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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial





To one of the most tender-hearted of human beings had the office of
conveying ill tidings been most often committed, and again Dr. May
found himself compelled to precede Henry Ward into the sister's
presence, and to break to her the result of the inquest.

He was no believer in the efficacy of broken news, but he could not
refuse when Henry in his wretchedness entreated not to be the first
in the infliction of such agony; so he left the carriage outside, and
walked up to the door; and there stood Averil, with Ethel a few steps
behind her. His presence was enough revelation. Had things gone
well, he would not have been the forerunner; and Averil, meaning
perhaps to speak, gave a hoarse hysterical shriek, so frightful as to
drive away other anxieties, and summon Henry in from his watch
outside.

All day the poor girl had kept up an unnatural strain on her powers,
vehemently talking of other things, and, with burning cheeks and
shining eyes, moving incessantly from one employment to another; now
her needle, now her pencil--roaming round the garden gathering
flowers, or playing rattling polkas that half stunned Ethel in her
intense listening for tidings. Ethel, who had relieved guard and
sent Mary home in the afternoon, had vainly striven to make Ave rest
or take food; the attempt had brought on such choking, that she could
only desist, and wait for the crisis. The attack was worse than any
ordinary hysterics, almost amounting to convulsions; and all that
could be done was to prevent her from hurting herself, and try to
believe Dr. May's assurance that there was no real cause for alarm,
and that the paroxysms would exhaust themselves.

In time they were spent, and Ave lay on her bed half torpid, feebly
moaning, but with an instinctive dread of being disturbed. Henry
anxiously watched over her, and Dr. May thought it best to leave the
brother and sister to one another. Absolute quiet was best for her,
and he had skill and tenderness enough to deal with her, and was
evidently somewhat relieved by the necessity of waiting on her. It
was the best means, perhaps, of uniting them, that they should be
thus left together; and Dr. May would have taken home little pale
frightened Minna, who had been very helpful all the time.

'Oh, please not, Dr. May,' she said, earnestly. 'Indeed I will not
be troublesome, and I can give Henry his tea, and carry Ave's cup.
Please, Henry, don't send me:' and she took hold of his hand, and
laid it against her cheek. He bent down over her, and fondled her;
and there were tears that he could not hide as he tried both to thank
Dr. May, and tell her that she need not leave him.

'No,' said Dr. May; 'it would be cruel to both of you.--Good-bye,
little Minna; I never wanted to carry away a little comforter.'

'I believe you are right, papa,' said Ethel, as she went out with him
to the carriage; 'but I long to stay, it is like doing something for
that boy.'

'The best you did for him, poor dear boy! was the saying you trusted
his word. The moment I told him that, he took comfort and energy.'

Ethel's lips moved into a strange half smile, and she took Mab on her
lap, and fondled her. 'Yes,' she said, 'I believe I stand for a good
deal in his imagination. I was afraid he would have been wrecked
upon that horrid place; but, after all, this may be the saving of
him.'

'Ah! if that story of his would only be more vraisemblable.'

There was only time briefly to narrate it before coming home, where
the first person they met was Aubrey, exceeding pale, and in great
distress. 'Papa, I must tell you,' he said, drawing him into the
study. 'I have done terrible harm, I am afraid.' And he explained,
that in the morning, when Mrs. Pugh had come down full of inquiries
and conjectures, and had spoken of the possibility of Leonard's
having been drowned while bathing, he had unguardedly answered that
it could be no such thing; Leonard had always meant to run away, and
by that very window, if the Axworthys grew too bad.

Prudent Tom had silenced him at the time, but had since found that it
had got abroad that the evasion had long been meditated with Aubrey's
privity, and had been asked by one of the constabulary force if his
brother would not be an important witness. Tom had replied that he
knew nothing about it; but Aubrey was in great misery, furious with
Mrs. Pugh, and only wanting his father to set off at once to assure
them it was all nonsense.

'No, Aubrey, they neither would, nor ought to, take my word.'

'Just hear, papa, and you would know the chaff it was.'

'I cannot hear, Aubrey. If we were to discuss it, we might give it
an unconscious colouring. You must calm your mind, and exactly
recall what passed; but do not talk about it to me or to any one
else. You must do nothing to impair the power of perfect truth and
accuracy, which is a thing to be prayed for. If any one--even the
lawyer who may have to get up the case against him--asks you about
it, you must refuse to answer till the trial; and then--why, the
issue is in the hands of Him that judgeth righteously.'

'I shall never remember nor speak with his eyes on me, seeing me
betray him!'

'You will be no worse off than I, my boy, for I see I am in for
identifying Hector's rifle; the Mill people can't swear to it, and my
doing it will save his brother something.'

'No, it is not like me. O! I wish I had stayed at Eton, even if I
had died of it! Tom says it all comes of living with women that I
can't keep my mouth shut; and Leonard will be so hurt that I--'

'Nay, any tolerable counsel will make a capital defence out of the
mere fact of his rodomontading. What, is that no comfort to you?'

'What! to be the means of making a fool of him before all the court--
seeing him hear our talk by the river-side sifted by those horrid
lawyers?'

The Doctor looked even graver, and his eye fixed as on a thought far
away, as the boy's grief brought to his mind the Great Assize, when
all that is spoken in the ear shall indeed be proclaimed on the
house-tops.

There was something almost childish in this despair of Aubrey, for he
had not become alarmed for the result of the trial. His misery was
chiefly shame at his supposed treason to friendship, and failure in
manly reserve; and he could not hold up his head all the evening, but
silently devoted himself to Mab, endeavouring to make her at home,
and meeting with tolerable success.

Tom was no less devoted to Ella Ward. It was he who had brought her
home, and he considered her therefore as his charge. It was curious
to see the difference that a year had made between her and Minna.
They had the last summer been like one child, and had taken the
stroke that had orphaned them in the same childish manner; but
whether the year from eight to nine had been of especial growth to
Minna, or whether there had been a stimulus in her constant
association with Averil, the present sorrow fell on her as on one
able to enter into it, think and feel, and assume her sweet mission
of comfort; whilst Ella, though neither hard nor insensible, was
still child enough to close her mind to what she dreaded, and flee
willingly from the pain and tedium of affliction. She had willingly
accepted 'Mr. Tom's' invitation, and as willingly responded to his
attentions. Gertrude did not like people in the 'little girl' stage,
and the elder sisters had their hands and hearts full, and could only
care for her in essentials; but Tom undertook her amusement, treated
her to an exhibition of his microscope, and played at French
billiards with her the rest of the evening, till she was carried off
to bed in Mary's room, when he pronounced her a very intelligent
child.

'I think her a very unfeeling little thing,' said Gertrude. 'Very
unbecoming behaviour under the circumstances.'

'What would you think becoming behaviour?' asked Tom.

'I won't encourage it,' returned Daisy, with dignified decision, that
gave her father his first approach to a laugh on that day; but nobody
was in spirits to desire Miss Daisy to define from what her important
sanction was withdrawn.

Mary gave up her Sunday-school class to see how Averil was, and found
Henry much perturbed. He had seen her fast asleep at night, and in
the morning Minna had carried up her breakfast, and he was about to
follow it, as soon as his own was finished, when he found that she
had slipped out of the house, leaving a message that she was gone to
practise on the harmonium.

He was of the mind that none of the family could or ought to be seen
at church; and though Mary could not agree with him, she willingly
consented to go to the chapel and try what she could do with his
sister. She met Mrs. Ledwich on the way, coming to inquire and see
whether she or dear Matilda could do anything for the 'sweet
sufferer.' Even Mary could not help thinking that this was not the
epithet most befitting poor Ave; and perhaps Mrs. Ledwich's
companionship made her the less regret that Ave had locked herself
in, so that there was no making her hear, though the solemn chants,
played with great fervour, reached them as they waited in the porch.
They had their own seats in the Minster, and therefore could not wait
till the sexton should come to open the church.

There was no time for another visit till after the second service,
and then Dr. May and Mary, going to Bankside, found that instead of
returning home, Ave had again locked herself up between the services,
and that Minna, who had ventured on a mission of recall, had come
home crying heartily both at the dreary disappointment of knocking in
vain, and at the grand mournful sounds of funeral marches that had
fallen on her ear. Every one who had been at the chapel that day was
speaking of the wonderful music, the force and the melody of the
voluntary at the dismissal of the congregation; no one had believed
that such power resided in the harmonium. Mr. Scudamour had spoken
to Miss Ward most kindly both before and after evening service, but
his attempt to take her home had been unavailing; she had answered
that she was going presently, and he was obliged to leave her.

Evening was coming on, and she had not come, so the other keys were
fetched from the sexton's, and Dr. May and his daughter set off to
storm her fortress. Like Minna, the Doctor was almost overpowered by
the wonderful plaintive sweetness of the notes that were floating
through the atmosphere, like a wailing voice of supplication. They
had almost unnerved him, as he waited while Mary unlocked the door.

The sound of its opening hushed the music; Averil turned her head,
and recognizing them, came to them, very pale, and with sunken eyes.
'You are coming home, dear Ave,' said Mary; and she made no
resistance or objection, only saying, 'Yes. It has been so nice
here!'

'You must come now, though,' said the Doctor. 'Your brother is very
much grieved at your leaving him.'

'I did not mean to be unkind to him,' said Averil, in a low subdued
voice; 'he was very good to me last night. Only--this is peace--
this,' pointing to her instrument, 'is such a soothing friend. And
surely this is the place to wait in!'

'The place to wait in indeed, my poor child, if you are not
increasing the distress of others by staying here. Besides, you must
not exhaust yourself, or how are you to go and cheer Leonard!'

'Oh! there is no fear but that I shall go to-morrow,' said Averil; 'I
mean to do it!' the last words being spoken in a resolute tone,
unlike the weariness of her former replies.

And with this purpose before her, she consented to be taken back by
Mary to rest on the sofa, and even to try to eat and drink. Her
brother and sister hung over her, and waited on her with a tender
assiduous attention that showed how they had missed her all day; and
she received their kindness gratefully, as far as her broken wearied
state permitted.

Several inquiries had come throughout the day from the neighbours;
and while Mary was still with Ave, a message was brought in to ask
whether Miss Ward would like to see Mrs. Pugh.

'Oh no, no, thank her, but indeed I cannot,' said Averil, shivering
uncontrollably as she lay.

Mary felt herself blushing, in the wonder what would be kindest to
do, and her dread of seeing Henry's face. She was sure that he too
shrank, and she ventured to ask, 'Shall I go and speak to her?'

'Oh, do, do,' said Averil, shuddering with eagerness. 'Thank you,
Miss Mary,' said Henry slowly. 'She is most kind--but--under the
circumstances--'

Mary went, finding that he only hesitated. She had little
opportunity for saying anything; Mrs. Pugh was full of interest and
eagerness, and poured out her sympathy and perfect understanding of
dear Averil's feelings; and in the midst Henry came out of the room,
with a stronger version of their gratitude, but in terrible
confusion. Mary would fain have retreated, but could not, and was
witness to the lady's urgent entreaties to take Minna home, and
Henry's thankfulness; but he feared--and retreated to ask the opinion
of his sisters, while Mrs. Pugh told Mary that it was so very bad for
the poor child to remain, and begged to have Ella if she were a
moment's inconvenience to the May family.

Henry came back with repeated thanks, but Minna could not bear to
leave home; and in fact, he owned, with a half smile that gave
sweetness to his face, she was too great a comfort to be parted with.
So Mrs. Pugh departed, with doubled and trebled offers of service,
and entreaties to be sent for at any hour of the day or night when
she could be of use to Averil.

Mary could not but be pleased with her, officious as she was. It
looked as if she had more genuine feeling for Henry than had been
suspected, and the kindness was certain, though some of it might be
the busy activity of a not very delicate nature, eager for the
importance conferred by intimacy with the subjects of a great
calamity. Probably she would have been gratified by the eclat of
being the beloved of the brother of the youth whose name was in every
mouth, and her real goodness and benevolent heart would have
committed her affections and interest beyond recall to the Ward
family, had Averil leant upon her, or had Henry exerted himself to
take advantage of her advances.

But Henry's attachment had probably not been love, for it seemed
utterly crushed out of him by his shame and despair. Everything
connected with his past life was hateful to him; he declared that he
could never show his face at Stoneborough again, let the result be
what it might--that he could never visit another patient, and that he
should change his name and leave the country, beginning on that very
Sunday afternoon to write a letter to his principal rival to
negotiate the sale of his practice.

In fact, his first impression had returned on him, and though he
never disclaimed belief in Leonard's statement, the entire failure of
all confirmation convinced him that the blow had been struck by his
brother in sudden anger, and that, defend him as he might and would,
the stain was on his house, and the guilt would be brought home.

Resolved, however, to do his utmost, he went with Mr. Bramshaw for a
consultation with Leonard on the Monday. Averil could not go. She
rose and dressed, and remained resolute till nearly the last minute,
when her feverish faint giddiness overpowered her, and she was forced
to submit to lie on the sofa, under Minna's care; and there she lay,
restless and wretched, till wise little Minna sent a message up to
the High Street, which brought down Mary and Dr. Spencer. They found
her in a state of nervous fever, that sentenced her to her bed, where
Mary deposited her and watched over her, till her brother's return,
more desponding than ever.

Dr. May, with all Henry's patients on his hands as well as his own,
had been forced to devote this entire day to his profession; but on
the next, leaving Henry to watch over Averil, who continued very
feeble and feverish, he went to Whitford, almost infected by Henry's
forebodings and Mr. Bramshaw's misgivings. 'It is a bad case,' the
attorney had said to him, confidentially. 'But that there is always
a great reluctance to convict upon circumstantial evidence, I should
have very little hope, that story of his is so utterly impracticable;
and yet he looks so innocent and earnest all the time, and sticks to
it so consistently, that I don't know what to make of it. I can't do
anything with him, nor can his brother either; but perhaps you might
make him understand that we could bring him clear off for
manslaughter--youth, and character and all. I should not doubt of a
verdict for a moment! It is awkward about the money, but the alarm
would be considered in the sentence.'

'You don't attend to his account of the person he saw in the court-
yard?'

'The less said about that the better,' returned Mr. Bramshaw. 'It
would only go for an awkward attempt to shift off the suspicion,
unless he would give any description; and that he can't, or won't do.
Or even if he did, the case would be all the stronger against his
story--setting off, and leaving a stranger to maraud about the place.
No, Dr. May; the only thing for it is to persuade the lad to own to
having struck the old man in a passion; every one knows old Axworthy
could be intolerably abusive, and the boy always was passionate.
Don't you remember his flying out at Mr. Rivers's, the night of the
party, and that affair which was the means of his going to the mill
at all? I don't mind saying so to you in confidence, because I know
you won't repeat it, and I see his brother thinks so too; but nothing
is likely to turn out so well for him as that line of defence; as
things stand now, the present one is good for nothing.'

Dr. May was almost as much grieved at the notion of the youth's
persistence in denying such a crime, as at the danger in which it
involved him, and felt that if he were to be brought to confession,
it should be from repentance, not expediency.

In this mood he drove to Whitford Gaol, made application at the
gates, and was conducted up the stairs to the cell.

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 embarrassment, 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 Dick 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 circumstances, 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 chinking 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?'

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