Miscellanea Part 3

"Not being permitted to address the jury, it was all that he could do.

Then the Recorder summed up. G.o.d forgive him the fatal accuracy with which he placed every link in a chain of evidence so condemning that I confess poor George seemed almost to have been taken _in flagrante delicto_. The jury withdrew; and my sweet Mistress Dorothy, who had remained in court against my wish, suddenly dropped like an apple-blossom, and I carried her out in my arms. When I had placed her in safety, I came back, and pressed through the crowd to hear the verdict.

"As I got in, the Recorder's voice fell on my ear, every word like a funeral knell,--'_May the Lord have mercy on your soul!_'

"I think for a few minutes I lost my senses. I have a confused remembrance of swaying hither and thither in a crowd; of execration, and pity, and gaping curiosity; and then I got out, and some one pa.s.sed me, whose arm I grasped. It was Mr. A----.

"'Tell me,' I said, 'is there no hope? No recommendation to mercy?

Nothing?'

"He dragged me into a room, and, seizing me by the b.u.t.ton, exclaimed--

"'We don't want mercy; we want justice! I say, sir, curse the present condition of the law! It _must_ be altered, and I shall live to see it.

If I might have addressed the jury--there were a dozen points--we should have carried him through. Besides,' he added, in a tone that seemed to apologize for such a secondary consideration, 'I may say to you that I fully believe that he is innocent, and am as sorry on his account as on my own that we have lost the case.'

"And so the day is ended. _Fiat voluntas Domini!_"

Yes, Eleanor! Dr. Penn was right. The day did end--and the next--and the next; and drop by drop the cup of sorrow was drained. And when the draught is done, should we be the better, Nelly, if it had been nectar?

I had neither died nor gone mad when the day came--the last complete day that George was to see on earth. It was Sunday; and, after a sleepless night, I saw the red sun break through the grey morning. I always sleep with my window open; and, as I lay and watched the sunrise, I thought--

"He will see this sunrise, and to-morrow's sunrise; but no other! No, no!--never more!"

But then a stronger thought seemed to rise involuntarily against that one--

"Peace, fool! If this be the sorrow, it is one that must come to all men."

And then, Nelly (it is strange, but it was so), there broke out in the stone pine by my window a chorus of little birds whom the sunbeams had awakened; and they sang so sweet and so loud (like the white bird that sang to the monk Felix), that earthly cares seemed to fade away, and I fell asleep, and slept the first sound, dreamless sleep that had blessed me since our great trouble came.

CHAPTER V.

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS.

Dr. Penn was with George this day, and was to be with him to the last.

His duty was taken by a curate.

I will not attempt to describe my feelings at this terrible time, but merely narrate circ.u.mstantially the wonderful events (or illusions, call them which you will) of the evening.

We sat up-stairs in the blue room, and Harriet fell asleep on the sofa.

It was about half-past ten o'clock when she awoke with a scream, and in such terror that I had much difficulty in soothing her. She seemed very unwilling to tell me the cause of her distress; but at last confessed that on the two preceding nights she had had a vivid and alarming dream, on each night the same. Poor Edmund's hand (she recognized it by the sapphire ring) seemed to float in the air before her; and even after she awoke, she still seemed to see it floating towards the door, and then coming back again, till it vanished altogether. She had seen it again now in her sleep. I sat silent, struggling with a feeling of indignation. Why had she not spoken of it before? I do not know how long it might have been before I should have broken the silence, but that my eyes turned to the partially-open window and the dark night that lay beyond. Then I shrieked, louder than she had done--

"Harriet! _There it is!_"

There it was--to my eyes--the detached hand, round which played a pale light--the splendid sapphire gleaming unearthlily, like the flame of a candle that is burning blue. But Harriet could see nothing. She said that I frightened her, and shook her nerves, and took pleasure in doing so; that I was the author of all our trouble, and she wished I would drop the dreadful subject. She would have said much more, but that I startled her by the vehemence of my interruption. I said that the day was past when I would sacrifice my peace or my duty to her whims; and she ventured no remonstrance when I announced that I intended to follow the hand so long as it moved, and discover the meaning of the apparition. I then flew downstairs and out into the garden, where it still gleamed, and commenced a slow movement towards the gate. But my flight had been observed, Nelly, by Robert, our old butler. I had always been his favourite in the family, and since my grief, his humble sympathy had only been second to that of Dr. Penn. I had noticed the anxious watch he had kept over me since the trial, with a sort of sad amus.e.m.e.nt. I afterwards learnt that all his fears had culminated to a point when he saw me rush wildly from the house that night. He had thought I was going to drown myself. He concealed his fears at the time, however, and only said--

"What be the matter, Miss Dorothy?"

"Is that you, Robert?" I said. "Come here. Look! Do you see?"

"See what?" he said.

"Don't you see anything?" I said. "No light? Nothing?"

"Nothin' whatever," said Robert, decidedly; "it be as dark as pitch."

I stood silent, gazing at the apparition, which, having reached the gate, was slowly re-advancing. If it were fancy, why did it not vanish?

I rubbed my eyes, but it was there still. Robert interrupted me, solemnly--

"Miss Dorothy, do _you_ see anything?"

"Robert," I said, "you are a faithful friend. Listen! I see before me the lost hand of your dead master. I know it by the sapphire ring. It is surrounded by a pale light, and moves slowly. My sister has seen it three times in her sleep; and I see it now with my waking eyes. You may laugh, Robert; but it is too true."

I was not prepared for the indignant reply:

"Laugh, Miss Dorothy! The Lord forbid! If so be you do see anything, and it should be the Lord's will to reveal anything about poor dear Master Edmund to you as loved him, and is his sister, who am I that I should laugh? My mother had a cousin (many a time has she told me the story) as married a sailor (he was mate on board a vessel bound for the West Indies), and one night, about three weeks after her husband had--"

"Robert!" I said, "you shall tell me that story another day with pleasure; but no time is to be lost now. I mean to follow the hand: will you come with me and take care of me?"

"Go in, ma'am," he said; "wrap up warm, and put on thick shoes, and come quietly down to this door. I'll just slip in and quiet the servants, and meet you."

"And bring a lantern," I said; "this light does not light you."

In five minutes we were there again; and the hand was vivid as ever.

"Do you see it now?" whispered the butler, anxiously.

"Yes," I said; "it is moving."

"Go on," he said; "I will keep close behind you."

It was pitch dark, and, except for the gleaming hand, and the erratic circles of light cast by the lantern, we could see nothing. The hand gradually moved faster, increasing to a good walking pace, pa.s.sing over the garden-gate and leading us on till I completely lost knowledge of our position; but still we went steadily forward. At last we got into a road, and went along by a wall; and, after a few steps, the hand, which was before me, moved sharply aside.

"Robert," I said, "it has gone over a gate--we must go too! Where are we?"

He answered, in a tone of the deepest horror--

"Miss Dorothy! for the Lord's sake, think what you are doing, and let us turn back while we can! You've had sore affliction; but it's an awful thing to bring an innocent man to trouble."

"The innocent man _is_ in trouble!" I said, pa.s.sionately. "Is it nothing that he should die, if truth could save him? You may go back if you like; but I shall go on. Tell me, whose place is this?"

"Never mind, my dear young lady," he said, soothingly. "Go on, and the Lord be with you! But be careful. You're sure you see it now?"

"Certain," I said. "It is moving. Come on."