The court at Loadstone was crowded to excess. Since the town was built
there had never been so great a sensation. The terrible murder at Oakton
had been a subject of discussion over all England. The colonel was one
of the most prominent men in the county; he had always been very proud
and very exclusive, and the county had grown proud of the old
aristocrat. It was a terrible blow to him when his nephew was charged
with wilful murder.
All the _élite_ of the county had crowded to the trial. Loadstone had
never been so full; the hotels could not hold half the number who
flocked to hear Claude Lennox tried. There were no more lodgings to be
had for love or money. It was not only the county people who testified
their interest. Claude Lennox was well-known, and had been courted,
popular, and eagerly _fêted_ in London drawing-rooms. Many of his old
friends, members of his club came to see him tried.
It was an unusual case because of the rank, wealth, and position of the
accused--Claude Lennox, the idol of London coteries, the Adonis of the
clubs, the heir of grand, exclusive Colonel Lennox. Then the murder
seemed so utterly motiveless. The young man swore most solemnly that he
knew nothing of the deceased--that she was a stranger whom he had
relieved. The handkerchief found upon her he said was his, and that it
had been given from motives of charity, to bind her bruised hand. The
address on the scrap of paper he admitted was in his own writing--he had
given it to her, hoping that either his mother or his aunt would be able
to find her work. More than that he refused to say. He refused to
account for his time--to say where he had been that night--to make any
attempt to prove an _alibi_. He was asked who was his companion at
Oakton station, and he refused to answer. His lawyer was in despair. The
able counsel whom his distracted mother had sent to his assistance
declared themselves completely nonplussed.
"Tell us how you passed the night," they had said, "so that we may know
what line of defense to adopt."
"I cannot," he replied. "I swear most solemnly that I know nothing of
the murder. More than that I cannot say."
"It is probable you may pay for your obstinacy with your life," said
Sergeant Burton, one of the shrewdest lawyers in England.
"There are things more painful than death," Claude replied, calmly; and
then the sergeant clapped his hands. "There is a woman in the case," he
said--"I am sure of it."
Sergeant Burton and Mr. Landon were retained as counsel for Claude; but
never were counsel more hopeless about their case than they. They could
call no witnesses in Claude's favor--they did not know whom to call. "He
will lose his life," said Mr. Landon, with a groan. "What infatuation!
What folly! It strikes me he could clear himself if he would."
But the twenty-third of July had come round, and as yet Claude had made
no effort to clear or defend himself. The morning of his trial had
dawned at last. It was a warm, beautiful summer day, the sun shone
bright and warm. Loadstone streets were filled, and Loadstone Assize
Court was crowded. There was quite a solemn hush when "The Crown _vs._
Lennox" came on. Most of those present knew Claude Lennox--some
intimately, others by sight. They looked curiously at him, as he stood
in the dock; the air of aristocratic ease and elegance that had always
distinguished him was there still, but the handsome face had lost its
debonair expression; there were deep lines upon it--lines of thought and
care.
"How do you plead, prisoner at the bar--Guilty, or Not Guilty?"
The silence was profound.
"Not guilty, my lord," replied the clear voice; and in some vague way a
thrill of conviction shot through each one that the words were true.
Then the business of the trial began. All present noticed the depressed
air of the prisoner's counsel and the confident look of the counsel for
the prosecution.
"No rebutting evidence," seemed to be the mysterious whisper circulating
through the court.
Then the counsel for the prosecution stated his case. It seemed clear
and conclusive against the accused; yet the dauntless face and upright
figure were hardly those of a murderer. The prisoner was absent from
home the whole of the night on which the murder was committed; he was
seen at Leybridge station with a woman; he was observed to walk with her
toward the meadow where the body was found; his handkerchief was found
tightly clinched in her hands, and his London address in her pocket;
witnesses would swear to having seen him return alone to Oakton Park,
looking terribly agitated. At the same time, the counsel for the Crown
admitted that there had been no witnesses to the deed; that no possible
motive could be ascribed for the murder; that against the moral
character of Mr. Lennox there was not one word to say; that no weapon
had been found near the scene of the murder; that on the clothes worn by
Mr. Lennox at the time there was not the least stain of human blood.
These were points, the counsel admitted, that were in favor of the
accused.
At this juncture, just as people were remarking how depressed the
prisoner's counsel were looking, there was a slight commotion in the
crowded court. A note, written in pencil, was handed to Sergeant Burton;
as he read it a sudden light came over his face, and he hastily quitted
his seat, first handing the note to the junior counsel, who read:
"I have evidence to give that will save Mr. Lennox's life. Can you spare
a few minutes to hear what I have to say?
"HYACINTH VAUGHAN."
Sergeant Burton was absent for a little while; but he returned in time
to hear the concluding part of the opposing counsel's speech. It told
hard against the accused, but the learned sergeant only smiled as he
listened. He seemed to have grown wonderfully composed. Then the
witnesses for the prosecution were called, and gave their evidence
clearly enough. Some in court who had felt sure of Claude's innocence
began to waver now. Who was with him at Leybridge? That was the point.
There was no cross-examination of the witnesses.
"I have no questions to ask," said the counsel. "My client admits the
perfect truth of all the evidence."
"This is my case, gentlemen of the jury," concluded the counsel for the
prosecution, as he sat down.
"And it is a strong one, too," thought most of the people present. "How
can all these facts be explained away?"
Then Sergeant Burton rose.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "this is the most painful case I have
ever conducted; a more grievous mistake than this accusation of murder
against an innocent gentleman has never been made. I will prove to you
not only that he is quite innocent of the crime, but that, in his
chivalrous generosity, he would rather have forfeited his life than
utter one word in his own defense which would shadow, even in the
slightest, a woman's honor. I will prove to you that, although the
accused was at Leybridge with a lady, and not only spoke to, but
relieved the deceased, yet that he is entirely innocent of the crime
laid to his charge."
The silence that followed was profound. For the first time Claude's face
grew anxious and he looked hurriedly around.
"The first witness I shall call," said the learned counsel, "is one who
will tell you where Mr. Lennox spent his time on the night of the
murder; will tell you how he relieved the poor woman; will, in short,
give such evidence as shall entirely free him of the most foul charge.
Call Miss Hyacinth Vaughan."
At the mention of the name the prisoner started and his face flushed
crimson.
"Why did she come?" some one near heard him murmur. "I would have died
for her."
Then, amid profound and breathless silence, there entered the
witness-box a graceful girlish figure, on which all eyes were
immediately bent. She raised her veil, and a thrill of admiration went
through that thronged assembly as the beautiful, colorless face, so
lovely, so pure, so full of earnest purpose, was turned to the judge.
She did not seem to notice the hundreds of admiring, wondering eyes--it
was as though she stood before the judge alone.
"Do not speak, Hyacinth," said the prisoner, vehemently; and in a low
voice he added: "I can bear it all--do not speak."
"Silence!" spoke the judge, sternly. "This is a court of justice; we
must have no suppression of the truth."
"Your name is Hyacinth Vaughan?" was the first question asked.
"My name is Hyacinth Vaughan," was the reply; and the voice that spoke
was so sweet, so sad, so musical, that people bent forward to listen
more eagerly. Sergeant Burton looked at the beautiful, pallid, high-bred
face.
"You were in the company of the accused on the night of Wednesday, the
12th of June?"
"Yes," she said.
"Will you state what happened?" asked the sergeant, blandly.
Hyacinth looked at the judge: her lips opened, and then closed, as
though she would fain speak, but could not. It was an interval of
intense excitement in court.
"Will you tell us why you were in his company, Miss Vaughan, and whither
you went?" said the sergeant.
"My lord," she said--for it was at the judge she looked always--of the
presence of the jury she seemed totally ignorant--"I will tell you all
about it. I went away with Mr. Lennox--to go to London--to be married
there."
"Unknown to your friends?" asked the judge.
"Unknown to anyone."
Here Hyacinth paused, and the lips that had been speaking turned deathly
white.
"Tell us about it in your own way, Miss Vaughan," said the judge--the
sight of that tortured young face moved him to deepest pity--"do not be
afraid."
Then the fear seemed to die away from her: in all that vast assembly she
saw no face but that of the judge looking steadily and intently at her
own.
"My lord," she said, "I was very dull at home; everyone was kind to me,
but there was no one there of my own age, and I was very dull. I made
Mr. Lennox's acquaintance, and liked him very much--I thought I loved
him--and when he asked me to run away from home and marry him I was
quite willing."
"But what need was there to run away?" asked the judge, kindly. He knew
the question pained her, for her lips quivered and her whole face
changed.
"In our folly there were reasons that seemed to us to make it
imperative," she replied. "My friends had other views for me, and I was
to start for the Continent on Friday, the fourteenth of June. It seemed
certain to us that unless we were married at once we should never be
married at all."
"I understand," put in the judge, kindly; "go on with your story."
"I did not think much about it, my lord," continued Hyacinth,--"that is,
about the right and the wrong of it--I thought only of the romance; and
we agreed to go up to London by the train that passed Oakton soon after
midnight. I left my home and met Mr. Lennox at the end of my
grandparents' grounds; we went to the station together. I kept out of
sight while he took tickets for both of us at the booking-office."
"The clerk at Oakton station will prove that the accused purchased two
tickets," interrupted Sergeant Burton. The judge nodded, and the young
girl continued:
"We got into the train and went as far as Leybridge. There the train
stopped. Mr. Lennox told me that the mail train we were to meet had been
delayed by an accident, and that we should have to wait some hours at
the station. The morning was breaking then, and we were alarmed lest
someone should come to the station who might recognize me. Mr. Lennox
suggested that, as the morning was bright and pleasant, we should go
through the fields, and I gladly consented."
All this time the clear, sweet young voice sounded like music in the
warmth and silence of the summer air.
"We reached the field called Lime Meadow, and stood there, leaning over
the stile, when I thought I saw something under a hedge. We went to see.
It was a woman who had been sleeping there. My lord, she looked very
faint, very wild and weak. We spoke to her. She told us that her name
was Anna Barratt, and that she was married, but that she was very
unhappy. She was going with her husband to Liverpool. She told us her
story, my lord, and it frightened me. She told us that she had once been
a bright happy girl at home, and that against her mother's advice she
had eloped with the man who had sought her hand, and married him. Her
words struck me like a sharp blow. She said it was better to break one's
heart at home than to run away from it. Mr. Lennox was very sorry for
her; and, when I saw her poor bruised hand lying on the grass, I bound
it up. My lord, I asked Mr. Lennox for his handkerchief, and I wrapped
it around her hand."
There was such a murmur of excitement in the court that the speaker was
obliged to pause.
"Go on, Miss Vaughan," said the judge. Still looking at him, and him
only, she continued:
"Mr. Lennox gave her some money. She told us that her husband beat her;
that he had bruised her hand, and that she was quite sure he would come
back to murder her. Then Mr. Lennox told her, that if she feared that,
to get up and come away; he gave her two sovereigns and told her to go
to London. He wrote down his address on a piece of folded paper, and
told her if she would either come or write to that address, his mother
would befriend her. She asked Heaven to bless us, my lord, and turned
away her head, as though she were tired. We walked on, and did not see
her again."
And again Hyacinth paused, while those in court seemed to hang upon the
words that came from her lips.
"Then, my lord," she continued, "I began to think of what she had
said--that it was better to break one's heart at home than to run away
from it. All at once the folly and wickedness of what I was about to do
appeared to me. I began to cry, and begged of Mr. Lennox to take me
home."
"A very common termination to an elopement," observed the judge.
"Mr. Lennox was very kind to me," continued the earnest voice. "When he
saw that I really wanted to go home, he took me back to Oakton, and left
me in the grounds where we had met so short a time before. My lord, I
swear to you most solemnly that this is the whole truth."
"Will you explain to us," inquired the prosecution, "why, knowing all
this, you have allowed matters to proceed so far against the accused?
Why did you not come forward earlier, and reveal the truth?"
"My lord," she said, still looking at the quiet face of the judge, "I
knew nothing of the case until twenty-four hours ago. I started with my
grandparents on the Friday morning for the Continent, and have been
living at Bergheim since. I knew of the trial only the night before
last, and I came hither at once."
"You came alone; and immediately?"
"Yes," she replied. "I have lost everything by so coming. I can never go
back among my kindred again. I shall never be forgiven."
There was a brief pause. The foreman of the jury gave a written paper to
the usher to be handed to the judge--a paper which intimated that the
jury did not think it necessary to go on with the case, feeling
convinced, from the evidence of Miss Vaughan, that Mr. Lennox was
perfectly innocent of the crime imputed to his charge. The judge read
the paper carefully, and then, looking at the witness, said:
"Miss Vaughan, you committed a great error--an error perhaps in some
degree excusable from your youth. But you have atoned for it more nobly
than error was ever atoned for before. At the risk of losing all most
dear to you, and of exposing yourself to the comments of the world, you
have come forward to save Mr. Lennox. I, for one, must express my
admiration of your conduct. Your evidence has acquitted the
prisoner--the jury have intimated that there is no need to proceed with
the case."
Then arose cheers that could not be silenced. In vain the judge held up
his hand in warning and the usher cried "Silence!"
"Heaven bless her," cried the women, with weeping eyes.
"She is a heroine!" the men said, with flushed faces.
There was a general commotion; and when it had subsided she had
disappeared. Those who had watched her to the last said that when the
judge, in his stately manner, praised her, her face flushed and her lips
quivered; then it grew deathly pale again, and she glided away.