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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




He was in consternation at the decline of Stoneborough school since
Mr. Wilmot had ceased to be an under-master; the whole tone of the
school had degenerated, and it was no wonder that the Government
inquiries were ominously directed in that quarter. Scholarship was
at a low ebb, Dr. Hoxton seemed to have lost what power of teaching
he had ever possessed, and as Dr. May observed, the poor old school
was going to the dogs. But even in the present state of things,
Leonard had no chance of excelling his competitors. His study, like
theirs, had been mere task-work, and though he showed more native
power than the rest, yet perhaps this had made the mere learning by
rote even more difficult to an active mind full of inquiry. He was a
whole year younger than any other who touched the foremost ranks, two
years younger than several; and though he now and then showed a
feverish spark of genius, reminding Mr. Cheviot of Norman in his
famous examination, it was not sustained--there were will and force,
but not scholarship--and besides, there was a wide blurred spot in
his memory, as though all the brain-work of the quarter before his
illness had been confused, and had not yet become clear. There was
every likelihood that a few years would make him superior to the
chosen Randall scholar, but at present his utmost efforts did not
even place him among the seven whose names appeared honourably in the
newspaper. It was a failure; but Mr. Cheviot had become much
interested in the boy for his own sake, as well as from what he heard
from the Mays, and he strongly advised that Leonard should at Easter
obtain employment for a couple of years at the school in which he
himself was concerned. He would thus be maintaining himself, and
pursuing his own studies under good direction, so as to have every
probability of success in getting an open scholarship at one of the
Universities.

Nothing could be better, and there was a perfect jubilee among the
Mays at the proposal. Aubrey was despatched as soon as breakfast was
over to bring Leonard to talk it over, and Dr. May undertook to
propound it to Henry on meeting him at the hospital; but Aubrey came
back looking very blank--Leonard had started of his own accord that
morning to announce to his uncle his acceptance of a clerk's desk at
the Vintry Mill!

Averil followed upon Aubrey's footsteps, and arrived while the
schoolroom was ringing with notes of vexation and consternation. She
was all upon the defensive. She said that not a word had passed on
the subject since the dinner-party, and there had not been a shadow
of a dispute between the brothers; in fact, she evidently was
delighted with Leonard's dignified position and strength of
determination, and thought this expedition to the Vintry Mill a
signal victory.

When she heard what the Mays had to propose, she was enchanted, she
had no doubt of Henry's willing consent, and felt that Leonard's
triumph and independence were secured without the sacrifice of
prospects, which she had begun to regard as a considerable price for
his dignity.

But Dr. May was not so successful with Henry Ward. He did not want
to disoblige his uncle, who had taken a fancy to Leonard, and might
do much for the family; he thought his father would have changed his
views of the uncle and nephew had he known them better, he would not
accept the opinion of a stranger against people of his own family,
and he had always understood the position of an usher to be most
wretched, nor would he perceive the vast difference between the staff
of the middle school and of the private commercial academy. He
evidently was pleased to stand upon his rights, to disappoint Dr.
May, and perhaps to gratify his jealousy by denying his brother a
superior education.

Yet in spite of this ebullition, which had greatly exasperated Dr.
May, there was every probability that Henry's consent might be wrung
out or dispensed with, and plans of attack were being arranged at the
tea-table, when a new obstacle in the shape of a note from Leonard
himself.


'My Dear Aubrey,

'I am very much obliged to Dr. May and Mr. Cheviot for their kind
intentions; but I have quite settled with Mr. Axworthy, and I enter
on my new duties next week. I am sorry to leave our corps, but it is
too far off, and I must enter the Whitford one.

'Yours,
'L. A. Ward.'


'The boy is mad with pride and temper,' said the Doctor.

'And his sister has made him so,' added Ethel.

'Shall I run down to Bankside and tell him it is all bosh?' said
Aubrey, jumping up.

'I don't think that is quite possible under Henry's very nose,' said
Ethel. 'Perhaps they will all be tamer by to-morrow, now they have
blown their trumpets; but I am very much vexed.'

'And really,' added Mr. Cheviot, 'if he is so wrong-headed, I begin
to doubt if I could recommend him.'

'You do not know how he has been galled and irritated,' said the
general voice.

'I wonder what Mrs. Pugh thinks of it,' presently observed the
Doctor.

'Ah!' said Ethel, 'Mrs. Pugh is reading "John of Anjou".'

'Indeed!' said the Doctor; 'I suspected the wind was getting into
that quarter. Master Henry does not know his own interest: she was
sure to take part with a handsome lad.'

'Why have you never got Mrs. Pugh to speak for him?' said Mary. 'I
am sure she would.'

'O, Mary! simple Mary, you to be Ave's friend, and not know that her
interposition is the only thing wanting to complete the frenzy of the
other two!'

Ethel said little more that evening, she was too much grieved and too
anxious. She was extremely disappointed in Leonard, and almost
hopeless as to his future. She saw but one chance of preventing his
seeking this place of temptation, and that was in the exertion of her
personal influence. His avoidance of her showed that he dreaded it,
but one attempt must be made. All night was spent in broken dreams
of just failing to meet him, or of being unable to utter what was on
her tongue; and in her waking moments she almost reproached herself
for the discovery how near her heart he was, and how much pleasure
his devotion had given her.

Nothing but resolution on her own part could bring about a meeting,
and she was resolute. She stormed the castle in person, and told
Averil she must speak to Leonard. Ave was on her side now, and
answered with tears in her eyes that she should be most grateful to
have Leonard persuaded out of this dreadful plan, and put in the way
of excelling as he ought to do; she never thought it would come to
this.

'No,' thought Ethel; 'people blow sparks without thinking they may
burn a house down.'

Ave conducted her to the summer-house, where Leonard was packing up
his fossils. He met them with a face resolutely bent on brightness.
'I am to take all my household gods,' he said, as he shook hands with
Ethel.

'I see,' said Ethel, gravely; and as Averil was already falling out
of hearing, she added, 'I thought you were entirely breaking with
your old life.'

'No, indeed,' said Leonard, turning to walk with her in the paths; 'I
am leaving the place where it is most impossible to live in.'

'This has been a place of great, over-great trial, I know,' said
Ethel, 'but I do not ask you to stay in it.'

'My word is my word,' said Leonard, snapping little boughs off the
laurels as he walked.

'A hasty word ought not to be kept.'

His face looked rigid, and he answered not.

'Leonard,' she said, 'I have been very unhappy about you, for I see
you doing wilfully wrong, and entering a place of temptation in a
dangerous spirit.'

'I have given my word,' repeated Leonard.

'O, Leonard, it is pride that is speaking, not the love of truth and
constancy.'

'I never defend myself,' said Leonard.

Ethel felt deeply the obduracy and pride of these answers; her eyes
filled with tears, and her hopes failed.

Perhaps Leonard saw the pain he was giving, for he softened, and
said, 'Miss May, I have thought it over, and I cannot go back. I
know I was carried away by passion at the first moment, and I was
willing to make amends. I was rejected, as you know. Was it fit
that we should go on living together?'

'I do not ask you to live together.'

'When he reproached me with the cost of my maintenance, and
threatened me with the mill if I lost the scholarship, which he knew
I could not get, I said I would abide by those words. I do abide by
them.'

'There is no reason that you should. Why should you give up all your
best and highest hopes, because you cannot forgive your brother?'

'Miss May, if I lived with you and the Doctor, I could have such
aims. Henry has taken care to make them sacrilege for me. I shall
never be fit now, and there's an end of it.'

'You might--'

'No, no, no! A school, indeed! I should be dismissed for licking
the boys before a week was out! Besides, I want the readiest way to
get on in the world; I must take care of my sisters; I don't trust
one moment to Henry's affection for any of them. This is no home for
me, and it soon may be no home for them!' and the boy's eyes were
full of tears, though his voice struggled for firmness and
indifference.

'I am very sorry for you, Leonard,' said Ethel, much more
affectionately, as she felt herself nearer her friend of Coombe.
'I am glad you have some better motives, but I do not see how you
will be more able to help them in this way.'

'I shall be near them,' said Leonard; 'I can watch over them. And
if--if--it is true what they say about Henry and Mrs. Pugh--then they
could have a cottage near the mill, and I could live with them.
Don't you see, Miss May?'

'Yes; but I question whether, on further acquaintance, you will wish
for your sisters to be with their relations there. The other course
would put you in the way of a better atmosphere for them.'

'But not for six years,' said Leonard. 'No, Miss May; to show you it
is not what you think in me, I will tell you that I had resolved the
last thing to ask Henry's pardon for my share in this unhappy half-
year; but this is the only resource for me or my sisters, and my mind
is made up.'

'O, Leonard, are you not deceiving yourself? Are the grapes ever so
sour, or the nightshade below so sweet, as when the fox has leapt too
short, and is too proud to climb?'

'Nightshade! Why, pray?'

'My father would tell you; I know he thinks your cousin no safe
companion.'

'I know that already, but I can keep out of his way.'

'Then this is the end of it,' said Ethel, feeling only half justified
in going so far, 'the end of all we thought and talked of at Coombe!'

There was a struggle in the boy's face, and she did not know whether
she had touched or angered him. 'I can't help it,' he said, as if he
would have recalled his former hardness; but then softening, 'No,
Miss May, why should it be? A man can do his duty in any state of
life.'

'In any state of life where God has placed him; but how when it is
his own self-will?'

'There are times when one must judge for one's self.'

'Very well, then, I have done, Leonard. If you can conscientiously
feel that you are acting for the best, and not to gratify your pride,
then I can only say I hope you will be helped through the course you
have chosen. Good-bye.'

'But--Miss May--though I cannot take your advice--' he hesitated,
'this is not giving me up?'

'Never, while you let me esteem you.'

'Thank you,' he said, brightening, 'that is something to keep my head
above water, even if this place were all you think it.'

'My father thinks,' said Ethel.

'I am engaged now; I cannot go back,' said Leonard. 'Thank you. Miss
May.'

'Thank you for listening patiently,' said Ethel. 'Good-bye.'

'And--and,' he added earnestly, following her back to the house, 'you
do not think the Coombe days cancelled?'

'If you mean my hopes of you,' said Ethel, with a swelling heart, 'as
long as you do your duty--for--for the highest reason, they will only
take another course, and I will try to think it the right one.'

Ethel had mentally made this interview the test of her regard for
Leonard. She had failed, and so had her test; her influence had not
succeeded, but it had not snapped; the boy, in all his wilfulness,
had been too much for her, and she could no longer condemn and throw
him off!

Oh! why will not the rights and wrongs of this world be more clearly
divided!




CHAPTER XI



The stream was deeper than I thought
When first I ventured here,
I stood upon its sloping edge
Without a rising fear.--H. BONAR


It was a comfort to find that the brothers parted on good terms. The
elder was beholden to the younger for the acquiescence that removed
the odium of tyranny from the expulsion, and when the one great
disturbance had silenced the ephemeral dissensions that had kept both
minds in a constant state of irritation, Henry wanted, by kindness
and consideration, to prove to himself and the world that Leonard's
real interests were his sole object; and Leonard rejoiced in being at
peace, so long as his pride and resolution were not sacrificed. He
went off as though his employment had been the unanimous choice of
the family, carrying with him his dog, his rifle, his fishing-rod,
his fossils, and all his other possessions, but with the
understanding that his Sundays were to be passed at home, by way of
safeguard to his religion and morals, bespeaking the care and
consideration of his senior, as Henry assured himself and Mrs. Pugh,
and tried to persuade his sister and Dr. May.

But Dr. May was more implacable than all the rest. He called Henry's
action the deed of Joseph's brethren, and viewed the matter as the
responsible head of a family; he had a more vivid contemporaneous
knowledge of the Axworthy antecedents, and he had been a witness to
Henry's original indignant repudiation of such a destiny for his
brother. He was in the mood of a man whose charity had endured long,
and refused to condemn, but whose condemnation, when forced from him,
was therefore doubly strong. The displeasure of a loving charitable
man is indeed a grave misfortune.

Never had he known a more selfish and unprincipled measure,
deliberately flying in the face of his parents' known wishes before
they had been a year in their graves, exposing his brother to ruinous
temptation with his eyes open. The lad was destroyed body and soul,
as much as if he had been set down in Satan's own clutches; and if
they did not mind what they were about, he would drag Aubrey after
him! As sure as his name was Dick May, he would sooner have cut his
hand off than have sent the boys to Coombe together, could he have
guessed that this was to be the result.

Such discourses did not tend to make Ethel comfortable. If she had
been silly enough to indulge in a dream of her influence availing to
strengthen Leonard against temptation, she must still have refrained
from exerting it through her wonted medium, since it was her father's
express desire that Aubrey, for his own sake, should be detached from
his friend as much as possible.

Aubrey was the greatest present difficulty. Long before their
illness the boys had been the resource of each other's leisure, and
Coombe had made their intimacy a friendship of the warmest nature.
Aubrey was at an age peculiarly dependent on equal companionship, and
in the absence of his brothers, the loss of his daily intercourse
with Leonard took away all the zest of life. Even the volunteer
practice lost its charm without the rival with whom he chiefly
contended, yet whose success against others was hotter to him than
his own; his other occupations all wanted partnership, and for the
first time in his life he showed weariness and contempt of his
sisters' society and pursuits. He rushed off on Sunday evenings for
a walk with Leonard; and though Dr. May did not interfere, the
daughters saw that the abstinence was an effort of prudence, and were
proportionately disturbed when one day at dinner, in his father's
absence, Aubrey, who had been overlooking his fishing-flies with some
reviving interest, refused all his sisters' proposals for the
afternoon, and when they represented that it was not a good fishing-
day, owned that it was not, but that he was going over to consult
Leonard Ward about some gray hackles.

'But you mustn't, Aubrey,' cried Gertrude, aghast.

Aubrey made her a low mocking bow.

'I am sure papa would be very much vexed,' added she, conclusively.

'I believe it was luckless Hal that the mill-wheel tore in your
nursery rhymes, eh, Daisy,' said Aubrey.

'Nursery rhymes, indeed!' returned the offended young lady; 'you know
it is a very wicked place, and papa would be very angry at your going
there.' She looked at Ethel, extremely shocked at her not having
interfered, and disregarding all signs to keep silence.

'Axworthy--worthy of the axe,' said Aubrey, well pleased to retort a
little teasing by the way; 'young Axworthy baiting the trap, and old
Axworthy sitting up in his den to grind the unwary limb from limb!'

'Ethel, why don't you tell him not?' exclaimed Gertrude.

'Because he knows papa's wishes as well as I do,' said Ethel; 'and it
is to them that he must attend, not to you or me.'

Aubrey muttered something about his father having said nothing to
him; and Ethel succeeded in preventing Daisy from resenting this
answer. She herself hoped to catch him in private, but he easily
contrived to baffle this attempt, and was soon marching out of
Stoneborough in a state of rampant independence, manhood, and
resolute friendship, which nevertheless chose the way where he was
least likely to encounter a little brown brougham.

Otherwise he might have reckoned three and a half miles of ploughed
field, soppy lane, and water meadow, as more than equivalent to five
miles of good turnpike road.

Be that as it might, he was extremely glad when, after forcing his
way through a sticky clayey path through a hazel copse, his eye fell
on a wide reach of meadow land, the railroad making a hard line
across it at one end, and in the midst, about half a mile off, the
river meandering like a blue ribbon lying loosely across the green
flat, the handsome buildings of the Vintry Mill lying in its embrace.

Aubrey knew the outward aspect of the place, for the foreman at the
mill was a frequent patient of his father's, and he had often waited
in the old gig at the cottage door at no great distance; but he
looked with more critical eyes at the home of his friend.

It was a place with much capacity, built, like the Grange, by the
monks of the convent, which had been the germ of the cathedral, and
showing the grand old monastic style in the solidity of its stone
barns and storehouses, all arranged around a court, whereof the
dwelling-house occupied one side, the lawn behind it with fine old
trees, and sloping down to the water, which was full of bright
ripples after its agitation around the great mill-wheel. The house
was of more recent date, having been built by a wealthy yeoman of
Queen Anne's time, and had long ranges of square-headed sash windows,
surmounted by a pediment, carved with emblems of Ceres and Bacchus,
and a very tall front door, also with a pediment, and with stone
stops leading up to it. Of the same era appeared to be the great
gateway, and the turret above it, containing a clock, the hands of
which pointed to 3.40.

Aubrey had rather it had been four, at which time the office closed.
He looked round the court, which seemed very dean and rather empty--
stables, barns, buildings, and dwelling-house not showing much sign
of life, excepting the ceaseless hum and clack of the mill, and the
dash of the water which propelled it. The windows nearest to him
were so large and low, that he could look in and see that the first
two or three belonged to living rooms, and the next two showed him
business fittings, and a back that he took to be Leonard's; but he
paused in doubt how to present himself, and whether this were a
welcome moment, and he was very glad to see in a doorway of the upper
story of the mill buildings, the honest floury face of his father's
old patient--the foreman.

Greeting him in the open cordial way common to all Dr. May's
children, Aubrey was at once recognized, and the old man came down a
step-ladder in the interior to welcome him, and answer his question
where he should find Mr. Ward.

'He is in the office, sir, there, to the left hand as you go in at
the front door, but--' and he looked up at the clock, 'maybe, you
would not mind waiting a bit till it strikes four. I don't know
whether master might be best pleased at young gentlemen coming to see
him in office hours.'

'Thank you,' said Aubrey. 'I did not mean to be too soon, Hardy, but
I did not know how long the walk would be.'

Perhaps it would have been more true had he said that he had wanted
to elude his sisters, but he was glad to accept a seat on a bundle of
sacks tremulous with the motion of the mill, and to enter into a
conversation with the old foreman, one of those good old peasants
whose integrity and skill render them privileged persons, worth their
weight in gold long after their bodily strength has given way.

'Well, Hardy, do you mean to make a thorough good miller of Mr.
Ward?'

'Bless you, Master May, he'll never stay here long enough.'

'Why not?'

'No, nor his friends didn't ought to let him stay!' added Hardy.

'Why?' said Aubrey. 'Do you think so badly of your own trade,
Hardy?'

But he could not get an answer from the oracle on this head. Hardy
continued, 'He's a nice young gentleman, but he'll never put up with
it.'

'Put up with what?' asked Aubrey, anxiously; but at that instant a
carter appeared at the door with a question for Master Hardy, and
Aubrey was left to his own devices, and the hum and clatter of the
mill, till the clock had struck four; and beginning to think that
Hardy had forgotten him, he was about to set out and reconnoitre,
when to his great joy Leonard himself came hurrying up, and heartily
shook him by the hand.

'Hardy told me you were here,' he said. 'Well done, old fellow, I
didn't think they would have let you come and see me.'

'The girls did make a great row about it,' said Aubrey, triumphantly,
'but I was not going to stand any nonsense.'

Leonard looked a little doubtful; then said, 'Well, will you see the
place, or come and sit in my room? There is the parlour, but we
shall not be so quiet there.'

Aubrey decided for Leonard's room, and was taken through the front
door into a vestibule paved with white stone, with black lozenges at
the intersections. 'There,' said Leonard, 'the office is here, you
see, and my uncle's rooms beyond, all on the ground floor, he is too
infirm to go up-stairs. This way is the dining-room, and Sam has got
a sitting-room beyond, then there are the servants' rooms. It is a
great place, and horridly empty.'

Aubrey thought so, as his footsteps echoed up the handsome but ill-
kept stone staircase, with its fanciful balusters half choked with
dust, and followed Leonard along a corridor, with deep windows
overlooking the garden and river, and great panelled doors opposite,
neither looking as if they were often either cleaned or opened, and
the passage smelling very fusty.

'Pah!' said Aubrey; 'it puts me in mind of the wings of houses in
books that get shut up because somebody has been murdered! Are you
sure it is not haunted, Leonard?'

'Only by the rats,' he answered, laughing; 'they make such an
intolerable row, that poor little Mab is frightened out of her wits,
and I don't know whether they would not eat her up if she did not
creep up close to me. I'm tired of going at them with the poker, and
would poison every man Jack of them if it were not for the fear of
her getting the dose by mistake.'

'Is that what Hardy says you will never put up with?' asked Aubrey;
but instead of answering, Leonard turned to one of the great windows,
saying,

'There now, would not this be a charming place if it were properly
kept?' and Aubrey looked out at the great cedar, spreading out its
straight limbs and flakes of dark foliage over the sloping lawn, one
branch so near the window as to invite adventurous exits, and a
little boat lying moored in the dancing water below.

'Perfect!' said Aubrey. 'What fish there must lie in the mill tail!'

'Ay, I mean to have a try at them some of these days, I should like
you to come and help, but perhaps--Ha, little Mab, do you wonder
what I'm after so long? Here's a friend for you: as the little dog
danced delighted round him, and paid Aubrey her affectionate
respects. Her delicate drawing-room beauty did not match with the
spacious but neglected-looking room whence she issued. It had three
great uncurtained windows looking into the court, with deep window-
seats, olive-coloured painted walls, the worse for damp and wear, a
small amount of old-fashioned solid furniture, and all Leonard's
individual goods, chiefly disposed of in a cupboard in the wall, but
Averil's beautiful water-coloured drawings hung over the chimney. To
Aubrey's petted home-bred notions it was very bare and dreary, and he
could not help exclaiming, 'Well, they don't lodge you sumptuously!'

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