The Court was crowded in every part. For the trial of Hugh Stavanger and Captain Cochrane upon various indictments had aroused immense public interest, and countless rumours were afloat respecting the wonderful acumen, devotion, and heroism of Miss Annie Cory. She was inundated with applications for interviews, and greatly as she disliked much of the questioning to which she was subjected, she submitted to it with the best grace she could muster, for Harley’s sake. Soon she found herself a popular idol. Her sayings and doings were recorded in every paper in the land that could obtain authentic information on the subject, and some of the more obscure journals that were endowed with smart editors determined to rescue them from their obscurity, published racy accounts of fictitious interviews with her, which were so extraordinarily full of favourable criticism that none but her enemies could have taken serious exception to them. She was photographed so often that at last she rebelled, and vowed that she would never enter a photographer’s studio again. She figured as Miss Una Stratton, as Miss Cory, andas Mr. Bootle, her various presentments being so totally different that curiosity to see her rose to its highest pitch, and caused her every movement to be watched with the keenest interest. Briny, too, came in for his share of attention. For had it not transpired that his mistress in all probability owed her life to him? And that he was a cordially beloved member of the Cory family? Through the publication of his history a curious thing came to pass.
One day an elderly gentleman sought an interview with Mr. Cory. Briny was in the hall when he arrived, and welcomed him with the wildest demonstrations of affection. It transpired that Briny’s original name had been Neptune; that his master’s name was Woodstock; that the latter had been ordered by his doctors to do a little sea-voyaging; and that after going out to America, he had engaged a return passage for himself and his dog on board a timber-laden vessel bound for England, and not likely to make such a rapid passage as a steamer, his object being to spend a few weeks over the voyage.
“But things did not work quite so satisfactorily as had been expected,” he continued. “Bad weather overtook us, after various incidents that I will not inflict upon you, and the day arrived when it was deemed necessary to take to the boats. I had the misfortune to receive a blow on the head that rendered me insensible for a time, and when I came round, I found, to my great grief, that my faithful friend Neptune had been left on board the wreck to perish in miserable solitude. I believe I was very violent in my denunciations of the inhumanity that could thus desert him. But even my partiality was at last convinced that, the boats being overcrowded already, there could havebeen no room found for a large dog, except at the risk of all our lives. As it was, one boat swamped and drowned its occupants. When, quite recently, I read of your brave action in saving the life of a deserted dog, I felt sure it must be dear old Neptune.”
“But you won’t take him away from us?” pleaded Miss Margaret, anxiously.
“My dear madam,” quoth Mr. Woodstock, “do you take me for a heathen?”
But—will the disclosure be premature?—she was subsequently induced to take him “for better, for worse,” and the pair are as happy and jolly as people who have been half a century in finding their affinity ought to be.
Annie had had an interview—nay, two interviews, with her lover, and had the satisfaction of leaving him more hopeful each time. Of course his love and gratitude knew no bounds, but we will spare the reader all his extravagant testimonials to his lady love’s perfections, or his bitter denunciations of those who had brought about the necessity for her exceptional exertions.
“I think we may almost venture to pity them now,” said Annie, gently. “They have been very wicked, and all their schemes have to some extent been successful. But their downfall has come at last. They cannot escape conviction, and this knowledge must in itself be a very bitter punishment for them. Your liberation is now only a mere matter of form, and all England is in sympathy with you, even before the trial which is to decide whether you and Hugh Stavanger are to change places or not.”
“Our solicitor told me that Mr. Stavanger was supposed to be dying. Have you heard how he is?”
“He is recovering; but will never be the same man again. They say that his illness has changed him in many respects, and that he has vowed never to look upon his son again.”
“I suppose he is a man of extreme views. Probably his present aversion to his son is more the result of the disgrace which it is no longer in his power to avert, than of a suddenly aroused conviction that his son has sinned against law and morality, or that, by swearing against me, he has helped to make me that son’s scapegoat. I don’t believe in after-discovery repentances. All the same, I believe he is to be pitied, and I shall bear no animosity.”
“That is well spoken, Harley! The punishment of our enemies rests now with the law, and personal enmity may well die out. If only poor Hilton were alive there would be such complete happiness in store for us that our hearts need have no room for enmity.”
Nevertheless, on the day of the trial Annie watched the progress of events with the keenest anxiety, and her distress of mind worried her friends considerably. Suppose her hopes were destined to be blighted, after all? Suppose the evidence at command should not prove enough, even yet, to bring about a reversal of the sentence which had weighed upon Harley for months? It was no wonder that she looked anxious, or that she was oblivious of everything but the actual progress of the trial. She was well supported by friends, who lavished every attention upon her that could be spared from the dear, sweet-faced old lady, to whom this day was of such awful moment. They had all tried to persuade Mrs. Riddell toremain at home, fearing that the excitement might be too much for her.
Their persuasions were most kindly meant. But the firmness with which they were resisted convinced them that they were also ill-judged. One of Mrs. Riddell’s sons was to have his fate decided that day—either as a free man, or as a confirmed felon. And two men were to be arraigned for depriving her of her other son. It would be dreadful to look upon that son’s murderers. But it would be intolerable anguish to remain at home in ignorance of what was being done.
Captain Cochrane and Hugh Stavanger both looked round with a feeble assumption of confidence when they were brought into the dock. But there were very few sympathetic looks to be seen on the sea of faces at which they gazed, and their eyes soon sought the ground, the one scowling angrily, and the other looking abjectly miserable.
No expense had been spared that could help to prove Harley innocent of the diamond robbery, even the Maltese jeweller being to the fore. Harley Riddell himself was strongly cross-examined, and his worn, haggard appearance caused his fond mother and faithful sweetheart some additional sorrow. But as the trial progressed, excitement lent a colour to his cheeks and a brightness to his eyes which showed his friends how soon he would recover his former vigour when free, and proved to strangers how handsome he was likely to appear when happy.
The prisoners were on their trial, the one for the diamond-robbery, and the other for being accessory after the fact. On the morrow they were to take their trial for the suspected murder of Hilton Riddell. Somehow,however, the proofs which had been deemed so overwhelming by Harley’s friends, did not appear as if they were going to be sufficient to compass the conviction of Hugh Stavanger for the robbery. There was plenty of proof that he had had a great many diamonds in his possession, and his evident desire to evade observation argued guilt on his part. But there was no one who could or would prove that the jewels in Hugh Stavanger’s possession were the jewels that had been stolen. Both his father and his uncle had suddenly disappeared, and their evidence was unavailable. This disappearance confirmed everybody’s moral conviction that Hugh Stavanger was guilty.
But moral conviction is not proof, and without proof no man may be judged. Accused’s counsel began to be very hopeful. Presumably everything would have turned upon Hilton Riddell’s evidence, and, curiously enough, the lack of evidence was likely not merely to fail in proving Stavanger’s guilt, but to be the actual means of proving his innocence. It was fully explained why he had joined the “Merry Maid.” But although he might have gained important evidence, he had not returned with it, and was, therefore, useless as a witness. It being impossible to prove that Mr. Hilton Riddell was possessed of any information likely to be detrimental to Mr. Hugh Stavanger or to Captain Cochrane, it naturally followed that a motive for his supposed murder was wanting. Given no motive, only absolute proof that the men had been seen to commit the murder would be sufficient to secure their committal upon the capital charge, and though all the world felt morally convinced of their guilt, the men hadcapital counsel who knew, none better, how to make black look like white, and whose professional reputation was staked upon the winning of such a desperate looking case.
There was also a certain judge on the bench with whom the words “justice” and “moral conviction” became obsolete terms as soon as he entered upon the study of “law.” He also prided himself upon his ability to enforce the dictates of law in all their naked severity, in spite of all the clamourings of public opinion. Nay, public opinion was his especial bugbear, and hisjudicialeye always rested with particular disfavour upon anyone unfortunate enough to be deemed a popular favourite. He had read all about Annie’s adventures, and had at once dubbed her in his own mind an unwomanly schemer. He didn’t like unwomanly women. They set a bad example to others. Therefore an example must be made of them, and they must be shown that the dictum of one of her Majesty’s judges cannot be lightly upset. Poor man! He was but human, and he could hardly be expected to view with favour an attempt to upset the judgment he had himself given when Harley Riddell was tried for the diamond robbery. Do not mistake me, dear reader, our noble judge would sacrifice his own private feelings if law bade him do so. But law must be paramount, and if law was ever doubtful, it must always consider itself opposed to sentimentalism and unwarranted interference.
Thus it happened that, by the enforcement of this enactment or of that, all the cherished proofs of Harley’s innocence and Hugh Stavanger’s guilt were ruthlessly torn to shreds, and more than one heart was turning sick withdisappointment, when a strange commotion was heard among the crowd of people at the entrance of the court. There were loud cries of “Silence in Court.” But these cries were unheeded. Indeed, the commotion waxed louder and became momentarily more irrepressible, as a man pushed his way through the crowd, while his name flew before him.
It was Hilton Riddell!
Hilton Riddell was that day a name to conjure with, and even the judge himself permitted his mind to entertain emotions that were not strictly of a legal tendency. But how describe the joy and delight of the mother who had pictured him lying dead at the bottom of the sea? Of the brother who thought that for his sake he had perished? Of the friends who now saw light ahead for Harley? Or the dismay of the two scoundrels who, though they were freed from the weight of bloodguiltiness, yet saw condemnation in store for them as the result of the evidence of this man, who had been given up by the sea for their undoing?
All this happened some time ago. And our friends may be supposed to have settled down to the freedom and joy which is theirs. But even yet they cannot think calmly of the events of that wonderful day when blind justice seemed to be balancing her scales against them again, and when Hilton’s opportune return wrought the condemnation of villainy, and re-united every member of a now happy family. Hugh Stavanger has ample time now in which to contemplate the fate he so ruthlessly inflicted upon another. And Captain Cochrane often laments the day that cupidity stole such a sorry march upon him.
Miss Una Stratton and Mr. Ernest Bootle have been relegated to the phantoms of the past, and even Miss Annie Cory has been merged into Mrs. Harley Riddell. Her husband has quite recovered his former health and good looks, though he is perhaps of a more serious disposition than of yore. He does not care to lead an idle life, but is at the head of a lucrative business established for him by his father-in-law. Needless to say, the said father-in-law did not care to be parted from his daughter, and the three live very happily together.
Hilton Riddell makes his mother’s heart happy by his devotion to her, and she has no fear that the day will come when he will crave for the exclusive society of a companion of his own years. He also has embarked in a line of business which ensures him freedom from pecuniary anxiety.
Mr. and Mrs. Woodstock live next door to the house in which Mr. and Mrs. Harley Riddell and Mr. Cory reside, and it is questionable which of the homes Briny claims as his own.
Mr. and Mrs. Twiley, and Mrs. Dollman (on her marriage to a worthy young friend of the sergeant-major) received some very handsome presents from the Corys, and Hilton Riddell is not likely to forget all he owes to a certain worthy Captain Quaco Pereiro and his steward.
THE END.