“Is it so nominated in the bond?”—Merchant of Venice.
Malgre her disinclination, Rachel had reached the point of recovery in
which the fresh air and change of scene of the drive to Avoncester could
not fail to act as restoratives, and the first evening with the Dean and
his gentle old sister was refreshing and comfortable to her spirits.
It was in the afternoon of the ensuing day that Mr. Grey came to tell
her that her presence would soon be required, and both her mother and
sister drove to the court with her. Poor Mrs. Curtis, too anxious to
go away, yet too nervous to go into court, chose, in spite of all Mr.
Grey’s advice, to remain in the carriage with the blinds closed, far too
miserable for Grace to leave her.
Rachel, though very white, called up a heroic smile, and declared that
she should get on very well. Her spirit had risen to the occasion, so
as to brace her nerves to go becomingly through what was inevitable; and
she replied with a ready “yes,” to Mr. Grey’s repetition of the advice
for ever dinned into her ears, not to say a word more than needful,
feeling indeed little disposed to utter anything that she could avoid.
She emerged from the dark passage into full view of faces which were
far more familiar than she could have wished. She would have greatly
preferred appearing before a judge, robed, wigged, and a stranger, to
coming thus before a country gentleman, slightly known to herself, but
an old friend of her father, and looking only like his ordinary self.
All the world indeed was curious to see the encounter between Rachel
Curtis and her impostor, and every one who had contributed so much as
a dozen stamps to the F. U. E. E. felt as if under a personal wrong and
grievance, while many hoped to detect other elements of excitement, so
that though all did not overtly stare at the witness, not even the most
considerate could resist the impulse to glance at her reception of the
bow with which he greeted her entrance.
She bent her head instinctively, but there was no change of colour on
her cheek. Her faculties were concentrated, and her resolute will had
closed all avenues to sensations that might impair her powers; she would
not give way either to shame and remorse for herself, or to pity or
indignation against the prisoner; she would attend only to the accuracy
of the testimony that was required of her as an expiation of her
credulous incaution; but such was the tension of her nerves, that,
impassive as she looked, she heard every cough, every rustle of paper;
each voice that addressed her seemed to cut her ears like a knife; and
the chair that was given to her after the administration of the oath was
indeed much needed.
She was examined upon her arrangement that the prisoner should provide
for the asylum at St. Herbert’s, and on her monthly payment to him of
the sums entered in the account-book. In some cases she knew he had
shown her the bills unreceipted; in others, he had simply made the
charge in the book, and she had given to him the amount that he
estimated as requisite for the materials for wood-engraving. So far she
felt satisfied that she was making herself distinctly understood, but
the prisoner, acting as his own counsel, now turned to her and asked the
question she had expected and was prepared for, whether she could refer
to any written agreement.
“No; it was a viva voce agreement.”
Could she mention what passed at the time of making the arrangement that
she had stated as existing between himself and her?
“I described my plans, and you consented.”
An answer at which some of the audience could have smiled, so well did
it accord with her habits. The prisoner again insisted on her defining
the mode of his becoming bound to the agreement. Rachel took time for
consideration, and Alison Williams, sitting between Lady Temple and
Colonel Keith, felt dizzy with anxiety for the answer. It came at last.
“I do not remember the exact words; but you acquiesced in the appearance
of your name as secretary and treasurer.”
The prospectus was here brought forward, and Mauleverer asked her to
define the duties he had been supposed to undertake in the character in
which he had there figured. It of course came out that she had been her
own treasurer, only entrusting the nominal one with the amount required
for current expenses, and again, in reply to his deferential questions,
she was obliged to acknowledge that he had never in so many words
declared the sums entered in the book to have been actually paid, and
not merely estimates for monthly expenditure to be paid to the tradesmen
at the usual seasons.
“I understood that they were paid,” said Rachel, with some resentment.
“Will you oblige me by mentioning on what that understanding was
founded?” said the prisoner, blandly.
There was a pause. Rachel knew she must say something; but memory
utterly failed to recall any definite assurance that these debts had
been discharged. Time passed, all eyes were upon her, there was a dire
necessity of reply, and though perfectly conscious of the weakness and
folly of her utterance, she could only falter forth, “I thought so.”
The being the Clever Woman of the family, only rendered her the more
sensible both of the utter futility of her answer, and of the effect it
must be producing.
Alison hung her head, and frowned in absolute shame and despair, already
perceiving how matters must go, and feeling as if the hope of her
brother’s vindication were slipping away—reft from her by Rachel’s
folly. Colin gave an indignant sigh, and whispering to her, “Come out
when Lady Temple does, I will meet you,” he made his way out of court.
There had been a moment’s pause after Rachel’s “I thought so,” and then
the chairman spoke to the counsel for the prosecution. “Mr. Murray, can
you carry the case any further by other witnesses? At present I see no
case to go to the jury. You will see that the witness not only does not
set up any case of embezzlement, but rather loads to an inference in the
contrary direction.”
“No, sir,” was the answer; “I am afraid that I can add nothing to the
case already presented to you.”
Upon this, the chairman said,
“Gentlemen of the Jury,—The case for the prosecution does not sustain
the indictment or require me to call on the prisoner for his defence,
and it is your duty to find him not guilty. You will observe that we
are not trying a civil action, in respect of the large sum which he has
received from the young lady, and for which he is still accountable to
her; nor by acquitting him are you pronouncing that he has not shown
himself a man of very questionable honesty, but only that the evidence
will not bring him within the grasp of the criminal law, as guilty of
embezzlement under the statute, and this because of the looseness of
the arrange ments, that had been implied instead of expressed. It is
exceedingly to be regretted that with the best intentions and kindest
purposes, want of caution and experience on her part should have
enabled the prisoner thus to secure himself from the possibility of a
conviction; but there can be no doubt that the evidence before us is
such as to leave no alternative but a verdict of not guilty.”
The very tenderness and consideration of the grey-haired Sir Edward
Morden’s tone were more crushing to Rachel than severe animadversions
on her folly would have been from a stranger. Here was she, the Clever
Woman of the family, shown in open court to have been so egregious
a dupe that the deceiver could not even be punished, but must go
scot-free, leaving all her wrongs unredressed! To her excited, morbid
apprehension, magnified by past self-sufficiency, it was as though
all eyes were looking in triumph at that object of general scorn and
aversion, a woman who had stepped out of her place. She turned with
a longing to rush into darkness and retirement when she was called to
return to her mother, and even had she still been present, little would
she have recked that when the jury had, without many moments’ delay,
returned a verdict of “Not Guilty,” the prisoner received a strong, stem
reprimand from Sir Edward, to whom he replied with a bow that had in it
more of triumph than of acceptance.
Burning tears of disappointment were upon Alison’s cheek, the old
hopeless blank was returning, and her brother might come back in
vain, to find his enemy beyond his reach. Here was an end alike of his
restoration and of Ermine’s happiness!
“Oh!” whispered Lady Temple, “is it not horrid? Is nothing to be done
to that dreadful man? I always thought people came here to do justice.
I shall never like Sir Edward Morden again! But, oh! what can that be?
Where is the Colonel?”
It was a loud, frightful roar and yell, a sound of concentrated fury
that, once heard, could never be forgotten. It was from the crowd
outside, many of them from Avonmouth, and all frantic with indignation
at the cruelty that had been perpetrated upon the helpless children.
Their groans and execrations were pursuing the prison van, from which
Maria Hatherton was at that moment making her exit, and so fearful
was the outcry that penetrated the court, that Fanny trembled with
recollections of Indian horrors, looked wistfully for her protector
the Colonel, and murmured fears that her aunt must have been very much
terrified.
At that moment, however, a summons came for Lady Temple, as this was
the case in which she was to bear witness. Alison followed, and was no
sooner past the spectators, who gladly made way, than she found her arm
drawn into Colonel Keith’s. “Is he come?” she asked. “No,” was rather
signed than spoken. “Oh, Colin!” she sighed, but still there was no
reply, only she was dragged on, downstairs and along dark passages, into
a room furnished with a table, chairs, pens, ink, and paper, and lighted
with gas, which revealed to her not only Mr. Grey, but one who, though
eight years had made him stouter, redder, and rougher, had one of the
moat familiar faces of her youthful days. Her senses almost reeled with
her as he held out his hand, saying heartily, “Well, Ailie, how are you?
and how is Ermine? Where can this brother of yours be?”
“Harry! Mr. Beauchamp! You here!” she exclaimed, in the extremity of
amazement.
“Here is Colin seeming to think that something may be done towards
nailing this scoundrel for the present, so I am come at his call. We
shall have the fellow in a moment.” And then, by way of getting rid of
embarrassment, he began talking to Mr. Grey about the County Hall, and
the room, which Mr. Grey explained to be that of the clerk of the peace,
lent for this occasion while the usual justice room was occupied, Alison
heard all as in a dream, and presently Mauleverer entered, as usual
spruce, artist-like, and self-possessed, and was accosted by Harry
Beauchamp, “Good evening, Mr. Maddox, I am sorry to trouble you.”
“I hope there is no misunderstanding, sir,” was the reply. “I have not
the pleasure of knowing for whom you take me.”
Without regarding this reply, however, Mr. Beauchamp requested Mr. Grey
to take his deposition, stating his own belief in the identity of the
person before him with Richard Maddox, whom he charged with having
delivered to him a letter falsely purporting to come from Edward
Williams, demanding three hundred pounds, which upon this he had
delivered to the accused, to be forwarded to the said Mr. Williams.
Alison’s heart beat violently at the ordeal before her of speaking to
the genuineness of the letter. She had seen and suspected that to her
brother-in-law, but she could not guess whether the flaws in that to
Mr. Beauchamp would be equally palpable, and doubt and anxiety made her
scarcely able to look at it steadily. To her great relief, however, she
was able to detect sufficient variations to justify her assertion that
it was not authentic, and she was able to confirm her statement by
comparison of the writing with that of a short, indignant denial of
all knowledge of the transaction, which Harry Beauchamp had happily
preserved, though little regarding it at the time. She also showed the
wrong direction, with the name of the place misspelt, according to
her own copy of her sister-in-law’s address, at the request of Maddox
himself, and pointed out that a letter to Ermine from her brother
bore the right form. The seal upon that to Mr. Beauchamp she likewise
asserted to be the impression of one which her brother had lost more
than a year before the date of the letter.
“Indeed, sir,” said the accused, fuming to Mr. Grey, “this is an
exceedingly hard case. Here am I, newly acquitted, after nearly six
weeks’ imprisonment, on so frivolous a charge that it has been dismissed
without my even having occasion to defend myself, or to call my own most
respectable witnesses as to character, when another charge is brought
forward against me in a name that there has been an unaccountable desire
to impose on me. Even if I were the person that this gentleman supposes,
there is nothing proved. He may very possibly have received a forged
letter, but I perceive nothing to fix the charge upon the party he calls
Maddox. Let me call in my own witnesses, who had volunteered to come
down from Bristol, and you will be convinced how completely mistaken the
gentleman is.”
To this Mr. Grey replied that the case against him was not yet closed,
and cautioning him to keep his own witnesses back; but he was urgent to
be allowed to call them at once, as it was already late, and they were
to go by the six o’clock train. Mr. Grey consented, and a messenger was
sent in search of them. Mr. Beauchamp looked disturbed. “What say you
to this, Colin?” he asked, uneasily. “That man’s audacity is enough to
stagger one, and I only saw him three times at the utmost.”
“Never fear,” said Colin, “delay is all in our favour.” At the same time
Colin left them, and with him went some hope and confidence, leaving all
to feel awkward and distressed during the delay that ensued, the accused
expatiating all the time on the unreasonableness of bringing up an
offence committed so many years ago, in the absence of the only witness
who could prove the whole story, insisting, moreover, on his entire
ignorance of the names of either Maddox or Williams.
The sight of his witnesses was almost welcome. They were a dissenting
minister, and a neat, portly, respectable widow, the owner of a
fancy shop, and both knew Mr. Mauleverer as a popular lecturer upon
philanthropical subjects, who came periodically to Bristol, and made
himself very acceptable. Their faith in him was genuine, and he had even
interested them in the F. U. E. E. and the ladies that patronized it.
The widow was tearfully indignant about the persecution that had
been got up against him, and evidently intended to return with him in
triumph, and endow him with the fancy shop if he would condescend so
far. The minister too, spoke highly of his gifts and graces, but neither
of them could carry back their testimony to his character for more than
three years.
Mr. Grey looked at his watch, Harry Beauchamp was restless, and Alison
felt almost faint with suspense; but at last the tramp of feet was heard
in the passage. Colonel Keith came first, and leaning over Alison’s
chair, said, “Lady Temple will wait for me at the inn. It will soon be
all right.”
At that moment a tall figure in mourning entered, attended by a
policeman. For the first time, Mauleverer’s coolness gave way, though
not his readiness, and, turning to Mr. Grey, he exclaimed, “Sir, you
do not intend to be misled by the malignity of a person of this
description.”
“Worse than a murderess!” gasped the scandalized widow Dench. “Well, I
never!”
Mr. Grey was obliged to be peremptory, in order to obtain silence, and
enforce that, let the new witness be what she might, her evidence must
be heard.
She had come in with the habitual village curtsey to Mr. Beauchamp,
and putting back her veil, disclosed to Alison the piteous sight of
the well-remembered features, once so bright with intelligence and
innocence, and now sunk and haggard with the worst sorrows of womanhood.
Her large glittering eyes did not seem to recognise Alison, but they
glared upon Mauleverer with a strange terrible fixedness, as if unable
to see any one else. To Alison the sight was inexpressibly painful,
and she shrank back, as it were, in dread of meeting the eyes once so
responsive to her own.
Mr. Grey asked the woman the name of the person before her, and looking
at him with the same fearful steadiness, she pronounced it to be Richard
Maddox, though he had of late called himself Mauleverer.
The man quailed for a moment, then collecting himself, said, “I now
understand the incredible ingratitude and malignity that have pointed
out against me these hitherto unaccountable slanders. It is a punishment
for insufficient inquiry into character. But you, sir, in common
justice, will protect me from the aspersions of one who wishes to drag
me down in her justly merited fall.”
“Sentenced for three years! To take her examination!” muttered Mrs.
Dench, and with some difficulty these exclamations were silenced, and
Maria Hatherton called on for her evidence.
Concise, but terrible in its clear brevity, was the story of the agent
tampering with her, the nursemaid, until she had given him access to
the private rooms, where he had turned over the papers. On the following
day, Mr. Williams had been inquiring for his seal-ring, but she herself
had not seen it again till some months after, when she had left her
place, and was living in lodgings provided for her by Maddox, when she
had found the ring in the drawer of his desk; her suspicion had then
been first excited by his displeasure at her proposing to him to
return it, thinking it merely there by accident, and she had afterwards
observed him endeavouring to copy fragments of Mr. Williams’s writing.
These he had crushed up and thrown aside, but she had preserved them,
owning that she did not know what might come of them, and the family had
been very kind to her.
The seal and the scraps of paper were here produced by the policeman
who had them in charge. The seal perfectly coincided with that which had
closed the letter to Harry Beauchamp, and was, moreover, identified by
both Alison and Colonel Keith. It was noticeable, too, that one of these
fragments was the beginning of a note to Mr. Beauchamp, as “Dear H.” and
this, though not Edward’s most usual style of addressing his friend, was
repeated in the demand for the £300.
“Sir,” said the accused, “of course I have no intention of intimating
that a gentleman like the Honourable Colonel Keith has been in any
collusion with this unhappy woman, but it must be obvious to you that
his wish to exonerate his friend has induced him to give too easy
credence to this person’s malignant attempts to fasten upon one whom
she might have had reason to regard as a benefactor the odium of the
transactions that she acknowledges to have taken place between herself
and this Maddox, thereto incited, no doubt, by some resemblance which
must be strong, since it has likewise deceived Mr. Beauchamp.”
Mr. Grey looked perplexed and vexed, and asked Mr. Beauchamp if he could
suggest any other person able to identify Maddox. He frowned, said there
must have been workmen at the factory, but knew not where they were,
looked at Colin Keith, asked Alison if she or her sister had ever seen
Maddox, then declared he could lay his hands on no one but Dr. Long at
Belfast.
Mauleverer vehemently exclaimed against the injustice of detaining him
till a witness could be summoned from that distance. Mr. Grey evidently
had his doubts, and began to think of calling in some fresh opinion
whether he had sufficient grounds for committal, and Alison’s hopes were
only unstained by Colin’s undaunted looks, when there came a knock at
the door, and, as much to the surprise of Alison as of every one else,
there entered an elderly maid-servant, leading a little girl by the
hand, and Colonel Keith going to meet the latter, said, “Do not be
frightened, my dear, you have only to answer a few questions as plainly
and clearly as you can.”
Awed, silent, and dazzled by the sudden gas-light, she clung to his
hand, but evidently distinguished no one else; and he placed her close
to the magistrate saying, “This is Mr. Grey, Rose, tell him your name.”
And Mr. Grey taking her hand and repeating the question, the clear
little silvery voice answered,
“I am Rose Ermine Williams.”
“And how old are you, my dear?”
“I was eight on the last of June.”
“She knows the nature of an oath?” asked Mr. Grey of the Colonel.
“Certainly, you can soon satisfy yourself of that.”
“My dear,” then said Mr. Grey, taking her by the hand again, and looking
into the brown intelligent eyes, “I am sure you have been well taught.
Can you tell me what is meant by taking an oath before a magistrate?”
“Yes,” said Rose, colour flushing into her face, “it is calling upon
Almighty God to hear one speak the truth.” She spoke so low that
she could hardly be heard, and she looked full of startled fear
and distress, turning her face up to Colonel Keith with a terrified
exclamation,
“Oh please, why am I here, what am I to say?”
He was sorry for her; but her manifest want of preparation was all in
favour of the cause, and he soothed her by saying, “Only answer just
what you are asked as clearly as you can, and Mr. Grey will soon let
you go. He knows you would try any way to speak the truth, but as he is
going to examine you as a magistrate, he must ask you to take the oath
first.”
Rose repeated the oath in her innocent tones, and perhaps their
solemnity or the fatherly gentleness of Mr. Grey reassured her, for her
voice trembled much less when she answered his next inquiry, who her
parents were.
“My mother is dead,” she said; “my father is Mr Williams, he is away at
Ekaterinburg.”
“Do you remember any time before he was at Ekaterinburg?”
“Oh yes; when we lived at Kensington, and he had the patent glass
works.”
“Now, turn round and say if there is any one here whom you know?”
Rose, who had hitherto stood facing Mr. Grey, with her back to the rest
of the room, obeyed, and at once exclaimed, “Aunt Alison,” then suddenly
recoiled, and grasped at the Colonel.
“What is it, my dear?”
“It is—it is Mr. Maddox,” and with another gasp of fright, “and Maria!
Oh, let me go.”
But Mr. Grey put his arm round her, and assured her that no one could
harm her, Colonel Keith let his fingers be very hard pinched, and her
aunt came nearer, all telling her that she had only to make her answers
distinctly; and though still shrinking, she could reply to Mr. Grey’s
question whom she meant by Mr. Maddox.
“The agent for the glass—my father’s agent.”
“And who is Maria?”
“She was my nurse.”
“When did you last see the person you call Mr. Maddox?”
“Last time, I was sure of it, was when I was walking on the esplanade
at Avoncester with Colonel Keith,” said Rose, very anxious to turn aside
and render her words inaudible.
“I suppose you can hardly tell when that was?”
“Yes, it was the day before you went away to Lord Keith’s wedding,” said
Rose, looking to the Colonel.
“Had you seen him before?”
“Twice when I was out by myself, but it frightened me so that I never
looked again.”
“Can you give me any guide to the time?”
She was clear that it had been after Colonel Keith’s first stay at
Avonmouth, but that was all, and being asked if she had ever mentioned
these meetings, “Only when Colonel Keith saw how frightened I was, and
asked me.”
“Why were you frightened?” asked Mr. Grey, on a hint from the Colonel.
“Because I could not quite leave off believing the dreadful things Mr.
Maddox and Maria said they would do to me if I told.”
“Told what?”
“About Mr. Maddox coming and walking with Maria when she was out with
me,” gasped Rose, trying to avert her head, and not comforted by hearing
Mr. Grey repeat her words to those tormentors of her infancy.
A little encouragement, however, brought out the story of the
phosphoric letters, the lions, and the vision of Maddox growling in the
dressing-room. The date of the apparition could hardly be hoped for,
but fortunately Rose remembered that it was two days before her mamma’s
birthday, because she had felt it so bard to be eaten up before the
fete, and this date tallied with that given by Maria of her admitting
her treacherous admirer into the private rooms.
“The young lady may be precocious, no doubt, sir,” here said the
accused, “but I hardly see why she has been brought here. You can attach
no weight to the confused recollections of so young a child, of matters
that took place so long ago.”
“The question will be what weight the jury will attach to them at the
assizes,” said Mr. Grey.
“You will permit me to make one inquiry of the young lady, sir. Who told
her whom she might expect to see here?”
Mr. Grey repeated the query, and Rose answered, “Nobody; I knew my aunt
and the Colonel and Lady Temple were gone in to Avoncester, and Aunt
Ermine got a note from the Colonel to say that I was to come in to him
with Tibbie in a fly.”
“Did you know what you were wanted for?”
“No, I could not think. I only knew they came to get the woman punished
for being so cruel to the poor little girls.”
“Do you know who that person was?”
“Mrs. Rawlins,” was the ready answer.
“I think,” said Mr. Grey to the accused, “that you must perceive that,
with such coincidence of testimony as I have here, I have no alternative
but to commit you for the summer assizes.”
Mauleverer murmured something about an action for false imprisonment,
but he did not make it clear, and he was evidently greatly crestfallen.
He had no doubt hoped to brazen out his assumed character sufficiently
to disconcert Mr. Beauchamp’s faith in his own memory, and though he
had carried on the same game after being confronted with Maria, it was
already becoming desperate. He had not reckoned upon her deserting
his cause even for her own sake, and the last chance of employing her
antecedents to discredit her testimony, had been overthrown by Rose’s
innocent witness to their mutual relations, a remembrance which had been
burnt in on her childish memory by the very means taken to secure her
silence. When the depositions were read over, their remarkable and
independent accordance was most striking; Mrs. Dench had already been
led away by the minister, in time to catch her train, just when her sobs
of indignation at the deception were growing too demonstrative, and the
policeman resumed the charge of Maria Hatherton.
Little Rose looked up to her, saying, “Please, Aunt Ailie, may I speak
to her?”
Alison had been sitting restless and perplexed between impulses of pity
and repulsion, and doubts about the etiquette of the justice room;
but her heart yearned over the girl she had cherished, and she signed
permission to Rose, whose timidity had given way amid excitement and
encouragement.
“Please, Maria,” she said, “don’t be angry with me for telling; I never
did till Colonel Keith asked me, and I could not help it. Will you kiss
me and forgive me as you used?”
The hard fierce eyes, that had not wept over the child’s coffin, filled
with tears.
“Oh, Miss Rose, Miss Rose, do not come near me. Oh, if I had minded
you—and your aunts—” And the pent-up misery of the life that had
fallen lower and lower since the first step in evil, found its course
in a convulsive sob and shriek, so grievous that Alison was thankful for
Colin’s promptitude in laying hold of Rose, and leading her out of the
room before him. Alison felt obliged to follow, yet could not bear to
leave Maria to policemen and prison warders.
“Maria, poor Maria, I am so sorry for you, I will try to come and see
you—”
But her hand was seized with an imperative, “Ailie, you must come, they
are all waiting for you.”
How little had she thought her arm would ever be drawn into that arm, so
unheeded by both.
“So that is Edward’s little girl! Why, she is the sweetest little
clear-headed thing I have seen a long time. She was the saving of us.”
“It was well thought of by Colin.”
“Colin is a lawyer spoilt—that’s a fact. A first-rate get-up of a
case!”
“And you think it safe now?”
“Nothing safer, so Edward turns up. How he can keep away from such a
child as that, I can’t imagine. Where is she? Oh, here—” as they came
into the porch in fuller light, where the Colonel and Rose waited for
them. “Ha, my little Ailie, I must make better friends with you.”
“My name is Rose, not Ailie,” replied the little girl.
“Oh, aye! Well, it ought to have been, what d’ye call her—that was a
Daniel come to judgment?”
“Portia,” returned Rose; “but I don’t think that is pretty at all.”
“And where is Lady Temple?” anxiously asked Alison. “She must be grieved
to be detained so long.”
“Oh! Lady Temple is well provided for,” said the Colonel, “all the
magistrates and half the bar are at her feet. They say the grace and
simplicity of her manner of giving her evidence were the greatest
contrast to poor Rachel’s.”
“But where is she?” still persisted Alison.
“At the hotel; Maria’s was the last case of the day, and she went away
directly after it, with such a choice of escorts that I only just spoke
to her.”
And at the hotel they found the waggonette at the gateway, and Lady
Temple in the parlour with Sir Edward Morden, who, late as it was,
would not leave her till he had seen her with the rest of the party. She
sprang up to meet them, and was much relieved to hear that Mauleverer
was again secured. “Otherwise,” she said, “it would have been all my
fault for having acted without asking advice. I hope I shall never do so
again.”
She insisted that all should go home together in the waggonette, and
Rose found herself upon Mr. Beauchamp’s knee, serving as usual as a
safety valve for the feelings of her aunt’s admirers. There was no
inconstancy on her part, she would much have preferred falling to the
lot of her own Colonel, but the open carriage drive was rather a
risk for him in the night air, and though he had undertaken it in the
excitement, he soon found it requisite to muffle himself up, and speak
as little as possible. Harry Beauchamp talked enough for both. He was
in high spirits, partly, as Colin suspected, with the escape from a dull
formal home, and partly with the undoing of a wrong that had rankled
in his conscience more than he had allowed to himself. Lady Temple,
her heart light at the convalescence of her sons, was pleased with
everything, liked him extremely, and answered gaily; and Alison enjoyed
the resumption of pleasant habits of days gone by. Yet, delightful as it
all was, there was a sense of disenchantment: she was marvelling all the
time how she could have suffered so much on Harry Beauchamp’s account.
The rejection of him had weighed like a stone upon her heart, but now it
seemed like freedom to have escaped his companionship for a lifetime.
Presently a horse’s feet were heard on the road before them; there was
a meeting and a halt, and Alick Keith’s voice called out—“How has it
gone?”
“Why, were you not in court?”
“What! I go to hear my friends baited!”
“Where were you then?”
“At Avonmouth.”
“Oh, then you have seen the boys,” cried Lady Temple. “How is Conrade?”
“Quite himself. Up to a prodigious amount of indoor croquet. But how has
it gone?”
“Such a shame!” returned Lady Temple. “They acquitted the dreadful man,
and the poor woman, whom he drove to it, has a year’s imprisonment and
hard labour!”
“Acquitted! What, is he off?”
“Oh, no, no! he is safe, and waiting for the Assizes, all owing to the
Colonel and little Rose.”
“He is committed for the former offence,” said Colonel Keith; “the
important one.”
“That’s right! Good night! And how,” he added, reining back his horse,
“did your cousin get through it?”
“Oh, they were so hard on her!” cried Lady Temple. “I could hardly bring
myself to speak to Sir Edward after it! It was as if he thought it all
her fault!”
“Her evidence broke down completely,” said Colonel Keith. “Sir Edward
spared her as much as he could; but the absurdity of her whole conduct
was palpable. I hope she has had a lesson.”
Alick’s impatient horse flew on with him, and Colin muttered to Alison
under his mufflers,—“I never could make out whether that is the coolest
or the most sensitive fellow living!”