THE MAN AND THE COWARD.
The miserable wretch shrank back, putting out his hands as if to ward
off the stern, accusing eyes, and groaned. Faradeane flung himself down
on one knee beside the prostrate form, and raising her head, looked
into her face. As he recognized her, he gave a start of surprise, but
instantly placed his hand over her heart. Then he turned his eyes upon
the cowering Bradstone.
“You have killed her!” he said, in a low, hoarse voice.
“No, no!” groaned Bartley Bradstone. “She--she is not dead. For God’s
sake, don’t say that!”
“You have killed her!” repeated Faradeane, grimly. “Why did you do it?
What was she to you----”
He stopped, for Bartley Bradstone had crawled to his knees.
“Faradeane, have mercy on me, have pity,” he whined, almost speechless
with terror. “I--I didn’t mean to--to--kill her, only to stun
her--to--to--I’ll tell you all, so help me Heaven, if you’ll let me
go----”
Faradeane, with Bella’s head upon his knee, held up one hand.
“They will hang you,” he said, grimly. “You are mad! What have I to do
with saving you? You are beyond help, and you must know it.”
Bartley Bradstone uttered a whine.
“Oh, my Heaven! What shall I do? Faradeane! Faradeane! save me!”
Faradeane scarcely heeded him; his brain was whirling as he loosened
the woman’s collar, and tried to pour some brandy past her paling lips.
“Save me, save me, Faradeane!” cried Bartley Bradstone, in a kind
of suppressed shriek. “I can explain everything. I’ll do anything!
I’ll--I’ll--oh, God! if you won’t do it for me, do it for her! Remember
whom I married this morning!”
A quick shudder ran through Faradeane’s veins, and the blood
left his face. In the horror and excitement of the moment he had
forgotten--forgotten that this blood-stained wretch, who crawled at
his feet and begged like a cur for his life, was the husband of Olivia
Vanley! The husband!
He looked up speechless for a moment.
“Great God! I had forgotten!” dropped from his white lips. “You--you
fiend!”
“Don’t--don’t!” whined Bartley. “I--I know all you can say; but--but
if you’d seen how she drove me! She had no mercy! She drove me till I
was mad! Yes, that’s what I am!” he gasped, hoarsely. “I’m mad! Tell
them I’m mad! They can’t hang me! They can’t! You said so yourself. Oh,
Faradeane, have pity on me! Think how young I am! I--I am no older than
you! Have pity on me!”
“Silence!” said Faradeane, and his voice rose like that of a stern,
relentless judge. “I am thinking. But not of you! I am thinking of
her--of the girl whose life you have wrecked and ruined, whose heart
you have broken! Don’t speak!” He held up his hand. “Every word you
utter tempts me to call for some one to drag you away. You, the husband
of----For your own sake, don’t speak to me.”
Bartley Bradstone crouched on the ground, his hands clutching at the
grass, his face hidden.
A minute or two passed, as Faradeane bent over the pallid face upon his
knee, his own almost as white, his heart racked by the awful torture of
the position. All his thought was of the sweet, innocent, pure-hearted
girl, for whom he would have gladly laid down his life, and whom this
blood-stained wretch had linked to his own shameful name.
Then, as he looked down upon the woman, scarcely seeing her, he was
recalled to the fact of her presence by a slight movement of her
eyelids.
They opened. For a moment there was nothing but a dense shadow over
them; then she recognized him.
“You!” she breathed, with a faint flicker of surprise in her face.
He bent down.
“It is I,” he said. “My poor Bella!”
The shadow of a smile swept over her face.
“Poor Bella, eh?” she gasped, so low that he could just hear her, and
no more. “You--you didn’t speak like that last night, Cly! No! But--but
why am I lying here--what’s this pain in my side? Ah!” a shudder ran
through her; “I--I remember! Cly, he--he shot me! The coward! the
coward! He didn’t give me time! If he had----” She tried to raise her
arm. “Cly,” and a spasm quivered on her lips, “am I--am I--going to
die? Tell me the--truth? You always did that.”
“My poor girl!” dropped from his lips again.
She closed her eyes, and for a second or two remained silent; then she
opened them with a lurid light in them. “Cly, listen to me. Take--take
down what I--I tell you. The man who shot me--was--was Bartley
Bradstone! You know--him?”
He made a faint gesture of assent.
“He--he is a scoundrel; the worst, the meanest; he’s--he’s married an
innocent--girl--this morning, and--and--he wanted to put me out of the
way.”
She gasped for breath.
A strange change flashed into Faradeane’s face. Was it a sudden hope--a
sudden, almost overwhelming relief?
“Bella!” he whispered, hoarsely, “what was there between you? Was he
your husband?”
She understood the significance of his tone, the hope that shone so
vividly in his dark eyes, and she managed to shake her head.
“No! Yes--we were married, but--he is not my husband. You----”
Her breath failed her; the hope died out of his eyes, but he raised
her into a more comfortable position. Both had forgotten the miserable
wretch who crouched near them, listening as well as the tolling of the
death bell in his ears would let him. After a pause--during which she
struggled for breath--she panted, her voice almost inaudible:
“Don’t--don’t spare him, Cly! He--he isn’t--worth it! Ah--I--I can’t
tell you! And there’s so--so much! so much! If I could, you’d--you’d
forgive me! Yes, you would! Hold me higher, Cly! Have pity on me,
and--and forgive me! I’m not so--so bad as you--think! Oh, if I--could
tell you! Cly--there’s--there’s a mistake! I----” a low cry of terror
and dread, a piteous cry rang from her lips, and her eyes dwelt upon
his face with a terrible entreaty. “Forgive me, Cly, it’s--it’s not so
bad--you are----Forgive----”
She stopped. Death, who had been hovering over with outstretched hand,
let his iron fingers fall and grasp her. A slight tremor passed over
her face, and then----
Will it be remembered when the final account is settled that the last
words on her lips were a prayer for forgiveness?
The silence of the grave reigned in the dreadful spot for a moment
or two; then Bartley Bradstone raised himself, and, crawling nearer,
peered at her. He fell back with a moaning whine.
“She’s--she’s dead!” he gasped.
“Yes,” said Faradeane, in a strangely subdued tone, “she is dead. Your
work is finished.”
He laid the body down gently, reverently, and looked at his watch.
Bartley Bradstone rose to his knees.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Are you--are you
going to betray me?”
Faradeane stood looking down at the still form, scarcely seeming to
hear him.
“Are you? Are you?” persisted the wretch. “Think, for Heaven’s sake,
think! It isn’t for me! It isn’t for me! I don’t care what becomes
of me! No, I don’t. They--they may hang me when they like! But it’s
her--Olivia----”
Faradeane started, and turned his eyes upon him.
“It’s of her I’m thinking; and you’d--you’d better remember her, too.
If--if I’m taken it will kill her with--with shame. You know that! Oh,
be quick, for God’s sake! I--I can get away if--if you’ll help me.
There’s--there’s time even now,” he panted, in a frenzied tone. “Nobody
knows she was here, nobody heard the--the shot! She won’t be missed
till I’m clear away! For her sake--for Olivia’s, Faradeane. I know you
love her.”
“Silence!” broke from Faradeane’s white lips. He turned his back upon
him, as if the sight of him was more than he could endure.
The leaves rustled overhead, the noise of the villagers over on the
lawn came faintly on the breeze, mingling with the joyous music of the
bells--Olivia’s wedding bells!
Suddenly he turned as if he had made his decision, and Bradstone, who
had been watching him, caught a shred of hope from something in his
face.
“Ah!” he gasped.
Faradeane held up his hand.
“I will save you,” he said, and his voice sounded grim and solemn.
“Do not speak, but listen. Every moment is one of life or death--to
you. You speak of flying. It would be useless. You cannot get away; if
you did, suspicion would turn upon you at once. You understand, you
realize that? Get up!”
Bradstone obeyed with the prompt obedience of a dog, and stood
shuddering and shivering, wiping his face and lips. Faradeane thought
for a moment.
“Go to The Maples and change your clothes, and stay there.”
Bartley Bradstone looked at him.
“And stay there,” said Faradeane, slowly and sternly. “On one condition
only will I attempt to save you. You can guess what it is.”
The red of shame, perhaps of remorse, flickered on his pallid lips.
“You--you mean that--that I’m not to go near her!”
Faradeane made a gesture of assent.
“You know it is that,” he said, in a low voice. “Attempt to claim her
as your wife”--he seemed scarcely able to go on--“and I denounce you!
That is my condition; do you accept it? Quick!”
“I accept, I accept,” panted Bradstone. “I agree to anything. I
swear”--he uttered a frightful oath--“I’ll do anything, everything you
tell me,” he whined.
Faradeane averted his face with disgust and loathing.
“Your life depends upon it,” he said. “Go now, and say nothing to any
one. Did any one see you on your way here?”
“No, no!”
“Answer no questions; keep silence. Now go,” and he pointed toward the
drive.
Bartley Bradstone took a step, then with a shudder he looked at the
still form at Faradeane’s feet.
“There--there’s something of mine there,” he said, hoarsely. “If--if
it’s found I’m--I’m lost.”
“Take it,” responded Faradeane, grimly.
He bent down, then shrank back, shuddering.
“I--I can’t!” he gasped. “I can’t touch her! It’s--it’s a watch and my
cigar case----”
Faradeane bent down and reverently took the things from the dead
woman’s pocket, and dropped them at Bradstone’s feet.
“Go, quick!” he said.
Bradstone snatched at the things, and turned; then he stopped and
looked over his shoulder.
“What--what are you going to do?” he asked, hoarsely. “I--I haven’t
thanked you; but by Heaven----”
“What I am going to do rests with me,” came the stern response. “Let it
be what it may, it is not for your sake, but for her sake!”
He raised his hand again, and Bartley Bradstone, with one last parting
glance at the woman he had murdered, staggered from the glade.
Faradeane leaned against a tree, and hid his face in his hands, and
thought. And, incredible as it may seem, it was not of the woman who
had ruined his life, and who now lay dead at his feet, not of the awful
peril in which he had placed himself in shielding the murderer, not of
Bartley Bradstone; it was upon Olivia his mind was fixed.
Surely never was a woman placed in a more awful, a more heartrending
position. The wife of a scoundrel who had stained his hands with blood
upon her wedding day!
“Oh, my darling, my darling!” broke from his lips in a despairing
moan. Then he let his hands fall and looked up at the bright sky which
shone through the thick branches of the trees. “Something I can save
you from, something of the shame, the misery; but yet how little, how
little! Oh, my darling! my poor, poor darling!” and in his burning eyes
the hot tears gathered--tears wrung from his heart by the thought of
the anguish which awaited her. “Yes, something I can save you and I
will! I can save you from him even now! Thank God, thank God it is not
too late!”
The thought restored him somewhat, and struggling for self-command, he
looked around him. A small, shining object lying on the moss caught his
eyes. It was the revolver which had dropped from Bradstone’s nerveless
hand.
Faradeane took it up and looked at it absently. He thought a moment.
Then he took out his penknife and scratched some initials on the
glittering surface of the weapon.
He glanced down at his clothes as he did so, and a shudder ran through
him. Two or three red spots stared up at him from his white wristband;
there were similar spots on his coat and waistcoat.
He dropped on the trunk of the fallen tree, and with clasped hands and
set face--waited!
And the sun streamed through the trees brightly, the birds flitted over
the accursed spot with joyous trills, and, but for the music of their
song, the echo of the villagers’ voices, and the ringing of the wedding
bells, all was silent.
* * * * *
Olivia started awake with a low cry of fear, as Bessie’s gentle hand
and loving voice aroused her.
“It’s time, miss,” she said, regretfully. “I’m sorry; I waited till the
last moment----”
“I’m ready,” said Olivia, rising pale and wearily. “Have I been asleep
long, Bessie?”
She tried to smile, but her strength of will, great as it was, failed
her, and the smile was a look of agony.
Bessie turned away and caught up the traveling dress.
“Oh, try, try and keep up, miss!” she said, in a low, imploring voice.
“Let me get you something--a little wine?”
Olivia shook her head.
“No, no; I do not want it. Don’t be afraid,” and she laid her hand on
Bessie’s. “If I have kept up till now, I can----”
Bessie trembled at the stony, icelike touch, and went on with her work.
“I--I shall go down with you, miss,” she whispered.
“Yes, keep with me, dear,” said Olivia, calmly now. “Don’t”--her lips
quivered--“don’t leave me alone with my father.”
Bessie understood the prayer. Her beloved mistress might endure
all else on this day, but not a scene with the father she loved so
passionately and was leaving.
“Yes, miss, I understand,” she murmured.
“Shall we go down?” said Olivia, as Bessie put on her hat. “I am
ready!” and she raised her eyes to the glass mechanically.
The sight of her white, deathlike face startled her.
“I--I look as if I were going to die,” she said, dully. “Oh, if it were
but true! If I could die now--now!” and a spasm convulsed her face.
“Hush, hush, dear, dear mistress!” implored Bessie. “Wait; there’s a
little time left still. Wait till they send for us.”
She flung on her own jacket and hat, and then, going on her knees
beside Olivia, put her arm round her.
“Forgive me, miss,” she whispered, “but I love you, and my heart
bleeds----”
For answer, Olivia laid her cold face against the girl’s faithful one
and let it rest there.
The time was up; the guests had gathered in the hall with the customary
slippers and handfuls of rice. The bride and bridegroom’s carriage was
at the door.
Pacing to and fro in the study was the old man who was now to lose his
darling, only child, the pride, the joy, the solace of his life.
He, too, had borne up well throughout the trying day; but he was
feeling that his strength to command himself was growing weaker; and he
waited, longing, dreading, for the moment of farewell.
The best man hurried to and fro, glancing at his watch anxiously.
“Time’s up,” he said to Lord Carfield. “They’ll lose the train if they
don’t mind. Where the deuce has the fellow got to?”
Lord Carfield looked up at the great hall clock.
“He went home to fetch something he had forgotten. That was--oh, an
hour since; he should have returned long ago. Perhaps he is with the
squire, or somewhere about the place.”
The young fellow went to the study door and opened it, then closed it
softly and reverently.
“No,” he said, anxiously. “The squire is there--alone. Bradstone may be
in the house; but I don’t see how he could get in without our seeing
him. But I’ll look.”
He was gone four or five minutes; then he came back looking still more
worried and anxious.
“He’s not in the place, confound him!” he said. “I don’t know what to
do.”
Aunt Amelia came fluttering out of the drawing-room with one
elaborately embroidered slipper--which would have fitted a child of
four, but which she fondly hoped would be mistaken for her own.
“Where’s dear Olivia? Where’s Bartley?” she simpered, with an
hysterical little giggle. “Isn’t it time they started? Why, what is the
matter?” she demanded, looking from one to the other of the now silent
and curious groups.
“Hang it all,” said young Vernon, the best man, “I must do something
or I shall get mad. Look here, I’ll dash off to The Maples. If I find
him there, I’ll bring him; if I don’t--I mean if he passes me on the
way--tell him I’ve gone on to the station to take the tickets. Every
moment will be of consequence. Don’t be upset, Miss Vanley,” he added
to Aunt Amelia, who was already exhibiting signs of hysterics; “it’s
all right! I’ll bet ten to one Mr. Bradstone will be here before I’m
back,” and he dashed off.
The study door opened and the squire looked out.
“Olivia,” he said, “isn’t--isn’t the time up?”
Lord Carfield went to him, and putting his arm through his, drew him
into the study again.
“There’s a little delay, squire,” he said. “There is plenty of time.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and then there came upon the air the
sound of rapidly approaching wheels, a carriage stopped at the door,
a groom sprang to the heads of the steaming horses, and Vernon jumped
out. Then he turned, and the crowd watching from the hall saw him help
Bradstone out.
He was pale, but for two spots that burned like blood upon his cheeks,
and his eyes glittered unnaturally.
“Hurrah! here they are!” said some one. “Look sharp, Bradstone!”
The two men came up the steps into the hall, Vernon with Bradstone’s
arm in his.
“I’m--I’m late, I’m afraid,” stammered Bradstone; “the fact is I was
kept by a most important letter involving thousands!”
As he spoke, those nearest him noticed that his lips were dry, and that
he smelled strongly of brandy. Vernon left him and ran to the study,
and Lord Carfield, hearing the shout, came out and seized him by the
arm.
“I’ve got him,” whispered Vernon, “but--but--confound it, I have to say
it! but--but I think the fellow is more than half drunk!”
“Impossible!” said Lord Carfield, in a low tone of horror.
“But--but I’m afraid it’s true, my lord,” said Vernon. “I’ve given him
soda water, and made him bathe his head. Oh, Lord! it’s too awful to
think of! That sweet young creature!” and the young fellow uttered an
oath which will probably be forgiven him.
Lord Carfield held the study door in his hand.
“Keep him out of the squire’s sight,” he said, in a troubled voice. “I
suppose she must go now with him. What can have come to him?”
“Oh, she must go,” assented Vernon, despairingly. “Here”--to the
footman--“tell Miss--confound it! I mean Mrs. Bradstone’s maid--that
the carriage is waiting. Be sharp.”
The footman was hurrying across the hall, when, forcing his way through
the crowd of guests, a man whom everybody recognized as the head
keeper, caught him by the arm.
“The squire!” he said, breathlessly. “The squire! Where is he? At once!
I must see him!”
“S--sh!” warned the footman, “don’t make that noise, Browne. You can’t
see him now!”
“I must--or Lord Carfield.”
The earl came forward.
“What is it, Browne? Why are you so excited? What’s the matter?”
“Beg pardon, my lord,” said the man, agitatedly. “It’s murder; that’s
what’s the matter!”