"Adrian, I have written your name here. I have wept hot, bitter tears over it; I have kissed it; and now I must part from you, my heart's own love! Farewell for ever and ever!

"HYACINTH."

"What does it all mean?" he cried, great drops of anguish gathering on his brow. "Where is the child? What has she done?"

"I do not know," said Lady Vaughan--"I cannot understand it, Adrian. She has done nothing. What can she have done? All her life has been pa.s.sed with me."

"I shall see in the newspapers what she has done, she says. What can she mean?"

A sudden light seemed to break in upon him: he turned to Lady Vaughan.

"Rely upon it," he said, "it is some fancy of hers about that murder. I shall not lose a moment. I shall go in search of her."

CHAPTER XX.

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 _elite_ 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 _feted_ 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 sc.r.a.p 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 a.s.sistance declared themselves completely nonplussed.

"Tell us how you pa.s.sed 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 a.s.size 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 reb.u.t.ting 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 a.s.sembly 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.