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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




He was shown the chapel, unfortunately serving likewise for a
schoolroom; the centre space fitted for the officials and their
families, the rest with plain wooden benches. But it was not an hour
for schooling, and he went restlessly on to the library, to gather
all the consolation he could from seeing that the privation did not
extend to that of sound and interesting literature. He had yet to
see the court, where the prisoners were mustered at half-past five in
the morning, thence to be marched off in their various companies to
work. He stood on the terrace from which the officials marshalled
them, and he was called on to look at the wide and magnificent view
of sea and land; but all he would observe to Hector was, 'That boy's
throat has always been tender since the fever.' He was next
conducted to the great court, the quarry of the stones of the present
St. Paul's, and where the depression of the surface since work began
there, was marked by the present height of what had become a steep
conical edifice, surmounted by a sort of watch-tower. There he grew
quite restive, and hearing a proposal of taking him to the Verne Hill
works half a mile off, he declared that Hector was welcome to go; he
should wait for his boy.

Just then the guide pointed out at some distance a convict
approaching under charge of a warder; and in a few seconds more, the
Doctor had stepped back to a small room, where, by special favour, he
was allowed to be with the prisoner, instead of seeing him through a
grating, but only in the presence of a warder, who was within
hearing, though not obtrusively so. Looking, to recognize, not to
examine, he drew the young man into his fatherly embrace.

'You have hurt your hands,' was his first word, at the touch of the
bruised fingers and broken skin.

'They are getting hardened,' was the answer, in an alert tone, that
gave the Doctor courage to look up and meet an unquenched glance;
though there was the hollow look round the eyes that Tom had noticed,
the face had grown older, the expression more concentrated, the
shoulders had rounded; the coarse blue shirt and heavy boots were
dusty with the morning's toil, and the heat and labour of the day had
left their tokens, but the brow was as open, the mouth as ingenuous
as ever, the complexion had regained a hue of health, and the air of
alacrity and exhilaration surprised as much as it gratified the
visitor.

'What is your work?' he asked.

'Filling barrows with stones, and wheeling them to the trucks for the
breakwater,' answered Leonard, in a tone like satisfaction. 'But
pray, if you are so kind, tell me,' he continued, with anxiety that
he could not suppress, 'what is this about war in America?'

'Not near Indiana; no fear of that, I trust. But how did you know,
Leonard?'

'I saw, for one moment at a time, in great letters on a placard of
the contents of newspapers, at the stations as we came down here, the
words, 'Civil War in America;' and it has seemed to be in the air
here ever since. But Averil has said nothing in her letters. Will
it affect them?'

The Doctor gave a brief sketch of what was passing, up to the battle
of Bull Run; and his words were listened to with such exceeding
avidity, that he was obliged to spend more minutes than he desired on
the chances of the war, and the Massissauga tidings, which he wished
to make sound more favourable than he could in conscience feel that
they were; but when at last he had detailed all he knew from Averil's
letters, and it had been drunk in with glistening eyes, and manner
growing constantly less constrained, he led back to Leonard himself:
'Ethel will write at once to your sister when I get home; and I think
I may tell her the work agrees with you.'

'Yes; and this is man's work; and it is for the defences,' he added,
with a sparkle of the eye.

'Very hard and rough,' returned the Doctor, looking again at the
wounded hands and hard-worked air.

'Oh, but to put out one's strength again, and have room!' cried the
boy, eagerly.

'Was it not rather a trying change at first?'

'To be sure I was stiff, and didn't know how to move in the morning,
but that went off fast enough; and I fill as many barrows a day as
any one in our gang.'

'Then I may tell your sister you rejoice in the change?'

'Why, it's work one does not get deadly sick of, as if there was no
making one's self do it,' said Leonard, eagerly; 'it is work! and
besides, here is sunshine and sea. I can get a sight of that every
day; and now and then I can get a look into the bay, and Weymouth--
looking like the old time.' That was his first sorrowful intonation;
but the next had the freshness of his age, 'And there are thistles!'

'Thistles?'

'I thought you cared for thistles; for Miss May showed me one at
Coombe; but it was not like what they are here--the spikes pointing
out and pointing in along the edges of the leaves, and the scales
lapping over so wonderfully in the bud.'

'Picciola!' said the Doctor to himself; and aloud, 'Then you have
time to enjoy them?'

'When we are at work at a distance, dinner is brought out, and there
is an hour and a half of rest; and on Sunday we may walk about the
yards. You should have seen one of our gang, when I got him to look
at the chevaux de frise round a bud, how he owned it was a regular
patent invention; it just answered to Paley's illustration.'

'What, the watch?' said the Doctor, seeing that the argument had been
far from trite to his young friend. 'So you read Paley?'

'I read all such books as I could get up there,' he answered; 'they
gave one something to think about.'

'Have you no time for reading here?'

'Oh, no! I am too sleepy to read except on school days and Sundays,'
he said, as if this were a great achievement.

'And your acquaintance--is he a reader of Paley too?'

'I believe the chaplain set him on it. He is a clerk, like me, and
not much older. He is a regular Londoner, and can hardly stand the
work; but he won't give in if he can help it, or we might not be
together.'

Much the Doctor longed to ask what sort of a friend this might be,
but the warder's presence forbade him; and he could only ask what
they saw of each other.

'We were near one another in school at Pentonville, and knew each
other's faces quite well, so that we were right glad to be put into
the same gang. We may walk about the yard together on Sunday evening
too.'

The Doctor had other questions on his lips that he again restrained,
and only asked whether the Sundays were comfortable days.

'Oh, yes,' said Leonard, eagerly; but then he too recollected the
official, and merely said something commonplace about excellent
sermons, adding, 'And the singing is admirable. Poor Averil would
envy such a choir as we have! We sing so many of the old Bankside
hymns.'

'To make your resemblance to Dante's hill of penitence complete, as
Ethel says,' returned the Doctor.

'I should like it to be a hill of purification!' said Leonard,
understanding him better than he had expected.

'It will, I think,' said the Doctor, 'to one at least. I am
comforted to see you so brave. I longed to come sooner, but--'

'I am glad you did not.'

'How?' But he did not pursue the question, catching from look and
gesture, that Leonard could hardly have then met him with self-
possession; and as the first bulletin of recovery is often the first
disclosure of the severity of an illness, so the Doctor was more
impressed by the prisoner's evident satisfaction in his change of
circumstances, than he would have been by mere patient resignation;
and he let the conversation be led away to Aubrey's prospects, in
which Leonard took full and eager interest.

'Tell Aubrey I am working at fortifications too,' he said, smiling.

'He could not go to Cambridge without you.'

'I don't like to believe that,' said Leonard, gravely; 'it is
carrying the damage I have done further: but it can't be. He always
was fond of mathematics, and of soldiering. How is it at the old
mill?' he added, suddenly.

'It is sold.'

'Sold?' and his eyes were intently fixed on the Doctor.

'Yes, he is said to have been much in debt long before; but it was
managed quietly--not advertised in the county papers. He went to
London, and arranged it all. I saw great renovations going on at the
mill, when I went to see old Hardy.'

'Good old Hardy! how is he?'

'Much broken. He never got over the shock; and as long as that
fellow stayed at the mill, he would not let me attend him.'

'Ha!' exclaimed Leonard, but caught himself up.

A message came that Mr. Ernescliffe feared to miss the boat; and the
Doctor could only give one tender grasp and murmured blessing, and
hurry away, so much agitated that he could hardly join in Hector's
civilities to the officials, and all the evening seemed quite struck
down and overwhelmed by the sight of the bright brave boy, and his
patience in his dreary lot.

After this, at all the three months' intervals at which Leonard might
be seen, a visit was contrived to him, either by Dr. May or Mr.
Wilmot; and Aubrey devoted his first leave of absence to staying at
Maplewood, that Hector might take him to his friend; but he came home
expatiating so much on the red hair of the infant hope of Maplewood,
and the fuss that Blanche made about this new possession, that Ethel
detected an unavowed shade of disappointment. Light and whitewash,
abundant fare, garments sufficient, but eminently unbecoming, were
less impressive than dungeons, rags, and bread and water; when,
moreover, the prisoner claimed no pity, but rather congratulation on
his badge of merit, improved Sunday dinner, and promotion to the
carpenter's shop, so as absolutely to excite a sense of wasted
commiseration and uninteresting prosperity. Conversation constrained
both by the grating and the presence of the warder, and Aubrey, more
tenderly sensitive than his brother, and devoid of his father's
experienced tact, was too much embarrassed to take the initiative,
was afraid of giving pain by dwelling on his present occupations and
future hopes, and confused Leonard by his embarrassment. Hector
Ernescliffe discoursed about Charleston Harbour and New Orleans; and
Aubrey stood with downcast eyes, afraid to seem to be scanning the
convict garb, and thus rendering Leonard unusually conscious of
wearing it. Then when in parting, Aubrey, a little less embarrassed,
began eagerly and in much emotion to beg Leonard to say if there was
anything he could get for him, anything he could do for him, anything
he would like to have sent him, and began to promise a photograph of
his father, Leonard checked him, by answering that it would be an
irregularity--nothing of personal property was allowed to be retained
by a prisoner.

Aubrey forgot all but the hardship, and began an outburst about the
tyranny.

'It is quite right,' said Leonard, gravely; 'there is nothing that
might not be used for mischief if one chose.'

And the warder here interfered, and said he was quite right, and it
always turned out best in the end for a prisoner to conform himself,
and his friends did him no good by any other attempt, as Mr.
Ernescliffe could tell the young gentleman. The man's tone, though
neither insolent nor tyrannical, but rather commendatory of his
charge, contrasting with his natural deference to the two gentlemen,
irritated poor Aubrey beyond measure, so that Hector was really glad
to have him safe away, without his having said anything treasonable
to the authorities. The meeting, so constrained and uncomfortable,
had but made the friends more vividly conscious of the interval
between the cadet and the convict, and, moreover, tended to remove
the aureole of romance with which the unseen captive had been
invested by youthful fancy.

To make the best of a prolonged misfortune does absolutely lessen
sympathy, by diminishing the interest of the situation; and even the
good Doctor himself was the less concerned at any hindrance to his
visits to Portland, as he uniformly found his prisoner cheerful,
approved by officials, and always making some small advance in the
scale of his own world, and not, as his friends without expected of
him, showing that he felt himself injured instead of elated by such
rewards as improved diet, or increased gratuities to be set to his
account against the time when, after eight years, he might hope for
exportation with a ticket of leave to Western Australia.

The halo of approaching death no longer lighted him up, and after the
effusion of the first meeting, his inner self had closed up, he was
more ready to talk of American news than of his own feelings, and
seemed to look little beyond the petty encouragements devised to suit
the animal natures of ordinary prisoners, and his visitors sometimes
feared lest his character were not resisting the deadening, hardening
influence of the unvaried round of manual labour among such
associates. He had been soon advanced from the quarry to the
carpenter's shop, and was in favour there from his activity and
skill; but his very promotions were sad--and it was more sad, as some
thought, for him to be gratified by them. But, as Dr. May always
ended, what did they know about him?




CHAPTER XXII



Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Grey,
They were twa bonnie lasses;
They bigged a bower on yon burn side,
And theekt it over wi' rashes.


The early glory of autumn was painting the woods of Indiana--crimson,
orange, purple, as though a rainbow of intensified tints had been
broken into fragments, and then scattered broadcast upon the forest.
But though ripe nuts hung on many a bough, the gipsyings had not yet
taken place, except at home--when Minna, in her desperate attempts at
making the best of things, observed, 'Now we have to make the fire
ourselves, let us think it is all play, and such fun.'

But 'such fun' was hard when one or other of the inmates of the house
was lying on the bed shaking with ague, and the others creeping
wearily about, even on their intermediate days. They had been
deluded into imprudent exposure in the lovely evenings of summer, and
had never shaken off the results.

'Come, Ella,' said Minna, one afternoon, as she descended the bare
rickety stairs, 'Ave is getting better; and if we can get the fire
up, and make some coffee and boil some eggs, it will be comfortable
for her when she comes down and Henry comes in.'

Ella, with a book in her hand, was curled up in a corner of a sofa
standing awry among various other articles of furniture that seemed
to have tumbled together by chance within the barn-like room. Minna
began moving first one and then the other, daintily wiping off the
dust, and restoring an air of comfort.

'Oh dear!' said Ella, unfolding herself; 'I am so tired. Where's
Hetta Mary?'

'Oh, don't you know, Hetta Mary went home this morning because Henry
asked her where his boots were, and she thought he wanted her to
clean them.'

'Can't Mrs. Shillabeer come in!'

'Mrs. Shillabeer said she would never come in again, because Averil
asked her not to hold the ham by the bone and cut it with her own
knife when Henry was there! Come, Ella it is of no use. We had
better do things ourselves, like Cora and Ave, and then we shall not
hear people say disagreeable things.'

The once soft, round, kitten-like Minna, whom Leonard used to roll
about on the floor, had become a lank, sallow girl, much too tall for
her ten years, and with a care-stricken, thoughtful expression on her
face, even more in advance of her age than was her height. She moved
into the kitchen, a room with an iron stove, a rough table, and a few
shelves, looking very desolate. The hands of both little girls had
become expert in filling the stove with wood, and they had not far to
seek before both it and the hearth in the sitting-room were
replenished, and the flame beginning to glow.

'Where's the coffee-mill?' said Minna, presently, looking round in
blank despair.

'Oh dear!' said Ella, 'I remember now; that dirty little Polly Mason
came to borrow it this morning. I said we wanted it every day: but
she guessed we could do without it, for they had got a tea-party, and
her little brother had put in a stone and spoilt Cora Muller's; and
she snatched it up and carried it off.'

'He will serve ours the same, I suppose,' said Minna. 'It is too far
off to go for it; let us make some tea.'

'There's no tea,' said Ella; 'a week ago or more that great Irene
Brown walked in and reckoned we could lend her 'ma some tea and
sugar, 'cause we had plenty. And we have used up our own since; and
if we did ask her to return the loan, hers is such nasty stuff that
nobody could drink it. What shall we do, Minna?' and she began to
cry.

'We must take some coffee up to the hotel,' said Minna, after a
moment's reflection; 'Black Joe is very good-natured, and he'll grind
it.'

'But I don't like to go ail by myself,' said Ella; 'into the kitchen
too, and hear them say things about Britishers.'

'I'll go, dear,' said Minna, gently, 'if you will just keep the fire
up, and boil the eggs, and make the toast, and listen if Ave calls.'

Poor Minna, her sensitive little heart trembled within her at the
rough contemptuous words that the exclusive, refined tone of the
family always provoked, and bodily languor and weariness made the
walk trying; but she was thinking of Ave's need, and resolutely took
down her cloak and hat. But at that moment the latch was raised, and
the bright graceful figure of Cora stood among them, her feathered
hat and delicate muslin looking as fresh as at New York.

'What, all alone!' she said; 'I know it is poor Ave's sick day. Is
she better?'

'Yes, going to get up and come down; but--' and all the troubles were
poured out.

'True enough, the little wretch did spoil our mill, but Rufus mended
it; and as I thought Polly had been marauding on you, I brought some
down.'

'Ah! I thought I smelt it most deliciously as you came in, but I was
afraid I only fancied it because I was thinking about it. Dear Cora,
how good you are!'

'And have you anything for her to eat?'

'I was going to make some toast.'

'Of that dry stuff! Come, we'll manage something better:' and off
came the dainty embroidered cambric sleeves, up went the coloured
ones, a white apron came out of a pocket, and the pretty hands were
busy among the flour; the children assisting, learning, laughing a
childlike laugh.

'Ah!' cried Cora, turning round, and making a comic threatening
gesture with her floury fingers; 'you ought not to have come till we
were fixed. Go and sit in your chair by the fire.'

'Dear Cora!'

But Cora ran at her, and the wan trembling creature put on a smile,
and was very glad to comply; being totally unequal to resist or even
to stand long enough to own her dread of Henry's finding all desolate
and nothing to eat.

Presently Cora tripped in, all besleeved and smartened, to set
cushions behind the tired back and head, and caress the long thin
fingers. 'I've left Minna, like King Alfred, to watch the cakes,'
she said; 'and Ella is getting the cups. So your fifth girl is
gone.'

'The fifth in five months! And we let her sit at table, and poor
dear Minna has almost worn out her life in trying to hinder her from
getting affronted.'

'I've thought what to do for you, Ave. There's the Irish woman,
Katty Blake--her husband has been killed. She is rough enough, but
tender in her way; and she must do something for herself and her
child.'

'Her husband killed!'

'Yes, at Summerville. I thought you had heard it. Mordaunt wrote to
me to tell her; and I shall never forget her wailing at his dying
away from his country. It was not lamentation for herself, but that
he should have died far away from his own people.'

'She is not long from the old country; I should like to have her if--
if we can afford it. For if the dividends don't come soon from that
building company, Cora, I don't know where to turn--'

'Oh, they must come. Father has been writing to Rufus about the
arrangements. Besides, those Irish expect less, and understand old
country manners better, if you can put up with their breakages.'

'I could put up with anything to please Henry, and save Minna's
little hard-worked bones.'

'I will send her to-morrow. Is it not Minna's day of ague?'

'Yes, poor dear. That is always the day we get into trouble.'

'I never saw a child with such an instinct for preventing variance,
or so full of tact and pretty ways; yet I have seen her tremble under
her coaxing smile, that even Mis' Shillabeer can't resist.'

'See, see!' cried Ella, hurrying in, 'surely our contingent is not
coming home!'

'No,' said Cora, hastening to the door, 'these must be a
reinforcement marching to take the train at Winiamac.'

'Marching?' said Ella, looking up archly at her. 'We didn't let our
volunteers march in that way.'

They were sturdy bearded backwoodsmen, rifle on shoulder, and with
grave earnest faces; but walking rather than marching, irregularly
keeping together, or straggling, as they chose.

'Your volunteers!' cried Cora, her eyes flashing; 'theirs was toy
work! These are bound for real patriotic war!' and she clasped her
hands together, then waved her handkerchief.

'It is sad,' said Averil, who had moved to the window, 'to see so
many elderly faces--men who must be the prop of their families.'

'It is because ours is a fight of men, not of children; not one of
your European wars of paltry ambition, but a war of principle!' cried
Cora, with that intensity of enthusiasm that has shed so much blood
in the break-up of the Great Republic.

'They do look as Cromwell's Ironsides may have done,' said Averil;
'as full of stern purpose.'

And verily Averil noted the difference. Had a number of European
soldiers been passing so near in an equally undisciplined manner,
young women could not have stood forth as Cora was doing,
unprotected, yet perfectly safe from rudeness or remark; making ready
answer to the inquiry for the nearest inn--nay, only wishing she were
in her own house, to evince her patriotism by setting refreshment
before the defenders of her cause. Her ardour had dragged Averil up
with her a little way, so as to feel personally every vicissitude
that befell the North, and to be utterly unaware of any argument in
favour of the Confederates; but still Averil was, in Cora's words,
'too English;' she could not, for the life of her, feel as she did
when equipping her brother against possible French invasions, and
when Mordaunt Muller had been enrolled in the Federal army, she had
almost offended the exultant sister by condolence instead of
congratulation.

Five months had elapsed since the arrival of Averil in Massissauga--
months of anxiety and disappointment, which had sickened Henry of
plans of farming, and lessened his hopes of practice. The same
causes that affected him at New York told in Indiana; and even if he
had been employed, the fees would have been too small to support the
expense of horses. As to farming, labour was scarce, and could only
be obtained at the cost of a considerable outlay, and, moreover, of
enduring rude self-assertions that were more intolerable to Henry
than even to his sisters. The chief hope of the family lay in the
speculation in which Averil's means had been embarked, which gave
them a right to their present domicile, and to a part of the
uncleared waste around them; and would, when Massissauga should begin
to flourish, place them in affluence. The interest of the portions
of the two younger girls was all that was secure, since these were
fortunately still invested at home. Inhabitants did not come, lots
of land were not taken; and the Mullers evidently profited more by
the magnificent harvest produced by their land than by the adventure
of city founding. Still, plenty and comfort reigned in their house,
and Cora had imported a good deal of refinement and elegance, which
she could make respected where Averil's attempts were only sneered
down. Nor had sickness tried her household. Owing partly to
situation--considerably above the level of River Street--partly to
the freer, more cleared and cultivated surroundings--partly likewise
to experience, and Cousin Deborah's motherly watchfulness--the summer
had passed without a visitation of ague, though it seemed to be
regarded as an adjunct of spring, as inevitable as winter frost.
Averil trembled at the thought, but there was no escape; there were
absolutely no means of leaving the spot, or of finding maintenance
elsewhere. Indeed, Cora's constant kindness and sympathy were too
precious to be parted with, even had it been possible to move. After
the boarding-house, Massissauga was a kind of home; and the more
spirits and energy failed, the more she clung to it.

Mr. Muller had lately left home to arrange for the sale of his corn,
and had announced that he might perhaps pay a visit to his son
Mordaunt in the camp at Lexington. Cora was expecting a letter from
him, and the hope that 'Dr. Warden' might bring one from the post-
office at Winiamac had been one cause of her visit on this afternoon;
for the mammoth privileges of Massissauga did not include a post-
office, nor the sight of letters more than once a week.

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