THE TRIAL.
Justice, when equal scales she holds, is blind;
Nor cruelty nor mercy change her mind;
When some escape for that which others die,
Mercy to those to these is cruelty.
DENHAM.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just,
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
SHAKESPEARE.
Adrian and Net caught the 5 P. M. express at Miston, and traveling day
and night without the loss of an hour, reached Deloraine station at ten
o’clock the next morning.
They found the same cab waiting beside the platform which had taken Net
to the hall on the morning of her first arrival.
Adrian engaged it at once and handed Net into her seat.
“Ask the man if he knows how Miss Deloraine is to-day,” whispered Net,
as she settled herself on the hard cushions.
“Have you heard any news of the young lady at the hall, this morning?”
inquired Mr. Fleming.
“The young lady was ill last night, sir. Hart, he come at ten o’clock
for Dr. Bede; I had been out with a party and met him taking the doctor
back,” replied the man, touching his hat, not only once but at every
other word he spoke.
“That was last night; but how is the young lady this morning? Better, it
is to be presumed,” hastily inquired, or rather suggested, Mr. Fleming,
on seeing the increased anxiety of his companion.
“Haven’t heard to-day, please, sir,” answered the man, trying to make up
by the abundance of his courtesy for the scarcity of his information.
“Well, then, take us thither—to the hall—as fast as possible! An extra
half-crown, mind, for extra haste,” exclaimed Fleming, as he sprang into
his seat and closed the door.
“All right, sir,” answered the cabman, as he touched his hat, mounted to
his seat and started his horses.
They bowled on at a rapid rate and made the distance in an hour and a
half.
As the cab rolled through the park gate, which was held open by an
elderly women, the driver inquired:
“Say, Mother Swing! How is the young Missus up at the house?”
“Bad as bad, when the doctor passed through here, arter leavin’ of her
last night. Him be gone up again this morning. Spects to hear when he
comes back,” answered the woman.
“_Gat ’long!_” exclaimed the cabman, addressing his horses, as he lashed
them up to a brisk trot along the avenue.
As they drew in sight of the house, Net, with her head at the side
window, anxiously watched for some sign to hint or some person to tell
of the condition of Antoinette Deloraine.
They met a boy in a smoke-frock with his hands in his pockets.
“How is your young mistress, this morning?” inquired Net.
“Anan?” cried the lad, with mouth and eyes equally wide open.
“Miss Deloraine! How is she this morning?” repeated Net, with only a
slight alteration in the form of her question.
“Oi dunnoo,” answered the boy, sauntering along on his way.
They came in sight of the house.
Net looked out eagerly.
There was no hatchment up over the portals, nor any other sign of death
in the house.
The doctor’s gig was standing before the door.
As they drove up, Net saw Dr. Bede come out of the house—a tall, gaunt,
stooping old man of seventy five years, with a thin, sharp red face and
a bald head, with a slight fringe of silver hair behind his ears and at
the nape of his neck. He wore a long, straight black coat buttoned up to
his chin and down to his toes.
Without waiting for him to get into his gig, Net beckoned him to the
window of the cab.
“How is Antoinette this morning?” she inquired.
“Much better, I am happy to say, my dear young lady,” answered Dr. Bede.
“I hear that she was very ill last night,” continued Net.
“_Very_, ma’am. She lay so long in a fainting fit that I began to think
I should never bring her out of it.”
“What caused it—any excitement?”
“No, nothing of the sort; the housekeeper and the nurse were with her at
the time, and she was in the midst of giving some commonplace directions
to the former, when all of a sudden, she dropped. This was about eight
o’clock, and the stupid women lost some time in trying to bring her
round themselves before they sent Hart after me. With all the haste I
could make, it was half-past ten before I got here, and she had lain
unconscious all the time. However, she seems all right again now, or,
rather, as near being all right as she ever can be in this world! Good
morning, madame! good morning, sir!”
And with a bow the worthy doctor got into his gig and drove away.
Adrian alighted and paid the cabman and discharged him; but _he_,
mindful of warmth and refreshment for “man and beast” on the occasion of
his last visit to the house, instead of wheeling off and going back,
kept on around by the stable, where he committed his horse to the care
of one of the grooms for rest and food, while he himself walked to the
house and entered the kitchen to be coddled and comforted by the cook.
Meanwhile, Adrian and Net had been admitted by the hall porter and
conducted up stairs by Hart.
In the upper hall they found Mrs. Trimmer waiting.
“My mistress desired that you should come to her immediately on your
arrival, sir, and madame,” said this Abigail.
“How is she now?” inquired Net.
“As bright as usual this morning, ma’am; but we thought she was gone
last night,” answered the woman, as she opened the door of the boudoir
and announced:
“Mr. and Mrs. Fleming.”
Net and Adrian entered.
Antoinette, in an elegant robe of pale blue silk, trimmed with
swan’s-down, and with her beautiful raven black hair carelessly but
gracefully dressed, reclined in her rose-colored easy-chair, with her
feet upon a rose-colored foot-cushion.
But how alabaster white and semi-transparent her wan face looked in
contrast to the shining, jetty blackness of her hair!
“Ah, you have come back—I am glad to see you!” she said, cheerfully,
holding out a hand to each.
Net could scarcely keep back her tears, so marked an alteration for the
worse did she perceive in Antoinette’s look and voice.
Little more than the merest civility passed between this
strangely-wedded, parted and reunited pair. Loving each other ardently,
they were still somewhat estranged—on Adrian’s side by his consciousness
of his former wrongs to Net, and his pride in belief that he had already
made all the amends that he was able to make, and as much, indeed, as
any “man” could bring himself to make; and on Net’s side, by the bitter
and humiliating memory that she had been once too easily won to marry
him when he believed that he was marrying her rival. Much as she loved
him she could not fully trust him, and she was resolved not to deceive
herself, or allow him to deceive her again.
So she waived all his advances with a perfectly gentle courtesy, which
infuriated him, because it gave him _nothing_—not even just cause of
offense.
It would have been some comfort to have quarreled with Net. Yes, since
he could not make love to her, the next best thing would have been to
find fault with her, he thought.
But she gave him no opportunity to do the one any more than the other.
Altogether the young man was in a very bad humor when he left the
breakfast table with Net.
Antoinette was looking so well, and so quiet, that Net thought she might
now broach a subject which she had been dreading to approach all the
morning.
“And now, dear, I must tell you something that I _hate_ to trouble you
with,” said Net, uneasily.
“And what is that?” inquired her cousin.
“I am called for the defense, and I must be in Yockley on Tuesday
morning. Consequently I must leave here to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, Net!” exclaimed the sick girl, in dismay.
Adrian stared at her in astonishment.
“How is that? You never told me that?” he said, in displeasure.
“You never hinted it, Net!” said her cousin.
“You need not escort me on this occasion, Mr. Fleming. I know the route
quite well by this time, and I shall be leaving in the early morning
instead of at midnight,” said Net, with gentle courtesy.
“But you will be arriving at Yockley at midnight, which will be much
worse than starting from here at the same hour. I shall attend you. I do
not choose that you shall take such a journey alone. You are my wife,”
answered the young man, coldly.
“And it will not hurt _him_ to fatigue himself. He has got nothing else
to do,” said Antoinette, with an amused look.
Adrian shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.
He soon excused himself and walked out, leaving the friends together.
Net spent the day in Antoinette’s room.
The half estranged young married pair did not meet again until they met
at the dinner-table, where the butler and the footman were both in
attendance.
“Do you know that you acted very wrong in that matter of returning here
only to have to take the journey back again to-morrow?” began Adrian
Fleming, at length, disregarding the presence of the servants.
“I have already explained my motives of action. They seemed more than
justifiable—they seemed obligatory to me, and, I hoped, satisfactory to
others,” answered Net, with mild affability that disarmed her accuser.
“Bah! She will neither love me nor quarrel with me!” said Adrian to
himself.
After dinner they took tea with Antoinette in her boudoir, and remained
with her until eight o’clock, her hour for retiring to bed.
Then Mr. Fleming bade her good-night and good-bye, as they would be off
in the morning before Miss Deloraine’s hour for rising.
But Net remained with her friend, helped to undress and get her to bed,
and then sat by her until Antoinette fell asleep, after which Net
retired to her own room to make her few preparations for starting on her
journey.
Meanwhile, Adrian Fleming, acting under protest, had ordered the close
carriage and best road horses to be at the door at six o’clock in the
morning, to go to Deloraine railway station.
Net’s hurried journeying “to and fro on the face of the earth” had one
good effect. They insured to her, whenever she found herself on a bed,
the sound sleep of fatigue, notwithstanding the cares that were on her
mind—cares connected with Antoinette Deloraine’s illness, with Valdimir
Desparde’s trial, and with Adrian Fleming’s false position towards
herself.
She slept soundly until five o’clock, when, according to her previous
orders, she was called.
While she was dressing by candle-light, for it was still dark at five
o’clock on that December morning, some one knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said Net.
Mrs. Trimmer entered the room and said:
“If you please, ma’am, my mistress is awake, and sends her love to you,
and asks that you will please to come in after you have had your
breakfast and bid her good-bye before you go.”
“Certainly I will. Tell your mistress so. How is she this morning?”
“Bright as a bird, ma’am; but nurse says she means to make her go to
sleep again after you have gone,” replied the woman, and she left the
room.
Net soon finished her simple traveling toilet, and hurried to the
breakfast-room, which was lighted by wax candles in the hanging
chandelier.
The table was set for two, but there was no one in the room.
Net rang for coffee, and as soon as it was brought, with its attendant
muffins, toast, eggs and rashers, she sat down and commenced her repast.
Adrian Fleming came in just as she was rising from the table.
“Excuse me,” she said, gently. “Antoinette has sent for me and I must
attend.”
Adrian bit his lips.
“It is always Antoinette, or the children, or any one else than myself,
who command your attention, Net,” he said, sulkily.
“The dying have omnipotent claims on us, Adrian,” she answered, quietly,
as she left the room.
She found Antoinette lying on her beautiful and luxurious bed, looking
as lovely, as happy and as comfortable as it was possible for an invalid
to be.
“I sent for you not only to kiss you good-by and to wish you a pleasant
journey, dear Net, but also that you may see for yourself and take away
with you an impression that will make your mind easy on my account until
you shall see me again. Net, I have not felt so well, for the last three
months, as I feel this morning. If you stay with me all the winter, I
should not wonder at all if I should live to take that summer trip with
you and the children which we have talked about. Net, I feel as if I
were going to get well,” she concluded, as she threw her arms around her
cousin’s neck.
“May the Lord in heaven grant it!” fervently and sincerely responded
Net, as she returned the embrace, and then seated herself on the side of
the bed.
Antoinette raised up and drew out a little drawer from the table by her
bed, and took from it her portemonnaie, which she opened and from which
she took a five-pound note, saying:
“Now you know, Net, if I were up and about I should buy some books or
toys to send the children. You must be my agent and buy them for me,
Net—”
Little Mammam opened her mouth to object to the amount, but was quickly
hushed by her cousin, who continued:
“I know that boy wants a velocipede as well as if I had heard him
express the wish, and I know that girl wants ‘another doll.’ I know that
all girls want another doll! I would get these things for the children,
if I were up and well; but as I am in bed and weak, you must get them
for me and give them to the children, and anything else they would like—
There, Net, not a word of opposition! Don’t dispute with a sick woman,
please! The doctor says I must be kept quiet! Now to be kept quiet, I
must not be contradicted,” added Antoinette, with a humorous smile.
“You are very, very good, and the children will be delighted,” said Net,
bending down and kissing her cousin.
“Come back as soon as you can _conveniently_, Net, and bring the
children, and settle down here for the winter; it is much warmer here
than in far Cumberland.”
“Yes, I will come back and bring the little ones.”
“And do not be uneasy about me, Net—_I am going to get well_,” said
Antoinette, brightly.
“Heaven grant that you may, my dear.”
“Look at the clock, Net, I do not want to make you lose the train. What
is the hour?”
“It is ten minutes past six,” answered Net, after glancing at the
time-piece on the mantel-shelf.
“And the carriage was ordered for six. You must go, dear. Kiss me
good-bye.”
And so they parted.
She hurried down stairs and out to the carriage, where now Adrian
Fleming was anxiously awaiting her.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]