Alone at last; and the ghastly fear, the terrible dread, overwhelmed
Hyacinth. The paper dropped from her hands, and she fell, with a low,
shuddering cry, on her knees. The news was too cruel, too dreadful, too
horrible. She moaned rather than cried--"Oh, merciful Heaven, let me
die! let me die!"
The fear that was upon her was far more trying than any physical
anguish. Who could have recognized her crouching there with fever in her
brain, with anguish in her heart, as the beautiful brilliant girl who
quitted that same room a few hours since, radiant with love and hope?
Then she took up the paper, and with wild, distended eyes read this
paragraph:
"SHOCKING MURDER AT LEYBRIDGE.--The whole of this district has been
thrown into the greatest consternation by the discovery of a terrible
murder that has been committed in the pleasant meadows near the railway
station. On Thursday morning as John Dean, a laborer, was going to his
work, his attention was attracted by something lying under the hedge in
the field known as Lime Meadow. He found, on inspection, that it was the
body of a woman who had been most cruelly murdered. He hastened to the
police station and gave information to Inspector Henderson. The
inspector went at once to the spot with two of his men. The woman had
been dead, it was supposed, over two hours; there were signs of a
violent struggle; and she had evidently tried hard to defend herself. At
first no clew could be discovered as to her identity or that of her
murderer; but it was seen that she held a handkerchief tightly clinched
in her hands. With some difficulty it was taken away, and the name
'Claude Lennox' was found upon it. Further search brought to light a
folded paper, on which the address of Mr. Lennox was written in full.
The woman's clothes were marked, 'Anna Barratt.' She was quite a
stranger to the neighborhood, and no one remembers to have seen her
before. The police immediately began to make inquiries, the result of
which was the apprehension of Claude Lennox on the charge of wilful
murder. He has been brought before the magistrates at Ashton, and the
evidence given is very strong against him. Mr. Lennox is the nephew of
Colonel Lennox, of Ashton Park; and it appears that, much to the
colonel's anger and annoyance, the young gentleman was absent all
Wednesday night. A porter at Leybridge Station swears to having seen Mr.
Lennox in company with some woman--whose features he did not see--quite
early on Thursday morning. He noticed him particularly, because Mr.
Lennox seemed anxious that his companion should escape all observation.
He saw them walking toward the meadow, but not having seen the woman's
face, could not identify her. Thomas Hannan, a signalman, also swore to
the same facts. Robert Cliffe, a day-laborer, deposed that, as he was
going to work early on Thursday morning, he saw the accused walking
alone and hurriedly toward the park. He thought the gentleman looked
agitated. The prisoner admitted at once that the handkerchief and folded
paper containing the address were his, but refused to explain how they
came into the possession of the deceased. He swore that he was not
guilty of the murder, and that the woman was a stranger to him. When
asked to state where he had been during the night, he declined. When
asked to prove an _alibi_--if he could bring any witnesses to prove
where he had been--he replied abruptly that it was impossible--he could
not do it. The magistrates have committed him for trial at the Loadstone
assizes, and unless he can give some satisfactory information as to
where he passed the night of Wednesday, the weight of circumstantial
evidence will tell strongly against him. The refusal of Mr. Lennox to
make any exculpatory statement has created a great sensation in the
neighborhood. The assizes commences on the twenty-third of July."
The paper fell from Hyacinth's trembling hands, and a terrible moan came
from her lips. Clear as the daylight the incidents of that morning rose
before her in their full horror.
Whatever happened, cost what it would, she must go--she must clear
Claude. No one in the wide world knew that he was innocent, no one could
clear him but herself. Dear Heaven, how plainly the whole scene rose
before her! The dewy meadows lying so still and calm in the half
light--the woman's pale face and bruised hand! How well she remembered
wrapping Claude's handkerchief round it. How kind and compassionate
Claude had been to her!
"He will kill me some day," the woman had said, speaking of her
husband--Hyacinth could hear the voice even now. That was nearly a month
ago, and kind, generous, reckless Claude had been lying in prison ever
since, on a charge of wilful murder. He would not incriminate her; he
might have rebutted the whole charge by telling the story of that night
and calling her as a witness, but he would not do so. She had not
thought there was such generosity, such chivalry in him. It was a noble
thing of him to refuse to speak, but he must not lose his life for her.
The more she weighed the evidence, the more startled she was to find how
strongly circumstances were against Claude. She must clear him. If he
would not speak, she must.
What would it cost her? Ah, Heaven, more than her life--her love! If she
went into court to tell the truth, she could never hope to see Adrian
again. He who had valued purity, delicacy, refinement and truth so
highly--what would he say when he found that she had not only carried on
a clandestine correspondence, deceived those with whom she lived, and
stolen out to meet her lover, but had eloped with him--had left home,
and travelled as far as Leybridge with him, and walked through the
fields with him, and then, repenting, had gone back? What would he say
when he knew all? She remembered how sternly he had spoken of Lady
Wallace--what would he say of her? She was more unfortunate, more
disgraced. Her name henceforward would be associated with a murder case.
She, a Vaughan, one of the race, as Lady Vaughan had told her that
morning, that had never experienced the shadow of disgrace or shame--she
who had been, as they believed, so carefully kept from the world, so
shielded from all its snares--she to bow those gray heads with sorrow,
and slay her love with unmerited shame?
She was as one fastened to a stake; turn which way she would, her
torture increased. Could she take advantage of Claude's honorable
silence and saving herself, like a coward, let him die? Ah, no, she
could not. "Loyal, even unto death," was the motto of her race; she
could not do that. If she did--though her secret would be safe, her
miserable weakness never be known--she would hate herself, loathe her
life, so shamefully laden with secrecy and sin.
The temptation to take advantage of Claude's chivalrous silence lasted
only a few moments. She would not have purchased life and love at such a
price. She must save him.
What would it cost her? Her love--ah, yes, her love! She would never see
Adrian again; he would never speak to one so disgraced. For she did not
hide from herself the extent of that disgrace; she who had been reared
as a lily in the seclusion of home would become, for a few days at
least, the subject of scandal; the name of Hyacinth Vaughan would be
lightly spoken by light lips; men would sneer at her, women turn away
when her name was mentioned.
"Oh, how bitterly I am punished!" she cried. "What have I done that I
must suffer so?"
She knew she must go into court when Claude was tried, and tell her
shameful story before the hard-headed men of the world. She knew that
her name and what she had to tell would be commented upon by every
newspaper in England. After that, there could be no returning home, no
love, no marriage, no safe rest in a haven of peace. It would be all at
an end. She might lie down and die afterward; the world would all be
closed to her.
Only a few hours ago she had lain on that little white bed scarcely able
to bear the weight of her own happiness. How long was it since Adrian
had asked her to be his wife? The misery, the pain, the anguish of a
hundred years seemed to have passed over her head since then.
"Oh, if I had but refused to go when Claude asked me!" she cried in a
voice of anguish. "If I had only been true to what I knew was right! I
am bitterly punished."
Not more bitterly than he was. The thought seemed to strike her
suddenly. He had been in prison for over three weeks; he had been
charged with the most terrible crime--he whose only fault was that of
loving her too well. She must save him.
Then with a sudden thrill of fear she remembered how near the assizes
were--they were to be held on the twenty-third and this was the
twentieth. She would have only just time to reach Loadstone. She must
say good-by to those who loved her, and had watched over her; she must
leave all her love, her hope, her happiness behind, and go forth to save
him who was willing to give even his life to save her. She must go. She
must find out how she could reach England. The great brooding anguish of
despair seemed to have fallen over her; her heart ached until it could
ache no more; she wept until she seemed to have no more tears; she
appeared to grow insensible to the pain that was wearing her young life
away.
"I must go to-morrow night," she said to herself. "I shall see Adrian
just once again, and then I must bid him farewell forever. Oh, my love,
my love!"
She flung herself upon the floor, and wept until the morning dawned and
the summer sun peeped into the room.