CHAPTER XXX.
PERCY SEABRIGHT’S TRIAL.
There was silence in the thronged court-room--silence so deep it was almost preternatural.
The lawyer was reading aloud some paragraphs here and there from Ronald Vale’s diary.
No one seemed more interested than the handsome prisoner. Faultlessly dressed, cool, nonchalant, even smiling, he leaned back in his chair, the cynosure of curious eyes, seeming rather to enjoy his notoriety. And certainly if there was any éclat in villainy, he was entitled to the palm.
To be accused of murder and arson, and conspiracy against the good name of the innocent, made very sensational reading in the newspapers, and drew the attention of the world upon the criminal. Whatever might be the outcome of it all, Percy Seabright seemed to enjoy the present stage of the proceedings, and deported himself like a hero.
The lawyer read on from the diary in clear, bell-like tones:
“It seems strange that I have married the beautiful girl that always detested my friend Percy. Naturally he is furious, but then he was always jealous of every woman I spoke to, and he did not wish me to marry at all. How strange he is at times! I wish most sincerely I had never met him. He is not what my fancy painted him in our first acquaintance. How dearly I loved him then, and how much I was deceived in him. He is a consummate actor.
“My wife dislikes and dreads him. What if she knew that in a wild spasm of jealous rage he once threatened to end my life and then his own. Decidedly he is insane. I must write to his brother, I must tell him it would be well to place poor Percy in confinement where he cannot injure himself nor any one else. This morning we had a stormy interview. I told him of certain malicious falsehoods he had promulgated against my wife, and that only because he was mentally unbalanced had I spared him the punishment that was his due. I told him he was forgiven for the sake of our past dear friendship, but that our further intimacy was obnoxious to my wife, and must come to an end.
“At first he was furious, and vowed revenge on us both. I soothed him all I could, and he grew calmer, took an affecting leave of me, and vowed he was going at once to New York, never to see me again. I am more unnerved than I had thought possible by this affair. Poor boy, it is a sudden ending to what once promised to be a beautiful, life-long friendship. Only for that weak mind he would have been so noble. I am in no mood to attend the reception to-night. If my darling will excuse me I will remain at home. My thoughts follow poor Percy in his exile. But surely he will soon forget and make new friends.”
The lawyer paused with his finger on the page, looked solemnly around at the sea of eager, upturned faces, and said impressively:
“That is the last entry made in the diary of Ronald Vale, and it bears date the day of the murder. But here, following, are pages written in a different hand which we shall presently prove to be that of Percy Seabright.”
The prisoner actually smiled complacently at this point, but ere Mr. Gardner could go on, a low groan of anguish rose upon the air. The next moment, Mrs. Vale sank fainting in her daughter’s arms.
Never before for years had Mrs. Vale looked on the face of the man who had, with deadly malice, wrecked her whole life, and the sight of his cool, complacent face was more than she could bear. Mrs. Mays and the German professor kindly took her home, left her in Mrs. Severn’s care, and went back to the trial.
When Mrs. Vale had gone, another lady took her place at Italy’s side. It was Mrs. Murray, deeply veiled and very undemonstrative, but taking an eager interest in the proceedings.
Under cover of the momentary confusion attending the exit of Mrs. Vale, she found time to whisper nervously to Italy:
“Who is this man, this Professor Doepkin? The first sight of him startled me, he is so like my son. Surely you have noticed it.”
“Yes, I saw it from the first. He is a German who came over with Emmett Harlow.”
“I must know that man. Why, it gives me pleasure only to look at him. The likeness is very striking.” Her voice sank in a smothered sob:
“Oh, Frank, Frank!”
Italy pressed her hand and answered huskily:
“Be patient, dear. He will surely return to you.”
But the sigh that breathed over her lips as she said it was torturing. She could offer comfort, but she could take none herself.
“He will never come back to me--that was all a blind mistake of mine,” she thought. “Perhaps it will be Alys who will win him after all--Alys Audenreid with her fair, blonde beauty.”
A sudden fear came to her, and she whispered agitatedly to Mrs. Murray:
“If he ever comes back to you, dear heart, mind that you never betray to him the secret I once thoughtlessly confided to you--that I thought--that I fancied I loved him!”
“Do you mean that you have changed, that Emmett has won you after all?” returned Mrs. Murray, in a reproachful undertone.
“Emmett has not won me--we are only friends--but I--I made a mistake, and--I do not want Mr. Murray ever to know,” the girl faltered, and turned hastily toward Mr. Gardner, who was about to begin the reading of Percy Seabright’s entries in the diary of his murdered friend.
The prisoner, who was sitting by the side of Mrs. Smith, gasped slightly once or twice, turned a shade paler, and leaned forward to listen to the reading.
The lawyer’s well-trained voice rang out clearly:
“The fatal deed is done. I have known for months that the goading devil within me would make me kill Ronald Vale!
“Yet I shall be haunted till I die by the look in his eyes as my dagger pierced his breast, and his dying moan: ‘How could you do it, Percy?’”
* * * * *
A groan of execration arose from the listeners, but it was quickly hushed, and Mr. Gardner read on:
“It was _her_ fault--hers and that little dark-eyed child’s. They stole his love from me. He belonged to me utterly until her blue eyes and her golden hair wiled his heart away. For years they made me wretched. To-day when he bade me leave his presence forever I swore revenge for my slighted love.
“Ah! how dearly I loved him! I would have given my life for him! Alas! he had to give his for me! But now he is mine, all mine--in death he belongs to me! I did not plan to kill him--it all came suddenly on me!
“I started to New York, but I came back that night for one more look at his beloved face. And while I hung around the window watching him unseen, _she_ came in--his lovely wife that I hated with such jealous hate!
“She had been to a reception and was glittering in diamonds and frosty laces. She hung around his neck, and, weeping, told him of the wicked falsehoods I had circulated about her. He kissed her tears away, and told her I could never be his friend again, that his contempt would bitterly punish my treachery.
“Those words of scorn for me, those caresses for her, drove me mad with jealous rage. Once I had begged him to kiss _me_. He refused in cold surprise, saying he did not like kisses between men, and he should never kiss any one but the one beloved woman who should be his wife. Those kisses awoke the sleeping devil in my nature! I had often wanted to kill myself, but this was the first time I ever thirsted for another’s life.
“There was a dagger on my person I had bought to kill myself. When Mrs. Vale went weeping from the room I sprang through the low library window; I flung myself on Ronald Vale like a tiger, and buried my dagger in his false heart!”
“Ah-h!” suddenly groaned the prisoner; and for once he quailed before the glances of hatred that fell on him, and put up his hand before his face.
“Oh, Percy, my poor boy, you did not do it--tell me you did not do it!” wailed an anguished voice, and Mrs. Smith, his faithful friend and nurse, grasped his arm in a convulsive pressure.
A low, gurgling sound came from her white lips, and then a torrent of blood flowed from them. In a moment she was dead--dead of the shock and horror of knowing her beloved master a murderer; but happily dead ere she knew the full extent of his wickedness, ere she heard of the baseness with which he had persecuted the hapless widow and her only child, his conspiracy against Francis Murray, and his crowning fiendish act in trying to burn two sleeping women in their house, to gratify his sleepless hatred, and in fear lest they should yet bring home to him his awful crime.
The further hearing of the trial had to be postponed until the morrow.
The prisoner had quite broken down, and was weeping womanish tears over the dead woman, who had been his friend from his unfortunate childhood. He was remanded to prison, and the body of Mrs. Smith, after a quiet inquest, was buried the next day.
Italy returned with Mrs. Mays, the German, and Emmett Harlow to their boarding-house. She found her mother sitting quietly in the parlor.
A moment later Isabel Severn abruptly entered the room. The young widow’s beautiful face looked like marble against her sable mourning-robes and jet-black locks, and her somber dark eyes fastened themselves on Italy with an expression of keen despair. She went up to the young girl, extending her slender white hands with a gesture of pleading.
“Oh, for God’s sake! tell me it is not true!” she cried. “Ah, I have loved you so, loved and trusted you, believing you an angel. It breaks my heart to think that you are wicked and deceitful.”
They gathered around her in wonder and amazement. Professor Doepkin drew close to Italy’s side. He saw that she had turned deadly white, that she was trembling so that she could hardly falter:
“What is it that you mean, my dear Isabel?”
“Ah, Italy, you know. He has succeeded at last, that boy at Mr. Gardner’s who has been watching so long for the beautiful face of the girl who went away with my husband from the office the evening he was murdered. To-day the boy, Robert, saw her face again in the crowded court-room. He came here to tell me; he is waiting now to identify you--_you_--Italy Vale!--as the girl whom I believe to be concerned in the killing of my husband. Oh, God! how horrible it is to know you are the woman I have sought so long. How could you keep silence when I poured my misery into your ears? Are you indeed false and wicked? Speak! tell me how my poor husband died, and what part you had in the crime. Speak--ere I fall dead at your feet!” and she knelt before Italy with streaming eyes and upraised hands in piteous pleading.
Mrs. Mays had looked and listened to her daughter in the wildest consternation. She believed that Isabel’s sorrows must have driven her mad. She hurried forward and tried to lead her from the room.
“Come away to your own room, my dear, you must not speak to Miss Vale in this strange fashion!” she cried distressedly.
But Isabel resisted her efforts and Italy begged her to desist.
“Let her stay and hear the cruel truth, for now I cannot hide it any longer,” she said firmly.
And to the surprise of every one, she took Isabel’s hands gently in hers and led her to a chair.
“Sit here and listen to my story,” she continued, “for I _do_ know how your husband died, and it was to shield another woman that I have kept the secret so long. But, my dear friend, it is a very sad story for the ears of a loving wife. I would spare you if I could, but it is now impossible.”
“Go on,” Isabel answered with burning impatience; and then Italy looked around, her glance lingering longest on Professor Doepkin, who stood nearest to her of all.
“I wish you all to stay,” she said. “You have all heard Isabel’s accusation, you must hear my defense.”
There were Professor Doepkin, Mrs. Vale, Mrs. Mays, Emmett Harlow, beside herself and Isabel. They all drew near, and then Italy began her story.
She was pale as death, she trembled, and her dark eyes were heavy with unshed tears. It was a cruel ordeal for any young girl--to tell the story of a man’s wickedness to the wife who loved him and believed him true!
She did not know how she would ever hold out to do it, but she did, and with a dramatic force and fire that held her hearers spell-bound. They hardly drew breath while she talked, and there were tears on every cheek, it was so thrilling, the story of that night when she had left The Lodge to place herself in Mr. Gardner’s protection, and fallen into a villain’s power.
“Perhaps I have done wrong to keep the secret so long,” she said. “I did not want to betray Mrs. Dunn; that is why I kept silent.”
“Isabel, I always said that Craig Severn was a bad man. I heard it before you married him, but you would not listen to me,” cried her mother almost exultantly.
But the stricken widow turned upon her with such reproachful eyes that she could say no more.
Then Italy bent before her pleadingly.
“Will you take back your unkind words now?” she begged wistfully.
“Oh, Italy, forgive me, dear, for my heart is broken.”
And Isabel burst into a passion of tears. They led her gently to her own room, to wrestle with her terrible sorrow, while the others agreed to keep silent over what had just passed until Mrs. Severn had decided whether she would prosecute the murderess.
Every one wondered why Mrs. Dunn had wished to kill Craig Severn, until clever Emmett said:
“I have a plausible theory. Perhaps she saw only his back and believed it was Percy Seabright. She was madly jealous of him, you all know, and perhaps her jealousy led her to go to that house to look for him. Seeing him in company with a beautiful young girl, perhaps drove her to murderous fury. Yet I hope Mrs. Severn will not make it public for the sake of her relatives, especially sweet Alexie, whom we all admire and love. It would be very sad for her to hear this story on returning from her wedding-tour.”