Tears are not always fruitful; their hot drops
Sometimes but scorch the cheek and dim the eye;
Despairing murmurs over blackened hopes,
Not the meek spirit's calm and chastened cry.
Oh, better not to weep, than weep amiss!
For hard it is to learn to weep aright;
To weep wise tears, the tears that heal and bless,
The tears which their own bitterness requite.--H. BONAR
To one of the most tender-hearted of human beings had the office of
conveying ill tidings been most often committed, and again Dr. May
found himself compelled to precede Henry Ward into the sister's
presence, and to break to her the result of the inquest.
He was no believer in the efficacy of broken news, but he could not
refuse when Henry in his wretchedness entreated not to be the first in
the infliction of such agony; so he left the carriage outside, and
walked up to the door; and there stood Averil, with Ethel a few steps
behind her. His presence was enough revelation. Had things gone well,
he would not have been the forerunner; and Averil, meaning perhaps to
speak, gave a hoarse hysterical shriek, so frightful as to drive away
other anxieties, and summon Henry in from his watch outside.
All day the poor girl had kept up an unnatural strain on her powers,
vehemently talking of other things, and, with burning cheeks and
shining eyes, moving incessantly from one employment to another; now
her needle, now her pencil--roaming round the garden gathering flowers,
or playing rattling polkas that half stunned Ethel in her intense
listening for tidings. Ethel, who had relieved guard and sent Mary
home in the afternoon, had vainly striven to make Ave rest or take
food; the attempt had brought on such choking, that she could only
desist, and wait for the crisis. The attack was worse than any
ordinary hysterics, almost amounting to convulsions; and all that could
be done was to prevent her from hurting herself, and try to believe Dr.
May's assurance that there was no real cause for alarm, and that the
paroxysms would exhaust themselves.
In time they were spent, and Ave lay on her bed half torpid, feebly
moaning, but with an instinctive dread of being disturbed. Henry
anxiously watched over her, and Dr. May thought it best to leave the
brother and sister to one another. Absolute quiet was best for her,
and he had skill and tenderness enough to deal with her, and was
evidently somewhat relieved by the necessity of waiting on her. It was
the best means, perhaps, of uniting them, that they should be thus left
together; and Dr. May would have taken home little pale frightened
Minna, who had been very helpful all the time.
'Oh, please not, Dr. May,' she said, earnestly. 'Indeed I will not be
troublesome, and I can give Henry his tea, and carry Ave's cup. Please,
Henry, don't send me:' and she took hold of his hand, and laid it
against her cheek. He bent down over her, and fondled her; and there
were tears that he could not hide as he tried both to thank Dr. May,
and tell her that she need not leave him.
'No,' said Dr. May; 'it would be cruel to both of you.--Good-bye,
little Minna; I never wanted to carry away a little comforter.'
'I believe you are right, papa,' said Ethel, as she went out with him
to the carriage; 'but I long to stay, it is like doing something for
that boy.'
'The best you did for him, poor dear boy! was the saying you trusted
his word. The moment I told him that, he took comfort and energy.'
Ethel's lips moved into a strange half smile, and she took Mab on her
lap, and fondled her. 'Yes,' she said, 'I believe I stand for a good
deal in his imagination. I was afraid he would have been wrecked upon
that horrid place; but, after all, this may be the saving of him.'
'Ah! if that story of his would only be more vraisemblable.'
There was only time briefly to narrate it before coming home, where the
first person they met was Aubrey, exceeding pale, and in great
distress. 'Papa, I must tell you,' he said, drawing him into the
study. 'I have done terrible harm, I am afraid.' And he explained,
that in the morning, when Mrs. Pugh had come down full of inquiries and
conjectures, and had spoken of the possibility of Leonard's having been
drowned while bathing, he had unguardedly answered that it could be no
such thing; Leonard had always meant to run away, and by that very
window, if the Axworthys grew too bad.
Prudent Tom had silenced him at the time, but had since found that it
had got abroad that the evasion had long been meditated with Aubrey's
privity, and had been asked by one of the constabulary force if his
brother would not be an important witness. Tom had replied that he
knew nothing about it; but Aubrey was in great misery, furious with
Mrs. Pugh, and only wanting his father to set off at once to assure
them it was all nonsense.
'No, Aubrey, they neither would, nor ought to, take my word.'
'Just hear, papa, and you would know the chaff it was.'
'I cannot hear, Aubrey. If we were to discuss it, we might give it an
unconscious colouring. You must calm your mind, and exactly recall
what passed; but do not talk about it to me or to any one else. You
must do nothing to impair the power of perfect truth and accuracy,
which is a thing to be prayed for. If any one--even the lawyer who may
have to get up the case against him--asks you about it, you must refuse
to answer till the trial; and then--why, the issue is in the hands of
Him that judgeth righteously.'
'I shall never remember nor speak with his eyes on me, seeing me betray
him!'
'You will be no worse off than I, my boy, for I see I am in for
identifying Hector's rifle; the Mill people can't swear to it, and my
doing it will save his brother something.'
'No, it is not like me. O! I wish I had stayed at Eton, even if I had
died of it! Tom says it all comes of living with women that I can't
keep my mouth shut; and Leonard will be so hurt that I--'
'Nay, any tolerable counsel will make a capital defence out of the mere
fact of his rodomontading. What, is that no comfort to you?'
'What! to be the means of making a fool of him before all the
court--seeing him hear our talk by the river-side sifted by those
horrid lawyers?'
The Doctor looked even graver, and his eye fixed as on a thought far
away, as the boy's grief brought to his mind the Great Assize, when all
that is spoken in the ear shall indeed be proclaimed on the house-tops.
There was something almost childish in this despair of Aubrey, for he
had not become alarmed for the result of the trial. His misery was
chiefly shame at his supposed treason to friendship, and failure in
manly reserve; and he could not hold up his head all the evening, but
silently devoted himself to Mab, endeavouring to make her at home, and
meeting with tolerable success.
Tom was no less devoted to Ella Ward. It was he who had brought her
home, and he considered her therefore as his charge. It was curious to
see the difference that a year had made between her and Minna. They had
the last summer been like one child, and had taken the stroke that had
orphaned them in the same childish manner; but whether the year from
eight to nine had been of especial growth to Minna, or whether there
had been a stimulus in her constant association with Averil, the
present sorrow fell on her as on one able to enter into it, think and
feel, and assume her sweet mission of comfort; whilst Ella, though
neither hard nor insensible, was still child enough to close her mind
to what she dreaded, and flee willingly from the pain and tedium of
affliction. She had willingly accepted 'Mr. Tom's' invitation, and as
willingly responded to his attentions. Gertrude did not like people in
the 'little girl' stage, and the elder sisters had their hands and
hearts full, and could only care for her in essentials; but Tom
undertook her amusement, treated her to an exhibition of his
microscope, and played at French billiards with her the rest of the
evening, till she was carried off to bed in Mary's room, when he
pronounced her a very intelligent child.
'I think her a very unfeeling little thing,' said Gertrude. 'Very
unbecoming behaviour under the circumstances.'
'What would you think becoming behaviour?' asked Tom.
'I won't encourage it,' returned Daisy, with dignified decision, that
gave her father his first approach to a laugh on that day; but nobody
was in spirits to desire Miss Daisy to define from what her important
sanction was withdrawn.
Mary gave up her Sunday-school class to see how Averil was, and found
Henry much perturbed. He had seen her fast asleep at night, and in the
morning Minna had carried up her breakfast, and he was about to follow
it, as soon as his own was finished, when he found that she had slipped
out of the house, leaving a message that she was gone to practise on
the harmonium.
He was of the mind that none of the family could or ought to be seen at
church; and though Mary could not agree with him, she willingly
consented to go to the chapel and try what she could do with his
sister. She met Mrs. Ledwich on the way, coming to inquire and see
whether she or dear Matilda could do anything for the 'sweet sufferer.'
Even Mary could not help thinking that this was not the epithet most
befitting poor Ave; and perhaps Mrs. Ledwich's companionship made her
the less regret that Ave had locked herself in, so that there was no
making her hear, though the solemn chants, played with great fervour,
reached them as they waited in the porch. They had their own seats in
the Minster, and therefore could not wait till the sexton should come
to open the church.
There was no time for another visit till after the second service, and
then Dr. May and Mary, going to Bankside, found that instead of
returning home, Ave had again locked herself up between the services,
and that Minna, who had ventured on a mission of recall, had come home
crying heartily both at the dreary disappointment of knocking in vain,
and at the grand mournful sounds of funeral marches that had fallen on
her ear. Every one who had been at the chapel that day was speaking of
the wonderful music, the force and the melody of the voluntary at the
dismissal of the congregation; no one had believed that such power
resided in the harmonium. Mr. Scudamour had spoken to Miss Ward most
kindly both before and after evening service, but his attempt to take
her home had been unavailing; she had answered that she was going
presently, and he was obliged to leave her.
Evening was coming on, and she had not come, so the other keys were
fetched from the sexton's, and Dr. May and his daughter set off to
storm her fortress. Like Minna, the Doctor was almost overpowered by
the wonderful plaintive sweetness of the notes that were floating
through the atmosphere, like a wailing voice of supplication. They had
almost unnerved him, as he waited while Mary unlocked the door.
The sound of its opening hushed the music; Averil turned her head, and
recognizing them, came to them, very pale, and with sunken eyes. 'You
are coming home, dear Ave,' said Mary; and she made no resistance or
objection, only saying, 'Yes. It has been so nice here!'
'You must come now, though,' said the Doctor. 'Your brother is very
much grieved at your leaving him.'
'I did not mean to be unkind to him,' said Averil, in a low subdued
voice; 'he was very good to me last night. Only--this is peace--this,'
pointing to her instrument, 'is such a soothing friend. And surely
this is the place to wait in!'
'The place to wait in indeed, my poor child, if you are not increasing
the distress of others by staying here. Besides, you must not exhaust
yourself, or how are you to go and cheer Leonard!'
'Oh! there is no fear but that I shall go to-morrow,' said Averil; 'I
mean to do it!' the last words being spoken in a resolute tone, unlike
the weariness of her former replies.
And with this purpose before her, she consented to be taken back by
Mary to rest on the sofa, and even to try to eat and drink. Her
brother and sister hung over her, and waited on her with a tender
assiduous attention that showed how they had missed her all day; and
she received their kindness gratefully, as far as her broken wearied
state permitted.
Several inquiries had come throughout the day from the neighbours; and
while Mary was still with Ave, a message was brought in to ask whether
Miss Ward would like to see Mrs. Pugh.
'Oh no, no, thank her, but indeed I cannot,' said Averil, shivering
uncontrollably as she lay.
Mary felt herself blushing, in the wonder what would be kindest to do,
and her dread of seeing Henry's face. She was sure that he too shrank,
and she ventured to ask, 'Shall I go and speak to her?'
'Oh, do, do,' said Averil, shuddering with eagerness. 'Thank you, Miss
Mary,' said Henry slowly. 'She is most kind--but--under the
circumstances--'
Mary went, finding that he only hesitated. She had little opportunity
for saying anything; Mrs. Pugh was full of interest and eagerness, and
poured out her sympathy and perfect understanding of dear Averil's
feelings; and in the midst Henry came out of the room, with a stronger
version of their gratitude, but in terrible confusion. Mary would fain
have retreated, but could not, and was witness to the lady's urgent
entreaties to take Minna home, and Henry's thankfulness; but he
feared--and retreated to ask the opinion of his sisters, while Mrs.
Pugh told Mary that it was so very bad for the poor child to remain,
and begged to have Ella if she were a moment's inconvenience to the May
family.
Henry came back with repeated thanks, but Minna could not bear to leave
home; and in fact, he owned, with a half smile that gave sweetness to
his face, she was too great a comfort to be parted with. So Mrs. Pugh
departed, with doubled and trebled offers of service, and entreaties to
be sent for at any hour of the day or night when she could be of use to
Averil.
Mary could not but be pleased with her, officious as she was. It
looked as if she had more genuine feeling for Henry than had been
suspected, and the kindness was certain, though some of it might be the
busy activity of a not very delicate nature, eager for the importance
conferred by intimacy with the subjects of a great calamity. Probably
she would have been gratified by the eclat of being the beloved of the
brother of the youth whose name was in every mouth, and her real
goodness and benevolent heart would have committed her affections and
interest beyond recall to the Ward family, had Averil leant upon her,
or had Henry exerted himself to take advantage of her advances.
But Henry's attachment had probably not been love, for it seemed
utterly crushed out of him by his shame and despair. Everything
connected with his past life was hateful to him; he declared that he
could never show his face at Stoneborough again, let the result be what
it might--that he could never visit another patient, and that he should
change his name and leave the country, beginning on that very Sunday
afternoon to write a letter to his principal rival to negotiate the
sale of his practice.
In fact, his first impression had returned on him, and though he never
disclaimed belief in Leonard's statement, the entire failure of all
confirmation convinced him that the blow had been struck by his brother
in sudden anger, and that, defend him as he might and would, the stain
was on his house, and the guilt would be brought home.
Resolved, however, to do his utmost, he went with Mr. Bramshaw for a
consultation with Leonard on the Monday. Averil could not go. She
rose and dressed, and remained resolute till nearly the last minute,
when her feverish faint giddiness overpowered her, and she was forced
to submit to lie on the sofa, under Minna's care; and there she lay,
restless and wretched, till wise little Minna sent a message up to the
High Street, which brought down Mary and Dr. Spencer. They found her
in a state of nervous fever, that sentenced her to her bed, where Mary
deposited her and watched over her, till her brother's return, more
desponding than ever.
Dr. May, with all Henry's patients on his hands as well as his own, had
been forced to devote this entire day to his profession; but on the
next, leaving Henry to watch over Averil, who continued very feeble and
feverish, he went to Whitford, almost infected by Henry's forebodings
and Mr. Bramshaw's misgivings. 'It is a bad case,' the attorney had
said to him, confidentially. 'But that there is always a great
reluctance to convict upon circumstantial evidence, I should have very
little hope, that story of his is so utterly impracticable; and yet he
looks so innocent and earnest all the time, and sticks to it so
consistently, that I don't know what to make of it. I can't do
anything with him, nor can his brother either; but perhaps you might
make him understand that we could bring him clear off for
manslaughter--youth, and character and all. I should not doubt of a
verdict for a moment! It is awkward about the money, but the alarm
would be considered in the sentence.'
'You don't attend to his account of the person he saw in the
court-yard?'
'The less said about that the better,' returned Mr. Bramshaw. 'It
would only go for an awkward attempt to shift off the suspicion, unless
he would give any description; and that he can't, or won't do. Or even
if he did, the case would be all the stronger against his
story--setting off, and leaving a stranger to maraud about the place.
No, Dr. May; the only thing for it is to persuade the lad to own to
having struck the old man in a passion; every one knows old Axworthy
could be intolerably abusive, and the boy always was passionate. Don't
you remember his flying out at Mr. Rivers's, the night of the party,
and that affair which was the means of his going to the mill at all? I
don't mind saying so to you in confidence, because I know you won't
repeat it, and I see his brother thinks so too; but nothing is likely
to turn out so well for him as that line of defence; as things stand
now, the present one is good for nothing.'
Dr. May was almost as much grieved at the notion of the youth's
persistence in denying such a crime, as at the danger in which it
involved him, and felt that if he were to be brought to confession, it
should be from repentance, not expediency.
In this mood he drove to Whitford Gaol, made application at the gates,
and was conducted up the stairs to the cell.
The three days of nearly entire solitude and of awful expectation had
told like double the number of years; and there was a stamp of grave
earnest collectedness on the young brow, and a calm resolution of
aspect and movement, free from all excitement or embarrassment, as
Leonard Ward stood up with a warm grateful greeting, so full of
ingenuous reliance, that every doubt vanished at the same moment.
His first question was for Averil; and Dr. May made the best of her
state. 'She slept a little more last night, and her pulse is lower
this morning; but we keep her in bed, half to hinder her from trying to
come here before she is fit. I believe this ailment is the best thing
for her and Henry both,' added the Doctor, seeing how much pain his
words were giving. 'Henry is a very good nurse; it occupies him, and
it is good for her to feel his kindness! Then Minna has come out in
the prettiest way: she never fails in some sweet little tender word or
caress just when it is wanted.'
Leonard tried to smile, but only succeeded in keeping back a sob; and
the Doctor discharged his memory of the messages of love of which he
had been the depositary. Leonard recovered his composure during these,
and was able to return a smile on hearing of Ella's conquest of Tom, of
their Bible prints on Sunday, and their unwearied French billiards in
the week. Then he asked after little Mab.
'She is all a dog should be,' said Dr. May. 'Aubrey is her chief
friend, except when she is lying at her ease on Ethel's dress.'
The old test of dog-love perhaps occurred to Leonard, for his lips
trembled, and his eyes were dewy, even while they beamed with gladness.
'She is a great comfort to Aubrey,' the Doctor added. 'I must beg you
to send that poor fellow your forgiveness, for he is exceedingly
unhappy about something he repeated in the first unguarded moment.'
'Mr. Bramshaw told me,' said Leonard, with brow contracted.
'I cannot believe,' said Dr. May, 'that it can do you any real harm. I
do not think the prosecution ought to take notice of it; but if they
do, it will be easy to sift it, and make it tell rather in your favour.'
'Maybe so,' said Leonard, still coldly.
'Then you will cheer him with some kind message?'
'To be sure. It is the time for me to be forgiving every one,' he
answered, with a long tightly-drawn breath.
Much distressed, the Doctor paused, in uncertainty whether Leonard were
actuated by dread of the disclosure or resentment at the breach of
confidence; but ere he spoke, the struggle had been fought out, and a
sweet sad face was turned round to him, with the words, 'Poor old
Aubrey! Tell him not to mind. There will be worse to be told out than
our romancings together, and he will feel it more than I shall! Don't
let him vex himself.'
'Thank you,' said the father, warmly. 'I call that pardon.'
'Not that there is anything to forgive,' said Leonard, 'only it is odd
that one cares for it more than--No, no, don't tell him that, but that
I know it does not signify. It must not come between us, if this is to
be the end; and it will make no difference. Nothing can do that but
the finding my receipt. I see that book night and day before my eyes,
with the very blot that I made in the top of my L.'
'You know they are searching the garden and fields, and advertising a
reward, in case of its having been thrown away when rifled, or found to
contain no valuables.'
'Yes!' and he rested on the word as though much lay behind.
'Do you think it contained anything worth keeping?'
'Only by one person.'
'Ha!' said the Doctor, with a start.
Instead of answering, Leonard leant down on the narrow bed on which he
was seated, and shut in his face between his hands.
The Doctor waited, guessed, and grew impatient. 'You don't mean that
fellow, Sam? Do you think he has it? I should like to throttle him,
as sure as my name's Dick May!' (this in soliloquy between his teeth).
'Speak up, Leonard, if you have any suspicion.'
The lad lifted himself with grave resolution that gave him dignity.
'Dr. May,' he said, 'I know that what I say is safe with you, and it
seems disrespectful to ask your word and honour beforehand, but I think
it will be better for us both if you will give them not to make use of
what I tell you. It weighs on me so, that I shall be saying it to the
wrong person, unless I have it out with you. You promise me?'
'To make no use of it without your consent,' repeated the Doctor, with
rising hope, 'but this is no case for scruples--too much is at stake.'
'You need not tell me that,' Leonard replied, with a shudder; 'but I
have no proof. I have thought again and again and again, but can find
no possible witness. He was always cautious, and drink made him
savage, but not noisy.'
'Then you believe--' The silence told the rest.
'If I did not see how easy people find it to believe the same of me on
the mere evidence of circumstances, I should have no doubt,' said
Leonard, deliberately.
'Then it was he that you saw in the yard?'
'Remember, all I saw was that a man was there. I concluded it was
Andrews, waiting to take the horse; and as he is a great hanger-on of
Sam, I wished to avoid him, and not keep my candle alight to attract
his attention. That was the whole reason of my getting out of window,
and starting so soon; as unlucky a thing as I could have done.'
'You are sure it was not Andrews?'
'Now I am. You see, Sam had sent home his horse from the station,
though I did not know it; and, if you remember, Andrews was shown to
have been at his father's long before. If he had been the man, he
could speak to the time my light was put out.'
'The putting out of your light must have been the signal for the deed
to be done.'
'My poor uncle! Well might he stare round as if he thought the walls
would betray him, and start at every chinking of that unhappy gold in
his helpless hands! If we had only known who was near--perhaps behind
the blinds--' and Leonard gasped.
'But this secrecy, Leonard, I cannot understand it. Do you mean that
the poor old man durst not do what he would with his own?'
'Just so. Whenever Sam knew that he had a sum of money, he laid hands
on it. Nothing was safe from him that Mr. Axworthy had in the Whitford
Bank.'
'That can be proved from the accounts?'
'You recollect the little parlour between the office and my uncle's
sitting-room? There I used to sit in the evening, and to feel, rather
than hear, the way Sam used to bully the poor old man. Once--a
fortnight ago, just after that talk with Aubrey--I knew he had been
drinking, and watched, and came in upon them when there was no bearing
it any longer. I was sworn at for my pains, and almost kicked out
again; but after that Mr. Axworthy made me sit in the room, as if I
were a protection; and I made up my mind to bear it as long as he
lived.'
'Surely the servants would bear witness to this state of things?'
'I think not. Their rooms are too far off for overhearing, and my
uncle saw as little of them as possible. Mrs. Giles was Sam's nurse,
and cares for him more than any other creature; she would not say a
word against him even if she knew anything; and my uncle would never
have complained. He was fond of Sam to the last, proud of his
steeple-chases and his cleverness, and desperately afraid of him; in a
sort of bondage, entirely past daring to speak.'
'I know,' said Dr. May, remembering how his own Tom had been fettered
and tongue-tied by that same tyrant in boyhood. 'But he spoke to you?'
'No,' said Leonard. 'After that scene much was implied between us, but
nothing mentioned. I cannot even tell whether he trusted me, or only
made me serve as a protector. I believe that row was about this money,
which he had got together in secret, and that Sam suspected, and wanted
to extort; but it was exactly as I said at the inquest, he gave no
reason for sending me up to town with it. He knew that I knew why, and
so said no more than that it was to be private. It was pitiful to see
that man, so fierce and bold as they say he once was, trembling as if
doing something by stealth, and the great hard knotty hands so crumpled
and shaky, that he had to leave all to me. And that they should fancy
I could go and hurt him!' said Leonard, stretching his broad chest and
shoulders in conscious strength.
'Yes, considering who it was, I do not wonder that you feel the
passion-theory as insulting as the accusation.'
'I ought not,' said Leonard, reddening. 'Every one knows what my
temper can do. I do not think that a poor old feeble man like that
could have provoked me to be so cowardly, but I see it is no wonder
they think so. Only they might suppose I would not have been a robber,
and go on lying now, when they take good care to tell me that it is
ruinous!'
'It is an intolerable shame that they can look you in the face and
imagine it for a moment,' said the Doctor, with all his native warmth.
'After all,' said Leonard, recalled by his sympathy, 'it is my own
fault from beginning to end that I am in this case. I see now that it
was only God's mercy that prevented my brother's blood being on me, and
it was my unrepenting obstinacy that brought me to the mill; so there
will be no real injustice in my dying, and I expect nothing else.'
'Hush, Leonard, depend upon it, while there is Justice in Heaven, the
true criminal cannot go free,' cried the Doctor, much agitated.
Leonard shook his head.
'Boyish hastiness is not murder,' added the Doctor.
'So I thought. But it might have been, and I never repented. I
brought all this on myself; and while I cannot feel guiltless in God's
sight, I cannot expect it to turn out well.'
'Turn out well,' repeated the Doctor. 'We want Ethel to tell us that
this very repentance and owning of the sin, is turning out well--better
than going on in it.'
'I can see that,' said Leonard. 'I do hope that if--if I can take this
patiently, it may show I am sorry for the real thing--and I may be
forgiven. Oh! I am glad prisoners are not cut off from church.'
Dr. May pressed his hand in much emotion: and there was a silence
before another question--whether there were nothing that could be of
service.
'One chance there is, that Sam might relent enough to put that receipt
where it could be found without implicating him. He must know what it
would do for me.'
'You are convinced that he has it?'
'There must be papers in the book valuable to him; perhaps some that he
had rather were not seen. Most likely he secured it in the morning.
You remember he was there before the police.'
'Ay! ay! ay! the scoundrel! But, Leonard, what possessed you not to
speak out at the inquest, when we might have searched every soul on the
premises?'
'I did not see it then. I was stunned by the horror of the thing--the
room where I had been so lately, and that blood on my own rifle too.
It was all I could do at one time not to faint, and I had no notion
they would not take my explanation; then, when I found it rejected, and
everything closing in on me, I was in a complete maze. It was not till
yesterday, when I was alone again, after having gone over my defence
with Mr. Bramshaw, and shown what I could prove, that I saw exactly how
it must have been, as clear as a somnambulist. I sometimes could fancy
I had seen Sam listening at the window, and have to struggle not to
think I knew him under the stable wall.'
'And you are not such a--such a--so absurd as to sacrifice yourself to
any scruple, and let the earth be cumbered with a rascal who, if he be
withholding the receipt, is committing a second murder! It is not
generosity, it is suicide.'
'It is not generosity,' said the boy, 'for if there were any hope, that
would not stop me; but no one heard nor saw but myself, and I neither
recognized him--no, I did not--nor heard anything definite from my
uncle. Even if I had, no one--no one but you, believes a word I speak;
nay, even my own case shows what probabilities are worth, and that I
may be doing him the same wrong that I am suffering. I should only
bring on myself the shame and disgrace of accusing another.'
The steady low voice and unboyish language showed him to be speaking
from reflection, not impulse. The only tremulous moment was when he
spoke of the one friend who trusted him, and whom his words were
filling with a tumult of hope and alarm, admiration, indignation, and
perplexity.
'Well, well,' the Doctor said, almost stammering, 'I am glad you have
been open with me. It may be a clue. Can there be any excuse for
overhauling his papers? Or can't we pick a hole in that alibi of his?
Now I recollect, he had it very pat, and unnecessarily prominent. I'll
find some way of going to work without compromising you. Yes, you may
trust me! I'll watch, but say not a word without your leave.'
'Thank you,' said Leonard. 'I am glad it is you--you who would never
think a vague hope of saving me better than disgrace and dishonour.'
'We will save you,' said the Doctor, becoming eager to escape to that
favourite counsellor, the lining of his brougham, which had inspired
him with the right theory of many a perplexing symptom, and he trusted
would show him how to defend without betraying Leonard. 'I must go and
see about it. Is there anything I can do for you--books, or anything?'
No, thank you--except--I suppose there would be no objection to my
having a few finer steel pens. 'And to explain his wants, he took up
his Prayer-Book, which his sister had decorated with several small
devotional prints. Copying these minutely line by line in pen and ink,
was the solace of his prison hours; and though the work was hardly
after drawing-masters' rules, the hand was not untaught, and there was
talent and soul enough in the work to strike the Doctor.
'It suits me best,' said Leonard. 'I should go distracted with nothing
to do; and I can't read much--at least, not common books. And my
sisters may like to have them. Will you let me do one for you?'
The speaking expression of those hazel eyes almost overcame the Doctor,
and his answer was by bending head and grasping hand. Leonard turned to
the Collects, and mutely opened at the print of the Son of Consolation,
which he had already outlined, looked up at his friend, and turned
away, only saying, 'Two or three of the sort with elastic nibs; they
have them at the post-office.'
'Yes, I'll take care,' said Dr. May, afraid to trust his self-command
any longer. 'Good-bye, Leonard. Tom says I adopt every one who gets
through a bad enough fever, so what will you be to me after this second
attack?'
The result of the Doctor's consultation with his brougham was his
stopping it at Mr. Bramshaw's door, to ascertain whether the search for
the receipt had extended to young Axworthy's papers; but he found that
they had been thoroughly examined, every facility having been given by
their owner, who was his uncle's executor, and residuary legatee, by a
will dated five years back, leaving a thousand pounds to the late Mrs.
Ward, and a few other legacies, but the mass of the property to the
nephew.
Sam's 'facilities' not satisfying the Doctor, it was further explained
that every endeavour was being made to discover what other documents
were likely to have been kept in the missing memorandum-book, so as to
lead to the detection of any person who might present any such at a
bank; and it was made evident that everything was being done, short of
the impracticability of searching an unaccused man, but he could not
but perceive that Mr. Bramshaw's 'ifs' indicated great doubt of the
existence of receipt and of pocket-book. Throwing out a hint that the
time of Sam's return should be investigated, he learnt that this had
been Edward Anderson's first measure, and that it was clear, from the
independent testimony of the ostler at Whitford, the friend who had
driven Sam, and the landlord of the Three Goblets, that there was not
more than time for the return exactly as described at the inquest; and
though the horse was swift and powerful, and might probably have been
driven at drunken speed, this was too entirely conjectural for anything
to be founded on it. Nor had the cheque by Bilson on the Whitford Bank
come in.
'Something must assuredly happen to exonerate the guiltless, it would
be profane to doubt,' said Dr. May continually to himself and to the
Wards; but Leonard's secret was a painful burthen that he could
scarcely have borne without sharing it with that daughter who was his
other self, and well proved to be a safe repository.
'That's my Leonard,' said Ethel. 'I know him much better now than any
time since the elf-bolt affair! They have not managed to ruin him
among them.'
'What do you call this?' said Dr. May, understanding her, indeed, but
willing to hear her thought expressed.
'Thankworthy,' she answered, with a twitching of the corners of her
mouth.
'You will suffer for this exaltation,' he said, sadly; 'you know you
have a tender heart, for all your flights.'
'And you know you have a soul as well as a heart,' said Ethel, as well
as the swelling in her throat would allow.
'To be sure, this world would be a poor place to live in, if admiration
did not make pity bearable,' said the Doctor; 'but--but don't ask me,
Ethel: you have not had that fine fellow in his manly patience before
your eyes. Talk of your knowing him! You knew a boy! I tell you,
this has made him a man, and one of a thousand--so high-minded and so
simple, so clearheaded and well-balanced, so entirely resigned and free
from bitterness! What could he not be? It would be grievous to see him
cut off by a direct dispensation--sickness, accident, battle; but for
him to come to such an end, for the sake of a double
murderer--Ethel--it would almost stagger one's faith!'
'Almost!' repeated Ethel, with the smile of a conqueror.
'I know, I know,' said the Doctor. 'If it be so, it will be right; one
will try to believe it good for him. Nay, there's proof enough in what
it has done for him already. If you could only see him!'
'I mean to see him, if it should go against him,' said Ethel, 'if you
will let me. I would go to him as I would if he were in a decline, and
with more reverence.'
'Don't talk of it,' cried her father. 'For truth's sake, for justice's
sake, for the country's sake, I can not, will not, believe it will go
wrong. There is a Providence, after all, Ethel!'
And the Doctor went away, afraid alike of hope and despondency, and
Ethel thought of the bright young face, of De Wilton, of Job, and of
the martyrs; and when she was not encouraging Aubrey, or soothing
Averil, her heart would sink, and the tears that would not come would
have been very comfortable.
It was well for all that the assizes were so near that the suspense was
not long protracted; for it told upon all concerned. Leonard, when the
Doctor saw him again, was of the same way of thinking, but his manner
was more agitated; he could not sleep, or if he slept, the
anticipations chased away in the day-time revenged themselves in his
dreams; and he was very unhappy, also, about his sister, whose illness
continued day after day. She was not acutely ill, but in a constant
state of low fever, every faculty in the most painful state of tension,
convinced that she was quite able to get up and go to Leonard, and that
her detention was mere cruelty; and then, on trying to rise, refused by
fainting. Her searching questions and ardent eyes made it impossible
to keep any feature in the case from her knowledge. Sleep was
impossible to her; and once when Henry tried the effect of an anodyne,
it produced a semi-delirium, which made him heartily repent of his
independent measure. At all times she was talking--nothing but the
being left with a very stolid maid-servant ever closed her lips, and
she so greatly resented being thus treated, that the measure was seldom
possible. Henry seldom left her. He was convinced that Leonard's
sentence would be hers likewise, and he watched over her with the
utmost tenderness and patience with her fretfulness and waywardness,
never quitting her except on their brother's behalf, when Ethel or Mary
would take his place. Little Minna was always to be found on her small
chair by the bed-side, or moving about like a mouse, sometimes
whispering her one note, 'They can't hurt him, if he has not done it,'
and still quietly working at the pair of slippers that had been begun
for his birthday present. Mary used to bring Ella, and take them out
walking in the least-frequented path; but though the little sisters
kissed eagerly, and went fondly hand in hand, they never were sorry to
part: Ella's spirits oppressed Minna, and Minna's depression vexed the
more volatile sister; moreover, Minna always dreaded Mary's desire to
carry her away--as, poor child, she looked paler, and her eyes heavier
and darker, every day.
No one else, except, of course, Dr. May, was admitted. Henry would not
let his sister see Mr. Scudamour or Mr. Wilmot, lest she should be
excited; and Averil's 'No one' was vehement as a defence against Mrs.
Pugh or Mrs. Ledwich, whom she suspected of wanting to see her, though
she never heard of more than their daily inquiries.
Mrs. Pugh was, in spite of her exclusion, the great authority with the
neighbourhood for all the tidings of 'the poor Wards,' of whom she
talked with the warmest commiseration, relating every touching detail
of their previous and present history, and continually enduring the
great shock of meeting people in shops or in the streets, whom she knew
to be reporters or photographers. In fact, the catastrophe had taken a
strong hold on the public mind; and 'Murder of an Uncle by his Nephew,'
'The Blewer Tragedy,' figured everywhere in the largest type; newsboys
on the railway shouted, 'To-day's paper-account of inquest;' and the
illustrated press sent down artists, whose three-legged cameras stared
in all directions, from the Vintry Mill to Bankside, and who aimed at
the school, the Minster, the volunteers, and Dr. Hoxton himself. Tom
advised Ethel to guard Mab carefully from appearing stuffed in the
chamber of horrors at Madame Tussaud's; and the furniture at the mill
would have commanded any price. Nay, Mrs. Pugh was almost certain she
had seen one of the 'horrid men' bargaining with the local photographer
for her own portrait, in her weeds, and was resolved the interesting
injury should never be forgiven!
She really had the 'trying scenes' of two interviews with both Mr.
Bramshaw and the attorney from Whitford who was getting up the
prosecution, each having been told that she was in possession of
important intelligence. Mr. Bramshaw was not sanguine as to what he
might obtain from her, but flattered her with the attempt, and ended by
assuring her, like his opponent, that there was no need to expose her
to the unpleasantness of appearing in court.
Aubrey was not to have the same relief, but was, like his father,
subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution. He had followed his
father's advice, and took care not to disclose his evidence to the
enemy, as he regarded the Whitford lawyer. He was very miserable, and
it was as much for his sake as that of the immediate family, that Ethel
rejoiced that the suspense was to be short. Counsel of high reputation
had been retained; but as the day came nearer, without bringing any of
the disclosures on which the Doctor had so securely reckoned, more and
more stress was laid on the dislike to convict on circumstantial
evidence, and on the saying that the English law had rather acquit ten
criminals than condemn one innocent man.