this moment do not permit her to mention his name in anything connected with her”—he paused; he was going to say “marriage”—“with anything connected with him. Let the past die out—as it will, please God!” He pointed to the ashes of the paper as they fluttered on the hearth. “Let that be the last remembrance of Bartley Bradstone!”