“It—it—is not true!” she breathed.
“His wife; the woman who, in a moment of passion, as unreasoning as that in which he slew her, he had secretly married. It does not become any man to speak ill of the dead; but, gentlemen of the jury, it will be my painful duty to produce evidence to prove that the tie which the prisoner had in a rash moment contracted with the deceased was of so galling, so unendurable a nature, that he was compelled to fly from her. Most men would have severed the bond. The prisoner could have sought and obtained a release in the Divorce Court, for she had given him cause; but there were reasons why such a step should be unacceptable to him. My lord, gentlemen, up to the present, we see in the prisoner only an ordinary, private gentleman, living in a quiet, country spot secluded from the eyes of the world. But such was not always his position. The prisoner has not always borne the name of Harold Faradeane; and it is my painful task to ask you to recognize in him the person of the Earl of Clydesfold!”
A murmur quite audible, and not to be suppressed, rose from the crowd. The barristers put their heads together, the judge leaned forward and looked at the prisoner.
“The Earl of Clydesfold!” went from lip to lip.
Olivia uttered no cry, but sat white and statuesque.
“His wife! His wife!” rang in her ears.
She understood that scene in the wood, when he had held her in his arms and called her his love, and then drawn back, like a man stepping from the edge of a precipice. His wife!
“The Earl of Clydesfold!” continued the counsel. “Witnesses will be called who will tell you the story of his unfortunate, his ill-fated marriage; will show you how a man, gifted by nature, favored by fortune, of ancient and noble birth, possessed of enormous wealth, was induced by a mad passion to forget all that was due to his rank, to the honor of an ancient name, and to marry a young gypsy girl whom, blinded by that passion, he believed to be all that was innocent and pure; but who, before the honeymoon had passed, proved herself utterly unworthy to bear the name of any honest man!”
He paused and arranged his papers.
“Consider his position. Consider the nature of the prisoner. He had, all unwittingly, married this woman; was it possible for him, having discovered her true character, to drag the story of his shame, to drag the honor of his name through the mud of a divorce case? As many a man in his position had done before, he elected to hide his misery and his dishonor from the eyes of the world, in which he had held so lofty a place. He put aside the name rendered famous by a long line of distinguished ancestors, and, leaving the woman who had ruined his life, he came and hid himself in this retired spot. For a time he succeeded in concealing himself. The woman—his wife—was free to live in riotous splendor upon his money, and he may have laid the flattering unction to his soul that she would be content to leave him in peace. But, gentlemen, the consequences of such a folly as the prisoner committed are not to be avoided or escaped. The woman to whom he had given his name, in an evil and ill-fated moment, resolved that she would compel him to own her before the world or lay bare the story of his shame. She succeeded in tracking him to the place of his concealment. She had an interview with him on the night before her death. The incidents—some of the words that passed at that interview—I shall place before you. An appointment was made for the morrow. On that morrow she was found lying dead at his feet, the weapon by which she was slain beside her, bearing his name. Such evidence, so conclusive, so convincing, so damning, cannot, I fear, but lead you to the painful decision that the deceased came by her death at the hands of the prisoner.”