The Trial; Or, More Links of the Daisy Chain Part 37

The three days of nearly entire solitude and of awful expectation had told like double the number of years; and there was a stamp of grave earnest collectedness on the young brow, and a calm resolution of aspect and movement, free from all excitement or embarra.s.sment, as Leonard Ward stood up with a warm grateful greeting, so full of ingenuous reliance, that every doubt vanished at the same moment.

His first question was for Averil; and Dr. May made the best of her state. 'She slept a little more last night, and her pulse is lower this morning; but we keep her in bed, half to hinder her from trying to come here before she is fit. I believe this ailment is the best thing for her and Henry both,' added the Doctor, seeing how much pain his words were giving. 'Henry is a very good nurse; it occupies him, and it is good for her to feel his kindness! Then Minna has come out in the prettiest way: she never fails in some sweet little tender word or caress just when it is wanted.'

Leonard tried to smile, but only succeeded in keeping back a sob; and the Doctor discharged his memory of the messages of love of which he had been the depositary. Leonard recovered his composure during these, and was able to return a smile on hearing of Ella's conquest of Tom, of their Bible prints on Sunday, and their unwearied French billiards in the week. Then he asked after little Mab.

'She is all a dog should be,' said Dr. May. 'Aubrey is her chief friend, except when she is lying at her ease on Ethel's dress.'

The old test of dog-love perhaps occurred to Leonard, for his lips trembled, and his eyes were dewy, even while they beamed with gladness.

'She is a great comfort to Aubrey,' the Doctor added. 'I must beg you to send that poor fellow your forgiveness, for he is exceedingly unhappy about something he repeated in the first unguarded moment.'

'Mr. Bramshaw told me,' said Leonard, with brow contracted.

'I cannot believe,' said Dr. May, 'that it can do you any real harm. I do not think the prosecution ought to take notice of it; but if they do, it will be easy to sift it, and make it tell rather in your favour.'

'Maybe so,' said Leonard, still coldly.

'Then you will cheer him with some kind message?'

'To be sure. It is the time for me to be forgiving every one,' he answered, with a long tightly-drawn breath.

Much distressed, the Doctor paused, in uncertainty whether Leonard were actuated by dread of the disclosure or resentment at the breach of confidence; but ere he spoke, the struggle had been fought out, and a sweet sad face was turned round to him, with the words, 'Poor old Aubrey! Tell him not to mind. There will be worse to be told out than our romancings together, and he will feel it more than I shall! Don't let him vex himself.'

'Thank you,' said the father, warmly. 'I call that pardon.'

'Not that there is anything to forgive,' said Leonard, 'only it is odd that one cares for it more than--No, no, don't tell him that, but that I know it does not signify. It must not come between us, if this is to be the end; and it will make no difference. Nothing can do that but the finding my receipt. I see that book night and day before my eyes, with the very blot that I made in the top of my L.'

'You know they are searching the garden and fields, and advertising a reward, in case of its having been thrown away when rifled, or found to contain no valuables.'

'Yes!' and he rested on the word as though much lay behind.

'Do you think it contained anything worth keeping?'

'Only by one person.'

'Ha!' said the Doctor, with a start.

Instead of answering, Leonard leant down on the narrow bed on which he was seated, and shut in his face between his hands.

The Doctor waited, guessed, and grew impatient. 'You don't mean that fellow, Sam? Do you think he has it? I should like to throttle him, as sure as my name's d.i.c.k May!' (this in soliloquy between his teeth).

'Speak up, Leonard, if you have any suspicion.'

The lad lifted himself with grave resolution that gave him dignity.

'Dr. May,' he said, 'I know that what I say is safe with you, and it seems disrespectful to ask your word and honour beforehand, but I think it will be better for us both if you will give them not to make use of what I tell you. It weighs on me so, that I shall be saying it to the wrong person, unless I have it out with you. You promise me?'

'To make no use of it without your consent,' repeated the Doctor, with rising hope, 'but this is no case for scruples--too much is at stake.'

'You need not tell me that,' Leonard replied, with a shudder; 'but I have no proof. I have thought again and again and again, but can find no possible witness. He was always cautious, and drink made him savage, but not noisy.'

'Then you believe--' The silence told the rest.

'If I did not see how easy people find it to believe the same of me on the mere evidence of circ.u.mstances, I should have no doubt,' said Leonard, deliberately.

'Then it was he that you saw in the yard?'

'Remember, all I saw was that a man was there. I concluded it was Andrews, waiting to take the horse; and as he is a great hanger-on of Sam, I wished to avoid him, and not keep my candle alight to attract his attention. That was the whole reason of my getting out of window, and starting so soon; as unlucky a thing as I could have done.'

'You are sure it was not Andrews?'

'Now I am. You see, Sam had sent home his horse from the station, though I did not know it; and, if you remember, Andrews was shown to have been at his father's long before. If he had been the man, he could speak to the time my light was put out.'

'The putting out of your light must have been the signal for the deed to be done.'

'My poor uncle! Well might he stare round as if he thought the walls would betray him, and start at every c.h.i.n.king of that unhappy gold in his helpless hands! If we had only known who was near--perhaps behind the blinds--' and Leonard gasped.

'But this secrecy, Leonard, I cannot understand it. Do you mean that the poor old man durst not do what he would with his own?'

'Just so. Whenever Sam knew that he had a sum of money, he laid hands on it. Nothing was safe from him that Mr. Axworthy had in the Whitford Bank.'

'That can be proved from the accounts?'

'You recollect the little parlour between the office and my uncle's sitting-room? There I used to sit in the evening, and to feel, rather than hear, the way Sam used to bully the poor old man. Once--a fortnight ago, just after that talk with Aubrey--I knew he had been drinking, and watched, and came in upon them when there was no bearing it any longer. I was sworn at for my pains, and almost kicked out again; but after that Mr. Axworthy made me sit in the room, as if I were a protection; and I made up my mind to bear it as long as he lived.'

'Surely the servants would bear witness to this state of things?'

'I think not. Their rooms are too far off for overhearing, and my uncle saw as little of them as possible. Mrs. Giles was Sam's nurse, and cares for him more than any other creature; she would not say a word against him even if she knew anything; and my uncle would never have complained. He was fond of Sam to the last, proud of his steeple-chases and his cleverness, and desperately afraid of him; in a sort of bondage, entirely past daring to speak.'

'I know,' said Dr. May, remembering how his own Tom had been fettered and tongue-tied by that same tyrant in boyhood. 'But he spoke to you?'

'No,' said Leonard. 'After that scene much was implied between us, but nothing mentioned. I cannot even tell whether he trusted me, or only made me serve as a protector. I believe that row was about this money, which he had got together in secret, and that Sam suspected, and wanted to extort; but it was exactly as I said at the inquest, he gave no reason for sending me up to town with it. He knew that I knew why, and so said no more than that it was to be private. It was pitiful to see that man, so fierce and bold as they say he once was, trembling as if doing something by stealth, and the great hard knotty hands so crumpled and shaky, that he had to leave all to me. And that they should fancy I could go and hurt him!' said Leonard, stretching his broad chest and shoulders in conscious strength.

'Yes, considering who it was, I do not wonder that you feel the pa.s.sion-theory as insulting as the accusation.'

'I ought not,' said Leonard, reddening. 'Every one knows what my temper can do. I do not think that a poor old feeble man like that could have provoked me to be so cowardly, but I see it is no wonder they think so. Only they might suppose I would not have been a robber, and go on lying now, when they take good care to tell me that it is ruinous!'

'It is an intolerable shame that they can look you in the face and imagine it for a moment,' said the Doctor, with all his native warmth.

'After all,' said Leonard, recalled by his sympathy, 'it is my own fault from beginning to end that I am in this case. I see now that it was only G.o.d's mercy that prevented my brother's blood being on me, and it was my unrepenting obstinacy that brought me to the mill; so there will be no real injustice in my dying, and I expect nothing else.'

'Hush, Leonard, depend upon it, while there is Justice in Heaven, the true criminal cannot go free,' cried the Doctor, much agitated.

Leonard shook his head.

'Boyish hastiness is not murder,' added the Doctor.

'So I thought. But it might have been, and I never repented. I brought all this on myself; and while I cannot feel guiltless in G.o.d's sight, I cannot expect it to turn out well.'

'Turn out well,' repeated the Doctor. 'We want Ethel to tell us that this very repentance and owning of the sin, is turning out well--better than going on in it.'