CHAPTER XXXV.
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.