THE DIAMONDS.
“If you owed him no ill-will, why did you steal those diamonds?”
The court-room was crowded, packed with idle people come to see a man
tried for his life.
It was more exciting than a theater, for the drama was real.
Among them were perhaps a dozen people who sickened at the hideous
scene. Sir Gaspard, Mr. Bolton, Cylmer--turned away from the man in
the dock as his crimes were brought before him. Utterly hopeless, he
was venomous still. Not a question that could humiliate Helen Trelane
had his counsel spared her. Cylmer wondered at her courage as she stood
in the witness-stand. Pale, perfectly dressed, she stood unmoved, as
the question of the diamonds was asked.
Neither Ismay nor Cristiane were there, and Cylmer was thankful. At
least they would not see the spectacle of a woman shamed before the
world.
He started at the sound of Mrs. Trelane’s voice, as she answered the
question, her words distinct in the close hush.
“I took them,” she said softly, “because they were mine! He sent for me
to give them to me. This note”--taking it from her pocket--“was on the
table.”
There was absolute silence in court while the few lines were read aloud:
“DEAR HELEN: I can’t forget last night. Will you take these and wear
them or sell them, as you like, in memory of our friendship. Yours
faithfully,
“ABBOTSFORD.
“P. S.--I wrote this, meaning to send the diamonds, but I have let it
stand, even now that you are coming to see me. You know I never was
much good at talking, and I might not get it said.”
“Why did you not produce this at the time?” Wray’s counsel asked
sharply.
“Because I was afraid! I thought I could not clear myself of the
murder,” she answered simply.
Turning, she met the eyes of the prisoner at the bar, and for all his
desperate straits he smiled with understanding. She was Helen Trelane
still, adventuress to the bone. He knew quite well that she had stolen
that note.
He had stuffed it into his pocket that day at Abbotsford’s, and had
not burned it for the pure pleasure of having in his hands the proof
that she was really not guilty; afterward, when Sir Gaspard’s will had
delivered her into his hands, he had kept it still, so that when all
was done and Ismay was his he could bring it out and laugh in their
faces. But he dared not say so now. It would only make his case more
black, his conduct more cold-blooded. And he could not see how she
had obtained it; so that his bare word would go for nothing. She had
outwitted him, and he made her a slight ironical sign of admiration
with his eyes.
And yet it was simple enough.
When Davids and his men searched Wray’s room at Marchant’s Hold, they
had never thought of a black frock coat that the housemaid had taken
to replace a button. When he was gone the girl had taken it to Mrs.
Trelane, and she had flung it on her bed with loathing, since it
was his. When the girl was gone she picked it up gingerly, to feel
something in the pocket, and so she found her salvation. She had
avoided people after that, not from terror, but to laugh at them in her
sleeve.
And in the very face of the man who knew the note was stolen, she
left the witness-stand without a stain. He cared but little. He was
defeated, his case hopeless, and he was weary of the court, the curious
faces. Since it must all come out, it should come of his own free will.
His counsel gasped as the prisoner leaned forward and asked leave of
the judge to make a statement.
“My lord,” he began; he looked about him listlessly, as if he had very
little interest in his own words, “we have been here a long time, and
I for one am weary. The facts are these: I had lived on Abbotsford for
years, call it chantage, if you like. I lived on him. It was said he
hated women; he had reason. He had been trapped into a marriage with
a woman who was the worst of her sex. She was married already, but no
one knew that but I, for she was my wife.” His insolent, deliberate
voice paused an instant. “I was his best man, and the only witness of
his marriage with a woman whose very existence disgraced him. He paid
me to hold my tongue. But I drove him too far. He found the whole thing
out. He had supported my wife for years, since he was a mere boy, and
he had paid me to keep the marriage that was no marriage a secret, and
he threatened to expose me. I should have been ruined at the bar and
elsewhere.
“I went to see him on the day his engagement was announced. On the way
I bought a bottle of prussic acid. If he gave me his word not to expose
me, well and good! If not”--he shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I was
stronger than he. To knock him down and pour the prussic acid in his
mouth would not be hard. But I had no need.
“I found him lying on his sofa, ill, but quite obstinate. That very
night should see me a marked and disgraced man; his letters were
written. And then he asked me--me to hand him something that was poured
out ready in a glass, because his throat was sore! I did, but first
I poured in what was in my bottle. He drank a mere mouthful. Then he
threw down the glass and tried to call. But that time was over.
“I laid him back on the sofa, as if he slept, and I had barely
time to hide in the bedroom when that lady there”--looking at Mrs.
Trelane--“came in and found Lord Abbotsford dead. The rest you know,
even to the jewels that were her own! I trust, my lord, that the
case is done, and that the ladies and gentlemen who have honored the
court”--with an ironical bow--“have not found the entertainment more
dull than they expected.”
A little rustle ran through the court. Never had there been so
extraordinary an ending to a trial for murder. A man who let his life
go because he was weary of the tedious defense of it! Not even the
judge could find voice for an instant. And then some one screamed.
Marcus Wray had fallen in the dock like a slaughtered ox.
“A fit! Poison!” Every soul there gasped out one word or the other.
But it was neither. The long strain, the sudden effort of cool courage
had ruptured a blood-vessel in his brain. As he fell, so he lay; as
he lay, so he died; never speaking or moving again. The case for the
defense was closed. The luck of Marcus Wray had stuck by him to the
end.
Ismay clung in silence to Cylmer when he told her. When she lifted her
face it was wet.
“I’m glad, oh, glad!” she sobbed. “When I thought I had brought him to
it, that it was through me he must be hanged, I didn’t tell you, but I
thought it would drive me mad.”
“Forget it, sweet. Blot it out from your mind,” was all he could find
to say. “We will never speak of it again.”
“There’s one thing first. The boy! I promised him money, and I have
none.”
“You!” he laughed. “You have fifteen thousand pounds a year, all I own.
You shall have the boy taught a trade, and set him up in it. I have
seen about it already!” He looked keenly at her face, that was too
pale, too weary.
“Ismay,” he said quietly, “I am going to marry you in three weeks,
as soon as things can be arranged, and take you away to travel. Can
you bear that prospect? I’ve never known you go to church. Will you
come--once--with me?”
The color flooded her face.
“To marry you, do you mean?” She clung to him. Ismay, who had relied
on herself alone. “Yes; but, Miles, listen. I don’t want any wedding,
and I won’t wear a white gown. The only white gown I ever owned had a
blood-stain on it, and I can’t forget it--yet.”
“As you like, my sweet.” And the touch of his lips on her forehead was
full of understanding.
They were married as she wished, quietly, Sir Gaspard giving away the
bride, and portioning her with generosity born of his great gratitude.
It was two years before Miles Cylmer and Ismay came home to Cylmer’s
Ferry, two years that Mrs. Trelane spent gaily, having five hundred a
year allowed her by the baronet, and living where she liked.
Cristiane, sobered and steadied, lived with her father, and he had his
wish of taking her to London, and seeing her marry a man who preferred
her before any green-eyed Circe in the world.
To do her justice, Sir Gaspard never heard of that stolen card, only of
Ismay’s protection and bravery in the tragic chapters of her life. And
there is no cynicism now in the lines of Ismay Cylmer’s beautiful face.
The love that nearly was her doom has been her saving grace.
THE END.
EAGLE SERIES
A weekly publication devoted to good literature.
December 10, 1907.
No. 550
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Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected (sometimes in
consultation with the original 1898-1899 serial appearance in _Street &
Smith’ New York Weekly_ to ensure accuracy to the author's intent).
Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by
the transcriber.
Inconsistent hyphenation of upstairs vs. up-stairs is preserved from
the original text.