Others ironically whispered, ‘Most unfortunate.’
The coroner asked Mr. Anderson whether he had anything to ask or observe, and on his reply in the negative, proceeded to sum up the evidence for the consideration of the jury.
It seemed as if it were only here that Leonard perceived the real gist of the evidence. His brow grew hotter, his eyes indignant, his hands clenched, as if he with difficulty restrained himself from breaking in on the coroner’s speech; and when at length the question was put to the jury, he stood, the colour fading from his cheek, his eyes set and glassy, his lip fallen, the dew breaking out on his brow, every limb as it were petrified by the shock of what was thus first fully revealed to him.
So he stood, while the jury deliberated in low gruff sorrowful murmurs, and after a few minutes, turned round to announce with much sadness that they could do no otherwise than return a verdict of wilful murder against Leonard Ward.
‘Mr. Leonard Ward,’ said the coroner, a gentleman who had well known his father, and who spoke with scarcely concealed emotion, ‘it becomes my painful duty to commit you to Whitford Gaol for trial at the next assizes.’
Dr. May eagerly offered bail, rather as the readiest form of kindness than in the hope of its acceptance, and it was of course refused; but he made his way to the prisoner, and wrung his chill hand with all his might. The pressure seemed to waken the poor lad from his frozen rigidity; the warmth came flowing back into his fingers as his friend held them; he raised his head, shut and re-opened his eyes, and pushed back his hair, as though trying to shake himself loose from a too horrible dream. His face softened and quivered as he met the Doctor’s kind eyes; but bracing himself again, he looked up, answered the coroner’s question—that his Christian name was Leonard Axworthy, his age within a few weeks of eighteen; and asked permission to fetch what he should want from his room.
The policeman, in whose charge he was, consented both to this, and to Dr. May being there alone with him for a short time.
Then it was that the boy relaxed the strain on his features, and said in a low and strangled voice, ‘O, Dr. May, if you had only let me die with them last year!’
‘It was not I who saved you. He who sent that ordeal, will bring you through—this,’ said Dr. May, with a great sob in his throat that belied his words of cheer.
‘I thank Him at least for having taken her,’ said Leonard, resting his head on the mantelshelf beneath his mother’s picture, while his little dog sat at his foot, looking up at him, cowed and wistful.
Dr. May strove for words of comfort, but broke utterly down; and could only cover his face with his hands, and struggle with his emotion, unable to utter a word.
Yet perhaps none would have been so comforting as his genuine sympathy, although it was in a voice of extreme distress that Leonard exclaimed, ‘Dr. May, Dr. May, pray don’t! you ought not to grieve for me!’
‘I’m a fool,’ said Dr. May, after some space, fighting hard with himself. ‘Nonsense! we shall see you out of this! We have only to keep up a good heart, and we shall see it explained.’
‘I don’t know; I can’t understand,’ said Leonard, passing his hand over his weary forehead. ‘Why could they not believe when I told them just how it was?’
At that moment the policeman opened the door, saying, ‘Here, sir;’ and Henry hurried in, pale and breathless, not looking in his brother’s face, as he spoke fast and low.
‘Ned Anderson says there’s nothing at all to be made of this defence of yours; it is of no use to try it. The only thing is to own that he found fault with you, and in one of your rages—you know—’
‘You too, Henry!’ said Leonard, in dejected reproach.
‘Why—why, it is impossible it could have been otherwise—open window, absconding, and all. We all know you never meant it; but your story won’t stand; and the only chance, Anderson says, is to go in for manslaughter. If you could only tell anything that would give him a clue to pick up evidence while the people are on the spot.’
Leonard’s face was convulsed for a moment while his brother was speaking; but he recovered calmness of voice, as he mournfully answered, ‘I have no right to wonder at your suspicion of me.’
Henry for the first time really looked at him, and instinctively faltered, ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Indeed,’ said Leonard, with the same subdued manner, ‘I cannot believe that any provocation could make me strike a person like that old man; and here there was none at all. Except that he was vexed at first at my being late, he had never been so near kindness.’
‘Then is this extraordinary story the truth?’
‘Why should I not tell the truth?’ was the answer, too mournful for indignation.
Henry again cast down his eyes, Leonard moved about making preparations, Dr. May leant against the wall—all too much oppressed for speech; till, as Leonard stooped, poor little Mab, thrusting her black head into his hand, drew from him the words, ‘My doggie, what is to become of you?’
A sort of hoarse explosion of ‘Ave’ from Henry was simultaneous with the Doctor’s ‘I tried to get her home with me in the morning, but she waited your orders.’
‘Miss May would not have her now. After all, prussic acid would be the truest mercy’ said Leonard, holding the little creature up to his face, and laying his cheek against her silken coat with almost passionate affection.
‘Not while there are those who trust your word, Leonard; as Ethel said this morning.’
He raised the face which he had hidden against the dog, and looked earnestly at the Doctor as if hardly venturing to understand him; then a ray of real gladness and comfort darted into his eyes, which so enlivened Dr. May, that he was able to say cheerfully, ‘We will take good care of her till you come for her.’
‘Then, Henry,’ said Leonard, ‘it is not unkindness, nor that I remember things, but indeed I think it will be better for you all, since Dr. May is so—so—’ The word kind was so inadequate, that it stuck in his throat. ‘Take this to Ave,’ putting his mother’s likeness in his hand, ‘and tell her I will write,’
‘Poor Ave!’
