The Baronet's Bride; Or, A Woman's Vengeance

by May Agnes Fleming

CHAPTER XXX.

MISS SILVER ON OATH.

The day of trial came. Long, miserable weeks of waiting—weeks of anguish and remorse and despair had gone before, and Sir Everard Kingsland emerged from his cell to take his place in the criminal dock and be tried for his life for the greatest crime man can commit.

The court-house was crowded to suffocation—there was not even standing room. The long gallery was one living semicircle of eyes; ladies, in gleaming silks and fluttering plumes, thronged as to the opera, and slender throats were craned, and bright eyes glanced eagerly to catch one fleeting glimpse of the pale prisoner—a baronet who had murdered his bride before the honey-moon was well over.

The case was opened in a long and eloquent speech by the counsel for the crown, setting forth the enormity of the crime, citing a hundred incidents of the horrible and unnatural deeds jealousy had made men commit, from the days of the first murderer.

His address was listened to in profoundest silence. The charge he made out was a terribly strong one, and when he sat down and the first witness was called the hearts of Sir Everard Kingsland's friends sunk like lead.

He pleaded "Not guilty!" with an eye that flashed and a voice which rang, and a look in his pale, proud face that no murderer's face ever wore on this earth, and with those two words he had carried conviction to many a doubter.

"Call Sybilla Silver."

All in black—in trailing crape and sables, tall, stately, and dignified as a young duchess—Sybilla Silver obeyed the call.

She was deeply veiled at first, and when she threw back the heavy black veil, and the dark, bright, beautiful face looked full at judge and jury, a low murmur thrilled through the throng.

Those who saw her for the first time stared in wonder and admiration at the tall young woman in black, with the face and air of an Indian queen, and those to whom she was known thought that Miss Silver had never, since they saw her first, looked half as handsome as she did this day.

Her brilliant bloom of color was gone; she was interestingly pale, and her great black eyes were unnaturally deep and mournful.

"Your name is Sybilla Silver, and you reside at Kingsland Court. May we ask in what character—as friend or domestic?"

"As both. Sir Everard Kingsland has been my friend and benefactor from the first. I have been treated as a confidential friend both by him and his mother."

"By the deceased Lady Kingsland also, I conclude?"

"I was in the late Lady Kingsland's confidence—yes."

"You were the last who saw her alive on the night of March tenth—the night of the murder?"

"I was."

"Where did you part from her?"

"At her own chamber door. We bade each other good-night, and I retired to rest immediately."

"What hour was that?"

"About ten minutes before eleven."

"What communication were you making to Lady Kingsland at that hour?"

"I came to tell her the household had all retired—that she could quit the house unobserved whenever she chose."

"You knew, then, that she had an assignation for that night?"

"I did. It was I who brought her the message. She was to meet Mr.
Parmalee at midnight, on the stone terrace."

"Who was this Mr. Parmalee?"

"An American gentleman—a traveling photographic artist, between whom and my lady a secret existed."

"A secret unknown to her husband?"

"Yes."

"And this secret was the cause of their mysterious midnight meeting?"

"It was. Mr. Parmalee dare not come to the house. Sir Everard had driven him forth with blows and abuse, and forbidden him to enter the grounds. My lady knew this, and was forced to meet him by stealth."

"Where was Sir Everard on this night?"

"At a military dinner given by Major Morrell, here in Worrel."

"What time did he return to Kingsland Court?"

"At half past eleven, as nearly as I can judge. I did not see him for some ten or fifteen minutes after; then Claudine, my lady's maid, came and aroused me—said Sir Everard was in my lady's dressing-room and wished to see me at once."

"You went?"

"I went immediately. I found Sir Everard in a state of passionate fury no words can describe. By some means he had learned of the assignation; through an anonymous note left upon his dressing-table, he said."

"Did you see this note?"

"I did not. He had none in his hand, nor have I seen any since."

"What did the prisoner say to you?"

"He asked me where was his wife—he insisted that I knew. He demanded an answer in such a way I dared not disobey."

"You told him?"

"I did. 'Is she with him?' he said, grasping my arm, and I answered,
'Yes.'"

"And then?"

"He asked me, 'Where?' and I told him; and he flung me from him, like a madman, and rushed out of the house, swearing, in an awful voice, 'I'll have their hearts' blood!'"

"Was it the first time you ever heard him threaten his wife's life?"

"No; the second. Once before I heard him say to her, at the close of a dreadful quarrel, 'If ever you meet that man again, I'll murder you, by the living Lord!'"

"What was the cause of the quarrel?"

"She had met Mr. Parmalee, by night and by stealth, in Sir Everard's absence, in the Beech Walk."

"And he discovered it?"

"He did. Edwards, his valet, had gone out with me to look for some article I had lost, and by chance we came upon them. We saw her give him money; we saw her dreadfully frightened; and when Edwards met his master again his face betrayed him—we had to tell him all."

"Did any one hear the prisoner use those words, 'I'll have their hearts' blood!' on the night of the murder, but yourself?"

"Yes; Edwards, his valet, and Claudine, the lady's maid. We crouched together in the hall, frightened almost to death."

"When did the prisoner reappear?"

"In little over half an hour. He rushed in in the same wild way he had rushed out—like a man gone mad."

"What did he say?"

"He shouted, 'It is false—a false, devilish slander! She is not there!'"

"Well—and then?"

"And then Claudine shrieked aloud and pointed to his hands. They were dripping with blood!"

"Did he attempt any explanation?"

"Not then. His first words were, as if he spoke in spite of himself:
'Blood! blood! Good God, it is hers! She is murdered!'"

"You say he offered no explanation then. Did he afterward?"

"I believe so. Not to me, but to others. He said his foot slipped on the stone terrace, and his hand splashed in a pool of something—his wife's blood."

"Can you relate what followed?"

"There was the wildest confusion. Claudine fainted. Sir Everard shouted for lights and men. 'There has been a horrible murder done,' he said. 'Fetch lights and follow me!' and then we all rushed to the stone terrace."

"And there you saw—what?"

"Nothing but blood. It was stained and clotted with blood everywhere; and so was the railing, as though a bleeding body had been cast over into the sea. On a projecting spike, as though torn off in the fall, we found my lady's India scarf."

"You think, then, he cast the body over after the deed was done?"

"I am morally certain he did. There was no other way of disposing of it. The tide was at flood, the current strong, and it was swept away at once."

"What was the prisoner's conduct on the terrace?"

"He fainted stone-dead before he was there five minutes. They had to carry him lifeless to the house."

"Was it not on that occasion the scabbard marked with his initials was discovered?"

"It was. One of the men picked it up. The dagger hidden in the elm-tree was found by the detective later."

"You recognized them both? You had seen them before in the possession of the prisoner?"

"Often. He brought the dagger from Paris. It used to lie on his dressing-table."

"Where he said he found the anonymous note?"

"Yes."

"Now Miss Silver," said the prosecuting attorney, "from what you said at the inquest and from what you have let drop to-day, I infer that my lady's secret was no secret to you. Am I right?"

There was a momentary hesitation—a rising: flush, a drooping of the brilliant eyes, then Miss Silver replied:

"Yes."

"How did you learn it?"

"Mr. Parmalee himself told me."

"You were Mr. Parmalee's intimate friend, then, it appears?"

"Y-e-e-s."

"Was he only a friend? He was a young man, and an unmarried one, as I am given to understand, and you, Miss Silver, are—pardon my boldness—a very handsome young lady."

Miss Silver's handsome face drooped lower. She made no reply.

"Answer, if you please," blandly insinuated the lawyer. "You have given your evidence hitherto with most unfeminine and admirable straightforwardness. Don't let us have a hitch now. Was this Mr. Parmalee a suitor of yours?"

"He was."

"An accepted one, I take it?"

"Y-e-e-s."

"And you know nothing now of his whereabouts? That is strange."

"It is strange, but no less true than strange. I have never seen or heard of Mr. Parmalee since the afternoon preceding that fatal night."

"How did you see him then?"

"He had been up to London for a couple of days on business connected with my lady; he had returned that afternoon with another person; he sent for me to inform my lady. I met and spoke to him on the street, just beyond the Blue Bell Inn."

"What had he to say to you?"

"Very little. He told me to tell my lady to meet him precisely at midnight, on the stone terrace. Before midnight the murder was done. What became of him, why he did not keep his appointment, I do not know. He left the inn very late, paid his score, and has never been seen or heard of since.

"Had he any interest in Lady Kingsland's death?"

"On the contrary, all his interest lay in her remaining alive. While she lived, he held a secret which she intended to pay him well to keep. Her death blights all his pecuniary prospects, and Mr. Parmalee loved money."

"Miss Silver, who was the female who accompanied Mr. Parmalee from London, and who quitted the Blue Bell Inn with him late on the night of the tenth?"

Again Sybilla hesitated, looked down, and seemed confused.

"It is not necessary, is it?" said she, pleadingly. "I had rather not tell. It—it is connected with the secret, and I am bound by a promise——"

"Which I think we must persuade you to break," interrupted the debonair attorney. "I think this secret will throw a light on the matter, and we must have it. Extreme cases require extreme measures, my dear young lady. Throw aside your honorable scruples, break your promise, and tell us this secret which has caused a murder."

Sybilla Silver looked from judge to jury, from counsel to counsel, and clasped her hands.

"Don't ask me!" she cried—"oh, pray, don't ask me to tell this!"

"But we must—it is essential—we must have it, Miss Silver. Come, take courage. It can do no harm now, you know—the poor lady is dead. And first—to plunge into the heart of it at once—tell us who was the mysterious lady with Mr. Parmalee?"

The hour of Sybilla's triumph had come. She lifted her black eyes, glittering with livid flame, and shot a quick, sidelong glance at the prisoner. Awfully white, awfully calm, he sat like a man of stone, awaiting to hear what would cost him his life.

"Who was she?" the lawyer repeated.

Sybilla turned toward him and answered, in a voice plainly audible the length and breadth of the, long room:

"She called herself Mrs. Denover. Mr. Parmalee called her his sister.
Both were false. She was Captain Harold Hunsden's divorced wife, Lady
Kingsland's mother, and a lost, degraded outcast!"