The Trial

‘Is this the first time you have found that out?’ said Ethel.

‘Why, you know it is not his nature to make the most of himself! But studying under him brings it out more; and there’s a readiness about him that I wish was catching. But I say, Ethel, what’s this? I no more doubt who did the deed, than I do who killed Abel; but I had once seen Cain’s face, and I knew it again. Is it true that the boy was aware, and told my father?’

‘Did he tell you so?’

‘Only asked if he had betrayed the secret. If they both know it—why, if it be Leonard’s taste, I suppose I must say nothing to the contrary, but he might as well consider his sister.’

‘What do you know, Tom?’ said she, perplexed.

‘Only that there’s some secret; and if it be as I am given to understand, then it is a frenzy that no lucid person should permit.’

‘No, Tom,’ said Ethel, feeling that the whole must be told, ‘it is no certainty—only unsupported suspicion, which he could not help telling papa after binding him on honour to make no use of it. Putting things together, he was sure who the man in the yard was; but it was not recognition, and he could not have proved it.’

‘What Quixotry moved my father not to put the lawyers on the scent?’

Ethel explained; and for her pains Tom fell upon her for her folly in not having told him all, when he could have gone to Blewer and gathered information as no professional person could do; then lamented that he had let Aubrey keep him from the inquest, when the fellow’s hang-dog look would have been sure to suggest to him to set Anderson to get him searched. Even now he would go to the mill, and try to hunt up something.

‘Tom, remember papa’s promise!’

‘Do you think a man can do nothing without committing himself, like poor Aubrey? No, Ethel, the Doctor may be clever, but that’s no use if a man is soft, and he is uncommonly soft; and you should not encourage him in it.’

Ethel was prevented from expressing useless indignation by the arrival of Mary, asking where papa was.

‘Gone to bed. He said he must go off at six tomorrow, there are so many patients to see. Ave does not want him, I hope?’

No, she is still asleep; I was only waiting for Richard, and he had dreadful work with that poor Henry.’

‘What kind of work?’

‘Oh, I believe it has all come on him now that it was his fault—driving Leonard to that place; and he was in such misery, that Richard could not leave him.’

‘I am glad he has the grace to feel it at last,’ said Tom.

‘It must be very terrible!’ said Mary. ‘He says he cannot stay in that house, for every room reproaches him; and he groaned as if he was in tremendous bodily pain.’

‘What, you assisted at this scene?’ said Tom, looking at her rather sharply.

‘No; but Richard told me; and I heard the groans as I sat on the stairs.’

‘Sat on the stairs?’

‘Yes. I could not go back to Ave’s room for fear of waking her.’

‘And how long?’

‘Towards an hour, I believe. I did all that piece,’ said Mary, displaying a couple of inches of a stocking leg, ‘and I think it was pretty well in the dark.’

‘Sitting on the stairs for an hour in the dark,’ said Tom, as he gave Mary the candle he had been lighting for her. ‘That may be called unappreciated devotion.’

‘I never can tell what Tom means,’ said Mary, as she went up-stairs with Ethel. ‘It was a very comfortable rest. I wish you had had the same, dear Ethel, you look so tired and worn out. Let me stay and help you. It has been such a sad long day; and oh! how terrible this is! And you know him better than any of us, except Aubrey.’

Mary stopped almost in dismay, for her sister, usually so firm, broke down entirely, and sitting down on a low chair, threw an arm round her, and resting her weary brow against her, gave way to long tearless sobs, or rather catches of breath. ‘Oh! Mary! Mary!’ she said, between her gasps, ‘to think of last year—and Coombe—and the two bright boys—and the visions—and the light in those glorious eyes—and that this should be the end!’

‘Dear, dear Ethel,’ said Mary, with fast-flowing tears and tender caresses, ‘you have kept us all up; you have always shown us it was for the best.’

‘It is! it is!’ cried Ethel. ‘I do, I will believe it! If I had only seen his face as papa tells of it, I could keep hold of the glory of it and the martyr spirit. Now I only see his earnest, shy, confiding look—and —and I don’t know how to bear it.’ And Ethel’s grasp of Mary in both arms was tightened, as if to support herself under her deep labouring sobs of anguish. Ah! he was very fond of you.’

‘There never was any one beyond our own selves that loved me so well. I always knew it would not last—that it ought not; but oh! it was endearing; and I did think to have seen him a shining light!’

‘And don’t you tell us he is a shining light now?’ said Mary, among the tears that really almost seemed to be a relief, as if her sister herself had shed them; and as she knelt down, Ethel laid her head on her shoulder, and spoke more calmly.

‘He is,’ she said, ‘and I ought to be thankful for it! I think I am generally—but now—it makes it the more piteous—the hopes—the spirit—the determination—all to be quenched, and so quenched—and to have nothing— nothing to do for him.

‘But, Ethel, papa says your messages do him more good than anything; and papa will let you go and see him, and that will comfort him.’

Ethel’s lips gave a strange sort of smile; she thought it was at simple Mary’s trust in her power, but it would