The Coquette\'s Victim written by Charlotte M. Braeme
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Charlotte M. Braeme >> The Coquette\'s Victim
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6 EVERYDAY LIFE LIBRARY No.1
Published by EVERYDAY LIFE, Chicago
THE COQUETTE'S VICTIM
BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
The Trial.
Mr. Kent was a very able magistrate. He had sat on the bench for many
years and was considered a man of great legal attainments and skill. He
very seldom erred in his judgment, and being gifted with a natural
shrewdness, he saw the difference at once between a guilty and an
innocent man.
He rarely erred; long practice had made him an adept in reading faces.
But on this morning, the fourteenth of May, he was puzzled. Many cases
had been brought before him. Drunken men dismissed with a fine and a
reprimand, thieves sentenced to weeks or months of imprisonment, wives
with pale faces and bruised arms had given reluctant evidence against
husbands who had promised to love and cherish them until death.
It was a bright May morning, and the sun did his best to pour through
the dusky windows of the police court; a faint beam fell on the stolid
faces of the policemen and ushers of the court, the witnesses and the
lookers-on; a faint beam that yet, perhaps, brought many messages of
bright promise to those present.
A little boy had been sent on an errand with sixpence and had stolen the
money; with many sobs and tears he confessed that he had spent it in
cakes. Mr. Kent looked at the tear-stained face; the untidy brown head
scarcely reached to the table, and the good magistrate thought, with
something like pain at his heart, of a fair-haired boy at home. So he
spoke kindly to the poor, trembling prisoner, and while he strongly
reprimanded, still encouraged him to better ways. The boy was removed,
and then Mr. Kent was puzzled by the prisoner who took his place.
A tall, handsome young man, apparently not more than twenty, with a
clear-cut aristocratic face, and luminous dark gray eyes. A face that no
one could look into without admiration--that irresistibly attracted man,
woman and child. He was a gentleman--there could be no mistake about it.
That clear-cut Norman face had descended to him from a long line of
ancestors; the well-built, manly figure, with its peculiar easy grace
and dignity told of ancient lineage and noble birth.
His hands were white, slender and strong, with almond-shaped
nails--hands that had never been soiled with labor, and surely never
stained with crime.
He carried his handsome head high; it was proudly set on a firm,
graceful neck, and covered with clusters of dark hair. He would have
looked in his place near the throne of a queen, or, on the back of a war
horse, leading a forlorn hope; but no one could understand his being
prisoner in a dock. Mr. Kent looked at him, wondering with what he was
charged. Surely, with that noble face and gentlemanly bearing, he had
never been guilty of a common assault. Magistrate as he was, Mr. Kent
listened to the recital of the charge, with some curiosity.
Jules St. Croix, Count of the French Empire, charged the prisoner at the
bar with having broken into his rooms for the purpose of robbery. He had
been discovered in the count's drawing-room, where he had forced open an
ivory casket and stolen the contents, which were an ancient and valuable
gold watch and a gold ring, also of considerable value. At the moment
that the count, followed by his servant, entered the room, the prisoner
had these articles in his hand. He dropped them immediately, but the
count, hastily calling for the police, gave him in charge.
There was a smell of burned paper in the room and it was nearly eleven
at night.
The magistrate asked if the prisoner had made any resistance. Policeman
C. No. 14, answered, "No, he gave in at once; and came straight away."
Mr. Kent asked again: "Was there anything in the casket beside the
jewelry?"
It seemed to be a very insignificant question, but the prisoner and the
count looked steadfastly at each other and both answered: "No."
There were two witnesses. Robert Bolton, the count's servant, and C. No.
14, the policeman. The evidence of the servant was taken first. He said
that the prisoner had called several times to see his master, always
coming when the count was from home; that he had, before, made one or
two efforts to get into the count's room, but that he, the servant, had
always refused him permission.
On this evening the count went out early, and Robert Bolton having some
errands to do, followed his master. About ten o'clock the prisoner
called at the house, No. 24 Cambridge Terrace, and asked to speak to
Count St. Croix. The landlady of the house told him the count was from
home; then the prisoner said:
"I know. I will go to his room and wait there for him."
The landlady, believing him to be a perfect gentleman, allowed him to
go up to the count's room. Robert Bolton returned home just as his
master was at the door; when the landlady told him a gentleman was
waiting there, it flashed instantly into his mind there was something
wrong. He hastily told his suspicions to the count and they ran upstairs
together. Opening the door quickly, they found the prisoner with the
casket in one hand and the watch in the other. There was an odor of
burnt paper in the room.
The count immediately opened the window and called for the police. C.
No. 14 was just passing, and in marvelously quick time he ran upstairs.
"This man has gotten into my room on false pretences," said the count.
"He is a stranger to me. I give him in charge for breaking open my
casket and stealing a watch and ring from it."
"What did the prisoner say."
"He pointed to the watch and ring, and said: 'There they are;' then he
looked at the count with a smile."
"Did he seem frightened?"
"Not the least in the world," was the answer; "just the contrary."
"What happened next?"
"The prisoner told him he must consider himself a prisoner on the charge
of stealing a watch. He laughed aloud and walked away."
The landlady of the house, the policeman and the count all gave the same
evidence. It seemed very clear against him.
"What have you to say?" asked, the magistrate of the prisoner.
He raised his luminous gray eyes.
"Not one word," he replied, in a clear, refined voice.
"What is your name? I see you have refused to give any."
For the first time the prisoner's face flushed crimson, and the count
smiled malignantly.
"My name is--John Smith," he replied, and again the count smiled.
"Your address?"
He gave some number and street which every one knew to be false.
"Your occupation?" asked the magistrate again.
"I have none--that is, no settled occupation," he replied.
"Have you no lawyer to defend you?" asked Mr. Kent.
"I require none," said the prisoner; "I have no defense. All that Count
Jules St. Croix says is true; he found me in his room with the open
casket in my hand."
"You had gone there for the purpose of robbery?"
"I have not a word to answer."
"You can surely give some account of your presence there?"
The prisoner smiled again.
"I refuse to do so," he replied, with great firmness, yet courtesy of
manner.
"Then I must commit you for trial," said the magistrate. "Have you no
witnesses to bring forward in your own defense now, as to character--no
referees?" he continued.
"None," was the quiet reply.
"I am sorry," said Mr. Kent; "to see one who is so evidently a
gentleman and a man of education in such a position."
But there was no shame in the handsome face; none in the proud eyes. He
raised his head with haughty grace and made no reply.
"I can take bail," said Mr, Kent, but the prisoner said, "I have none to
offer."
Then was the good magistrate puzzled. He had no resource but to commit
the young man to take his trial at the Sessions. Yet looking at the
clear, aristocratic face, and the firm, proud lips, he could have sworn
that the prisoner was perfectly innocent of the theft.
He read pride, honesty, loyalty and chivalry in the face, yet there was
nothing left for him to do but to commit him.
He looked very grave as he did so, and then John Smith was taken away by
the policeman. As he left the dock he turned to his accuser, the Count
St. Croix, who stood there with a dark frown on his face; he looked at
him for one moment, then waved his hand, as one who had won a great
victory.
"I have conquered," he said, and the count's sallow face grew pale with
rage,
"Curse you," he said, between his teeth, "I should like to stand with my
foot on your neck."
CHAPTER II.
The Sentence.
John Smith--for the prisoner was known by no other name--lay in prison
until the time for him trial. He had not long to wait, but he made no
complaint. He seemed perfectly at his ease--much more so than was Mr.
Kent. In vain the good magistrate said to himself that it was no
business of his; that he had nothing whatever to do with the case, he
had simply performed his duty--done what was required of him. Yet he
could not feel satisfied; he was sure there was a mystery, and he longed
to fathom it.
He resolved to go and see the young man, and ask him more questions, to
try to ascertain who he really was. He went to his cell and the prisoner
looked at him in utter surprise.
"I have come purposely," said Mr. Kent, "to see if I cannot induce you
to tell the truth over this affair. I will call you John Smith, if you
like, yet I am sure you are a gentleman; you will not deny that?"
"I neither admit nor deny anything," was the smiling reply; "I have made
up my mind that there will be a certain punishment, and I shall go
through it like a brave man."
"Have you well considered what degradation that punishment will bring
upon you as long as you live?"
His face flushed hotly.
"Since you ask me," he answered, "I tell you frankly, no; I had not
thought of that part of the business at all--it never even occurred to
me; my thoughts were all otherwise engrossed."
"You should take it into consideration," said the magistrate. "I know
nothing of what your position in society may be, but remember, you
voluntarily cut yourself off from all association with even respectable
people; a man who has been in prison cannot expect the countenance or
fellowship of his fellow-men."
"I suppose you are right," replied the young man; "although, believe me,
never a thought of this occurred to me."
"Now, would it not be better to tell the truth? Have you done it for a
wager? is it the trick of a foolish young man? or were you really
tempted to steal the watch?"
Something like a smile curved his handsome lips.
"I cannot tell you," he replied. "I am deeply grateful for your kind
interest--indeed, 1 shall never forget it; but I cannot, in return, tell
you one word."
"Then I can do nothing to help you?"
"No," he answered slowly; "you could not help sending me for trial. Will
you tell me what the probable result will be, supposing, as a matter of
course, that I am found guilty?"
"Most probably, six months imprisonment, without hard labor, if it be a
first offence."
"It is the first of its kind," was the smiling reply.
"You will not let me help you, then, in any way?" said Mr. Kent.
"There is nothing you can do for me," said the young man, gratefully.
"If you take my advice," continued the magistrate, "you will send for
some clever lawyer; tell him the truth, whatever it may be, and while
preserving your incognito, he may be able to do something for you. I
should certainly do so in your place."
"I think not," he replied; "the less stir made about it the better.
Surely in the crowd of a criminal court and in the prison dress, I shall
escape recognition?"
"An admission," thought the magistrate, "that he has concealed his
identity."
"I cannot tell; I think it doubtful."
"Well, whatever comes, I shall always he grateful to you, Mr. Kent, for
your interest in me."
"I am sorry you will not trust me," said the magistrate, rising to leave
the cell.
"I am still more sorry that I cannot," was the reply, and then the
prisoner was left alone.
He did not look much like a thief; there was a light on his face such as
one sees in the pictures of the martyrs, a clear fire in the gray eyes.
"My ancestors have smiled with their heads on a block," he said.
"Surely, with such a motive, I may bear six months of prison."
The day of his trial came. The report of it in the papers read as
follows:
"John Smith, aged twenty, occupation unknown, was charged by Count Jules
St. Croix with stealing from his room an ivory casket, containing a
watch and an antique ring of great value. The prisoner, who refused to
give any account of himself, pleaded guilty; he made no defence, and had
retained no counsel. The judge made a few remarks to the effect that it
was very hard to see a young man, evidently possessed of some education
and refinement, in such a position, then sentenced him to six months'
imprisonment without hard labor. Prisoner made no remark, and was then
removed."
The papers did not tell of a little incident that occurred, simply
because the reporters did not know it. During the hearing of the case,
which did not last long, one of the leading barristers, Mr. Macfarlane,
sat with his eyes riveted on the prisoner's face, his own growing very
pale and anxious; then he wrote a little note, which he dispatched by a
messenger, who soon returned, accompanied by Mr. Forster, one of the
most celebrated lawyers in Lincoln's Inn.
He spoke a few words to Mr. Macfarlane.
"Nonsense!" he said; "the idea is incredible, impossible, even. What can
have made you think of such a thing?"
"Stand here in my place; you cannot see over all those heads. Now look
well at him. Am I right or wrong?"
A strange gray look came over Mr. Forster's face.
"I--I believe you are right," he said. "My God! what can this mean?"
"Look now! his face is turned this way! Look!" cried Mr. Macfarlane,
eagerly.
"It is he!" cried the lawyer, and he stood like one turned to stone,
then recovering himself, he said quickly:
"Why is he here? What is he charged with?"
Mr. Macfarlane whispered into the lawyer's ear:
"With stealing a watch and ring from the room of Count Jules St. Croix."
"Absurd!" was the reply, in accents of the deepest contempt; "what
idiotic nonsense! He steal a watch! I could believe myself mad or
dreaming."
"Then," said Mr. Macfarlane. "he has pleaded guilty; he has made no
defence, engaged no counsel."
"The boy is mad! completely mad!" cried the lawyer.
"Hush!" said the barrister; "the judge is speaking."
Mr. Forster stood in a most impatient mood, while the grave, clear voice
of the judge sentenced the prisoner. Then he turned to the barrister
abruptly.
"I tell you," he cried, "the boy is mad! Steal a watch! Why, he could
buy one-half the watches in London if he liked. I must see him. Come
this way."
"No," said Mr. Macfarlane, "he evidently does not wish to be known. I
shall not go near him."
"If he got into trouble, why in the world did he not send for me or for
some one else?" said the lawyer to himself. "It must be a young man's
frolic, a wager, a bet. He has spirit enough for anything. He never
could have been such a mad fool as to wreck his life for a paltry
watch."
Mr. Forster went to the room, where with other prisoners, John Smith
stood, awaiting his removal in the prison van. He went up to him and
touched him on the shoulder.
"Is it really you?" he cried, and the luminous gray eyes smiled into
his.
"Ah! Forster, I am sorry to see you. What has brought you here?"
"It is you," said the lawyer. "I was in hopes that my senses deceived
me."
"I hope you will keep the fact of having seen me here a profound
secret."
"But in the name of heaven, what does it mean?" cried Mr. Forster. "You
know you have not attempted to steal a watch. Pardon me, but how dare
you plead guilty? You will cover yourself with disgrace and infamy. You
will break your mother's heart. You will be utterly ruined for life."
"My dear Forster, no one knows of my being here, and no one need know
except yourself."
"You are mistaken; you have been recognized. I was sent for to identify
you."
Then the proud face did grow pale, but the proud light did not die out
of the gray eyes.
"I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. I must 'dree my weird.'"
Mr. Forster stood looking at him like one stupefied.
"If the sun had fallen from the heavens," he said, "it would not have
surprised me more. Surely, surely you are going to trust me and tell me
what this means?"
"I cannot. Go on with everything just the same. Tell my mother I have
gone abroad for six months, and if you value my name, keep my secret
from spreading, if you can."
And then a rough voice called John Smith to the prison van.
CHAPTER III.
The Papers Again.
Mr. Foster went home in a terrible rage. His clerks could not imagine
what had happened. He looked pale, worried, anxious and miserable. "I
should not think," he said to himself, "that such a thing ever happened
in the world before." His clients thought him bad tempered; he had the
air of a man with whom everything had gone wrong--out of sorts with all
the world.
"The man is mad," he said to himself, with a shrug of his shoulders;
"neither more nor less than mad to fling away his life and disgrace his
name. It is useless to think it will never be known; those stupid papers
are sure to get hold of it, and then there is little chance of secrecy."
He went about his work with a very unsettled, wretched expression on his
shrewd face. Something or other had evidently disturbed him very much.
While on his part John Smith, with the same light in his face and the
same fire in his eyes, went off in the prison van.
He heard very little of what was going on around him. He seemed to be
quite apart in some dreamland, some world of his own. When the coarse
suit of prison clothes was brought to him, instead of the disgust the
attendants expected to see, there came over his face a smile. To himself
he said: "I could almost kiss them for her sweet sake."
"That man is no thief," said one of the warders. "I do not care if they
did catch him with the watch in his hand, he is no thief! I know the
stamp!"
How he passed that first day and night was best known to himself. The
jailer who brought his breakfast the next morning said, "You look
tired."
He smiled and said to himself, "I would have gone to death for her sweet
sake! This will be easy to bear."
When that same morning dawned Mr. Forster was all impatience for his
newspaper. Twice he rang the bell and asked if it had come, and when the
servant brought it up he looked at it eagerly.
"Give it to me quickly," he said. Then he opened it, and was soon
engrossed in the contents. Suddenly he flung it down, and almost stamped
upon it in his rage.
"I knew it would be so! Now it will be blazoned all over England! What
can have possessed him?"
The paragraph that excited his attention and anger ran as follows:
"We are informed on good authority that the John Smith tried yesterday
on the charge of stealing a watch is no less a person than Basil
Carruthers, Esquire, the owner of Ulverston Priory, and head of one of
the oldest families in England."
"What can I do?" cried Mr. Forster; "it will break his mother's heart;
she can never forget it. He is ruined for life. For a lawyer, I am
strangely unwilling to tell a lie; but it must be done! He must be saved
at any price!" He went to his desk and wrote the following note:
"To the Editor of 'The Times':
"Sir: I beg to call your attention to a paragraph that appears in
'The Times' of today stating that a man, tried under the name of
John Smith for stealing a watch, is no less a person than Basil
Carruthers, Esq., of Ulverston Priory. As the solicitor of that
family, and manager of the Ulverston property, I beg to contradict
it. Mr. Carruthers, himself, informed me of his intention to go
abroad. Without doubt his indignant denial will follow mine. I am,
sir, etc.,
"Herbert Forster."
"That may help him," he said. "I do not like doing it, but I cannot see
my old friend's son perish without trying to save him. I may fail, but I
must try. Perhaps my lie may be blotted out, like Uncle Toby's oath. If
I can persuade him to send a denial, and date it Paris or Vienna, he
will be saved."
Mr. Forster lost no time in applying for an order to see the prisoner.
It was granted at once.
Basil Carruthers--we may use his right name now--looked up in surprise
when Mr. Forster, with the paper in his hand, entered the cell.
"Back again?" he said.
"Yes; it is just as I expected; the papers have got hold of your name,
and there is a grand expose."
Basil held out his hand and read the paragraph.
"It is enough to make your father rise up from his grave," said the
lawyer; "I cannot understand what madness, what infatuation, has come
over you, to drag such a proud name as yours through the dust."
"So it is known," said Basil, slowly. "Well, I cannot help it."
"I have done my best," said Mr. Forster. "I have never yet asked you if
you stole the watch--the idea is too absurd."
"They are so far right that I was found in the room; nothing else
matters."
"I can only imagine that the same folly which has brought you here will
keep you here," said Mr. Forster. "The only thing to be done is to send
a denial to the papers. If you will write one, I will go to Paris myself
to post it."
Basil Carruthers laughed contemptuously.
"I shield myself behind a lie!" he said. "Never!"
"You are too late," replied Mr. Forster; "I have already written, and
sent, a very indignant denial, saying you have gone abroad."
Basil's face grew pale, as it had not done during that trial; then an
angry fire flashed from his eyes.
"And you have dared to do this?" he cried. "You have dared to publish a
lie to screen a Carruthers?"
"I would have dared a great deal more to have saved you from public
ignominy," said Mr. Forster.
"Do not apply that word to me!" said Basil, angrily.
"If I do not, every one else will. Your position is ignominious, Mr.
Carruthers; the paltry crime you are charged with is the same; and the
name that for centuries has been honored in England will be low in the
dust, sir. I would rather have been dead than have seen such a day."
The handsome young face changed slightly; evidently these thoughts had
not occurred to him; he seemed to seek solace from some inward source of
comfort of which the lawyer knew nothing.
"I must bear it," he said, unflinchingly.
"There is but one thing you can do," said Mr. Forster; "only one means
of escape--write a letter at once containing a most indignant denial of
the identity. I will go myself purposely to Paris and post it there."
"My dear Forster," said the young man with a smile of languid contempt,
"I would not ransom my life, even, with a lie!"
"In my opinion," said the lawyer, bluntly, "you have done worse in
pleading guilty--you have acted a lie, at least."
"I know my own motive. I am the best judge of my own actions."
"Certainly," was the sarcastic reply. "I should not think any young man
of your prospects was ever in such a position before."
"Perhaps, as I said before, no man ever had the same motive," and a look
of heroism and high resolve came over his face which astonished the
lawyer.
"In the name of your dead father," he said, "who held the honor of his
house so dear, I pray of you to write that letter!"
"Not to save my head from the block!" he replied. "I am here, and I must
bear all that follows. I had hoped to preserve my incognito. If I
cannot, well, I must bear the shame."
"And your mother?" asked the lawyer.
"My poor mother! Perhaps, after all, you had better go down to Ulverston
and tell her! She will begin to wonder where I am. Besides, the London
house must be attended to."
"If I know Lady Carruthers rightly," said the lawyer, "she will never
get over the blow."
"Tell her that I am here, and why, but tell her also that I refuse to
give an explanation to any human being. Tell her the honor of the
Carruthers seals my lips; try to comfort her if she seems distressed; do
all she wishes you."
"How am I to comfort a mother whose eldest and only son has thrown all
prudence to the wind; who has disgraced himself so far as to stand in a
felon's dock; who has wantonly laid his life bare and waste--for what?"
A strange smile came over the young face.
"Ah! for what! I know; no one else does. There is a reward, and it
satisfies me."
"If ever a Carruthers went mad," said Mr. Forster, angrily, "I should
say you were mad now!"
Basil paid no heed to the remark.
"The only thing I can do," he said, "I will do. I will go to Vienna as
soon as I leave here. I will not remain in London one-half hour."
"I fear your compliance will be too late then," he said. "I must leave
you, if I go to Ulverston this evening. I have several matters that I
must attend to. Will any persuasion of mine induce you to alter your
mind?"
"No; though I thank you for your interest."
And the lawyer left the young man's cell with something like a moan upon
his lips.
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