A FORGERY.
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!”