DELAYED TRIAL.
It is quite true that Pickles had put on the torture screw. Harris felt
exceedingly uncomfortable as he walked home. It was a fact, then, that
Sue had been caught and put in prison. That disagreeable boy had seen it
all; he had witnessed her rapid flight; he had heard her protestations
of innocence; he had seen her carried off to prison. Sue, so good and
brave and honest, would be convicted of theft and would have to bear the
penalty of theft--of another's theft, not her own. What a foolish girl
she had been to run away! Of course, it made her guilt seem all the
plainer. There was not a loophole of escape for her. She was certain to
be found guilty; probably to-day she would be brought before the
magistrate and sentence pronounced upon her. He wondered what magistrate
would try her; how long her punishment would last. Had he dared he would
have attended her trial. But he did not dare. That red-haired boy--that
most unpleasant, impudent boy--would probably be there. There was no
saying what things he might say. He would probably appear as a witness,
and nothing would keep that giddy tongue of his quiet. What a very queer
boy he was, and how strange were his suspicions! When any one else in
all the world would have accepted Sue's guilt as beyond doubt or
question, he persisted in declaring her innocent. Nay, more than that,
he had even declared that the man who had gone with her into the shop
was the guilty person. Harris knew there was no proof against the man.
No one had seen him take the locket; no one had witnessed its transfer
into Sue's pocket. The man was safe enough. No one living could bring
his guilt home to him.
But stay a moment! A horrible fear came over him. Why did that boy speak
like that? He saw Sue running away. Perhaps he had seen more than that.
Perhaps he had come on the platform of events earlier in the narrative.
Harris felt the cold sweat starting to his forehead as it occurred to
him that that awful boy had reason for his talk--that he _knew_ to whom
he was speaking. When Harris took the locket he might have been
flattening his nose against the window-pane at the pawnbroker's; he
might have seen all that was taking place. What was to be done? He could
not confess, and yet if he didn't he was in horrible danger; his present
state was worse than any state he had been in before. Suppose Connie
ever found out his meanness, his wickedness.
Harris was very fond of Connie just then. He had suffered during her
absence. His home was pleasant to him--as pleasant as his guilty
conscience would permit during those days, for little Giles was like no
one else. Oh, could the awful moment ever come when Giles would look at
him with reproachful eyes--when Giles would turn away from him? The
miserable man felt that were such a time to arrive it would be almost as
bad as the knowledge that God Himself could not forgive him. He was
distracted, miserable; he must find a refuge from his guilty thoughts.
A public-house stood handy. He had not really taken too much for a long
time now--not since that terrible night when, owing to drink, he had
turned his child from his door. But he would forget his misery now in
drink.
"That dreadful boy!" he muttered--"that dreadful, dreadful boy, with
hair like a flame, and eyes that peered into you like gimlets!"
Harris passed through the great swing-doors. His good angel must almost
have disappeared at that moment.
Meanwhile Connie and Giles watched and waited in vain for Sue. She was
coming to-day--she was coming to-morrow. But the weary hours went by and
no Sue arrived; there was no message from her. Harris went oftener and
oftener to the public-house, and brought less and less of his wages
home, and Giles faded and faded, and Connie also looked very sad and
weary.
Once Connie said to Giles, when nearly a month had gone by:
"Yer'll 'ave to give up that notion 'bout the country, Giles, for
'tain't true."
"Yus, I believe I must give it up," said Giles.
"Ain't yer anxious now 'bout dear Sue?" asked Connie.
"Not wery," said Giles. "Ef she ain't in the country, the good Lord 'ave
her safe somewhere else--that's wot I'm a-thinkin' of. Father John said
to me we'en he come last as trials of this sort are good for me."
"You 'ave nothing but trials, poor Giles!" said Connie.
"Oh no," answered Giles; "I ha' lots o' blessings--you and Big Ben, the
beautiful Woice, you know. Connie, some'ow I think as my wings is
growin' wery fast. I think w'en they're full-grown----"
"Wot then?" asked Connie.
"Why, I'll fly away. I can't 'ardly believe as a poor little lame boy
like me could fly up higher than the stars, but that's wot 'ull 'appen.
I picter it wery often--me no longer tied down to my bed, but with
wings, flyin' about as strong as the angels. Only Father John says I'll
be higher than the angels, for I'll be one o' the ransomed o' the Lord.
I'll see Father John, too, an' you'll come after a bit, an' Sue 'ull
come. I can't fret no, I can't."
After this Connie went for the doctor, and the doctor said that the boy
was very ill--that he might linger a few weeks more, but his sufferings
were growing less, and that Connie's kind care was effecting wonders for
him.
The weeks went by. Harris grew accustomed to his sense of guilt, and Sue
to her captivity. Pickles was anxiously looking forward to a crisis.
Harris, after giving way to drink for several days, refrained again and
worked steadily. He brought in, in consequence, good wages, and Connie
and Giles wanted for nothing. It was the one salve to his conscience,
this making of Giles comfortable; otherwise, notwithstanding the
manifest amendment of his ways, he was scarcely happy. Indeed, Pickles
took care that he should not be so. In the most unlikely and unexpected
places this dreadful boy would dart upon him, and more and more certain
was Harris that he not only knew his secret, but had witnessed his
guilt. Harris would have fled miles from the boy, but the boy would not
be fled from. He acted as a perpetual blister on the man's already sore
conscience, and Harris almost hated him.
His first resolve to confide in Pickles and bribe him into silence had
long ago died away. He dared not even offer to bribe him; the perfectly
fearless and uncorrupt spirit which looked out of the eyes of the boy
would be, he knew, proof against all that he could do in the matter of
either rewards or punishments. No; all that Harris could do was to
maintain as imperturbable a spirit as possible while Pickles expatiated
upon the cruel fate of Sue. As far as he could dare question him, he
learned from Pickles that Sue had not been yet tried even before the
magistrate. He wondered greatly at this delay, and Pickles, who read his
wonder in his eyes, remarked lightly that the reason of this long
postponement was because the police were busy looking for the guilty
party.
"Whether they finds him or not," concluded Pickles, "it must come off
soon now, fur I'm told that the expense of keeping Sue is breaking that
'ere lock-hup. I 'spect as it 'ull be the finest bit o' a trial as have
been fur many a day. I means to be there. And you'll come, won't yer,
Mr. Harris?"
"I'm sick o' the subject," said Harris.
"Oh no, you ain't, Mr. Harris; you 'ave a wery quiet manner, as his only
wot his right and becoming, but I can see yer hinterest in yer heyes.
You can't keep that good-natured, human look out o' yer heyes, Mr.
Harris; nor can yer help a-starting when yer sees me a-coming. Oh no,
yer may say wot yer likes, but ye're real interested in that pore,
misfort'nit Sue, I _knows_; so you will come to her shameful trial,
won't yer?"
In despair, and fearing any other reply, Harris promised.