“What is to be done now, Miss Willis?” Nora cried. She had been sitting
for a long time in reflection after Mr. Powderham’s departure.
Miss Willis had one resource for all troubles, and she began--
“If Mr. Stephen Fanshawe were here----”
“I had already thought of him,” Nora said, “but it is impossible.
Something must be done to-night. Do you not see? I do not think a trial
could prove anything; but a character may be destroyed by it for ever. I
think I will go to Mr. Lubbock myself. You will come with me. He will
perhaps be home for dinner; I will go at six, and try to speak to him.
What do you think?”
As there was no point of conscience, Miss Willis gave a ready
acquiescence. She was as anxious as Nora was to prevent such a public
disclosure; and although she looked on Henry as a hair-brained young
man, she could not easily believe him a guilty one. Before the time of
departure came, however, her confidence in his innocence was slightly
shaken. Mrs. Ratcliffe came to her room to tell her in confidence that
there were strange stories about Henry afloat; that it appeared he had
never made any secret of his hate to Miss Smith, and that people were
beginning to suspect that the fire had been an act of revenge.
When a number of people, rich or poor, in city or country, talk over a
mysterious matter, the same thing occurs; there are truths and
falsehoods, exaggerations and mistakes. There is therefore no need to
relate the stories that had been made up regarding Henry, and which, now
poured into Mrs. Ratcliffe’s ear, had at last overset her confidence in
him. She was so shocked at the one fact--his having called Miss Smith
his enemy in the hearing of two workmen whom she knew and trusted, and
who, with mysterious shakes of the head, now reported the speech--that
she was almost ready to believe anything, and, as has been said, her
doubts in some degree overset the mind of Miss Willis also.
She told Mrs. Ratcliffe, however, that Mr. Powderham had already
mentioned the report, and advised that nothing further should be said.
“Miss Smith was harassed enough,” she said. “Do not let us add to her
anxiety.”
“Well, I won’t,” replied Mrs. Ratcliffe, “though I did feel I could have
gone and hanged him with my own hands. And I won’t tell Sophy either;
for the poor child is ill, and does fret so after him, I don’t know what
to do with her; she says it’s a shame to be angry about an accident. And
so it is, if it was an accident. Well, please God it will turn out so,
for I never was so deceived. Never.”
Except with two or three, Henry had been very popular; but few stand by
their friends as friends should. Nor is it altogether from fickleness;
there is always that terrible dread of having been deceived.
Late in the day Miss Willis accompanied Nora to Squire Lubbock’s. She
had been correct in her views regarding him. When she reached his house
at six o’clock she found that he had just returned to dinner.
She sent up her name and begged to be allowed to speak to him.
Squire Lubbock was an honest, unrefined country gentleman, giving his
heart as well as his time to the common business of a country gentleman.
He was an active magistrate and a strict one; but a favourite, because
just and kind-hearted. Though somewhat unrefined, he had a respect that
was almost chivalrous, not only for youth and beauty, not only for a
lady, but for every woman that was neatly dressed; and that he had not
the same respect for all women, was because he was firmly possessed with
the idea that every proper woman ought to be neatly dressed, could be
neatly dressed if she pleased; and if not neatly dressed, was not a
woman according to his ideas.
There was a homely gallantry and courtesy about him when he came down at
Nora’s summons; and he assisted her from the carriage, handed her into
his house, and asked what he could do for her, with an evident desire to
do it, whatever it were.
In one way these courteous manners helped her; gave her confidence, and
made her task easy. But in another way it made it more difficult. It
made her suddenly feel that Henry was a young man, and that her motives
might be misunderstood. This was only a passing reflection, however.
The next instant she cast it aside, and made known her business.
She told her story with truth, courage, and quietness; showed where she
thought the evidence of premeditated intention broke down; and then
touched on her reasons for wishing to bury the finding of the letter in
oblivion.
Mr. Lubbock heard her with great interest and attention. When she had
done he said,
“Of course I must hear what Mr. Powderham has to say; but, to relieve
your mind, I will tell you that I so far agree with you. It chanced that
I saw Mr. Devereux on the day after the fire. He came here to give
evidence in favour of a poor man; and though I must allow that he
appears to be an impatient, passionate-tempered young gentleman, yet,
unless men’s countenances err more than I suspect they do, I should
acquit him of all malignant intentions. We must remember the letter is
_to_ him, not from him; that makes a great difference. Passionate
speeches are very bad, but they show passion, not malignity; _that_ is a
great difference. Unless the case is very much worse than I imagine it
is, let me promise you that you shall not be forced to prosecute against
your will.”
His manners became still more respectful and courteous after he had
heard her; and when he handed her back into her carriage, she felt that
he was a friend who would stand by her.