Frederick Douglass - "My Bondage and My Freedom, My Bondage and My Freedom"

Ludwig Wittgenstein - "Tractatus Logico Philosophicus"

Charlotte Yonge - "The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations"

Various - "Stories by Foreign Authors: Spanish"

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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




'Will it be enough?' asked Ethel, at last, holding her breath for the
answer.

'If there is justice in England!' said Dr. May. 'Heaven forgive me,
Ethel, this business has tried my trust more than anything that ever
befell me; but it will all be right now, and righter than right, if
that boy comes out what I think him.'

'And oh, how soon?'

'Not a moment longer than can be helped. I'd go up by the mail train
this very night if it would do any good.'

Tom, who reappeared as soon as he had spared himself the necessity of
the narration, was willing and eager to set out; but Dr. May, who by
this time had gathered some idea of what he had gone through, and saw
that he was restless, nervous, and unhinged, began to reconsider the
expedience of another night journey, and was, for once in his life,
the person cool enough to see that it would be wisest to call
Bramshaw into their counsels, and only that night to send up a note
mentioning that they would do themselves the honour of calling at the
Home Office the next day, on matters connected with the intelligence
received that morning from the British Embassy at Paris.

Tom was disappointed; he was in no mood for sitting still, and far
less for talking. As a matter of business, he would elucidate any
question, but conversation on what he had witnessed was impossible to
him; and when Gertrude, with a girl's lightness, lamented over being
balked of a confession and explanation, he gravely answered, that she
did not know what she was talking of; and his father led away from
the subject. Indeed, Dr. May was full of kindness and consideration,
being evidently not only grateful for the discovery, but touched by
his entire absence of exulting triumph, and his strong sense of awe
in the retribution.

That changed and awe-struck manner impressed both the sisters, so
that all the evening Ethel felt subdued as by a strange shock, and
even through the night and morning could hardly realize that it was
intense relief--joy, not sorrow--that made her feel so unlike
herself, and that the burthen was taken away from her heart. Even
then, there was a trembling of anxiety. The prisoner might be set
free; but who could give back to him the sister who had pined away in
exile, or the three years of his youthful brightness? There might be
better things in store; but she knew she must not look again for the
boy of ingenuous countenance, whose chivalrous devotion to herself
had had such a charm, even while she tried to prize it at its
lightest worth. It was foolish to recollect it with a pang, but
there was no helping it. In the great tragedy, she had forgotten
that the pretty comedy was over, but she regretted it, rather as she
did the pleasant baby-days of Aubrey and Gertrude.

Indeed, during the day of suspense, while the two physicians were
gone to London, taking with them the papers, and a minute detail of
the evidence at the trial, Gertrude's high spirits, triumph over
Charles Cheviot, and desire to trumpet forth the good news, were
oppressive. How many times that day was Mab stroked, and assured
that her master would come back! And how often did the two sisters
endeavour to persuade themselves that she was not grown broader in
the back! Mary was, of course, told early in the day, but Gertrude
got less sympathy from her than answered to that damsel's
extortionate expectations, for, according to her wicked account,
Mary's little Charlie had sneezed three times, and his mamma must
regret what sent all the medical science of Stoneborough away by the
early train.

However, Tom came home at night. The interview had been
satisfactory. The letters received in the morning had prepared the
way, and revived the recollection of the unsatisfactory case of
Leonard Axworthy Ward, and of the representations of the then Mayor
of Market Stoneborough. After all the new lights upon the matter had
been looked into, the father and son had been assured that, as soon
as possible, a free pardon should be issued, so drawn up as to imply
a declaration of innocence--the nearest possible approach to a
reversal of the sentence; and they further were told of a mention of
his exemplary conduct in a late report from Portland, containing a
request that he might be promoted to a post of greater influence and
trust before the ordinary time of probation had passed. Dr. May was
eager to be at Portland at the same time as the pardon, so to give
Leonard the first intelligence, and to bring him home; and he had
warmly closed with Tom's offer to look after the work, while he
himself waited till the necessary forms had been complied with. He
had absolutely begged Tom's pardon for going in his stead. 'It is
your right,' he said; 'but, somehow, I think, as I have been more
with him, I might do better.' To which Tom had assented with all his
heart, and had added that he would not go if he were paid for it. He
had further taken care that the Doctor should take with him a suit of
clothes for Leonard to come home in, and had himself made the
selection; then came back with the tidings that filled the house with
the certainty of joy, and the uncertainty of expectation.

Nobody was, however, in such a fever as Tom himself. He was
marvellously restless all the morning. Gertrude asserted it was
because he was miserable at not venturing to set his father's study
to rights; and to be sure he was seen looking round at the litter
with a face of great disgust, and declaring that he was ashamed to
see a patient in a room in such a mess. But this did not fully
account for his being in and out, backwards and forwards, all the
morning, looking wistfully at Ethel, and then asking some trivial
question about messages left for his father, or matters respecting
his own new abode, where he kept on Dr. Spencer's old housekeeper,
and was about to turn in paperers and painters. He had actually
brought a drawing-room paper from Paris, a most delicate and graceful
affair, much too lady-like for the old house, as Daisy told him, when
she pursued him and her sister down to a consultation.

Late in the afternoon, as the sisters were coming up the High Street,
they met him setting out in Hector's dog-cart. 'Oh, I say, Ethel,'
he said, drawing up, 'do you like a drive out to Chilford? Here's a
note come to ask my father to see the old lady there, and I want some
one to give me courage to be looked at, like the curate in the pulpit
instead of the crack preacher.'

It was an offer not to be despised, though Ethel knew what a waiting
there would be, and what a dark drive home. Up she jumped, and Tom
showed his usual thoughtfulness by ordering Gertrude to run home and
fetch her muff and an additional cloak, tucking her up himself with
the carriage rug. That affection of Tom's had been slow in coming,
but always gave her a sense of gratitude and enjoyment.

They drove all the seven miles to Chilford without twenty words
passing between them; and when there, she sat in the road, and
watched one constellation after another fill up its complement of
stars as well as the moon permitted, wondering whether Tom's near-
sighted driving would be safe in the dark; but her heart was so
light, so glad, that she could not be afraid, she did not care how
long she waited, it was only sitting still to recollect that
deliverance had come to the captive--Leonard was free--'free as heart
can think or eye can see,' as would keep ringing in her ears like a
joy-bell; and some better things, too. 'Until the time came that his
cause was known, the Word of the Lord tried him.'

Whether she were really too happy to note time, or that gossipry was
deducted from the visit, Tom certainly returned sooner than her
experience had led her to expect, made an exclamation of dismay at
finding the machine was innocent of lamps, and remounted to his seat,
prepared to be extremely careful.

'I could not get them to take me for my father in a new wig,' he
said; 'but it was a very easy-going rheumatic case, and I think I
satisfied her.'

Then on he drove for a mile, till he was out of the bad cross-country
road, and at last he said, 'Ethel, I have made up my mind. There's
no press of work just now, and I find it is advisable I should go to
America before I get into harness here.'

'To America!'

'Yes, about this book of dear old Spencer's. It is a thing that must
be complete, and I find he was in correspondence with some men of
science there. I could satisfy my mind on a few points, which would
make it infinitely more valuable, you see--and get it published there
too. I know my father would wish every justice to be done to it.'

'I know he would; and,' continued Ethel, as innocently as she could,
'shall you see the Wards?'

'Why,' said Tom, in his deliberate voice, 'that is just one thing; I
want particularly to see Henry. I had a talk with Wright this
morning, and he tells me that young Baines, at Whitford, is going to
the dogs, and the practice coming in to him. He thinks of having a
partner, and I put out a feeler in case Henry Ward should choose to
come back, and found it might do very well. But the proposal must
come from him, and there's no time to be lost, so I thought of
setting out as soon as I hear my father is on his way back.'

'Not waiting to see Leonard?'

'I did see him not a month ago. Besides--' and his voice came to a
sudden end.

'Yes, the first news,' said Ethel. 'Indeed it is due to you, Tom.'

Ten minutes more of silence.

'Ethel, did she ever tell you?'

'Never,' said Ethel, her heart beating.

'Then how did you know all about it?'

'I didn't know. I only saw--'

'Saw what?'

'That you were very much distressed.'

'And very kind and rational you were about it,' said Tom, warmly; 'I
never thought any woman could have guessed so much, without making
mischief. But you must not put any misconstruction on my present
intention. All I mean to do as yet is to induce Henry to remove them
out of that dismal swamp, and bring them home to comfort and
civilization. Then it may be time to--'

He became silent; and Ethel longed ardently to ask further, but still
she durst not, and he presently began again.

'Ethel, was I very intolerable that winter of the volunteers, when
Harry was at home?'

'You are very much improved since,' she answered.

'That's just like Flora. Answer like yourself.'

'Well, you were! You were terribly rampant in Eton refinement, and
very anxious to hinder all the others from making fools of
themselves.'

'I remember! I thought you had all got into intimacies that were for
nobody's good, and I still think it was foolish. I know it has done
for me! Well,' hastily catching up this last admission, as if it had
dropped out at unawares, 'you think I made myself disagreeable?'

'On principle.'

'Ah! then you would not wonder at what she said--that she had never
seen anything in me but contemptuous irony.'

'I think, sometimes feeling that you were satirical, she took all
your courtesy for irony--whatever you meant. I have heard other
people say the same. But when--was this on the day--the day you went
to remonstrate?'

'Yes. I declare to you, Ethel, that I had no conception of what I
was going to do! I never dreamt that I was in for it. I knew she
was--was attractive--and that made me hate to see Harry with her, and
I could not bear her being carried off to this horrible place--but as
to myself, I never thought of it till I saw her--white and broken--'
and then came that old action Ethel knew so well in her father, of
clearing the dew from the glasses, and his voice was half sob, 'and
with no creature but that selfish brother to take care of her. I
couldn't help it, Ethel--no one could--and this--this was her answer.
I don't wonder. I had been a supercilious prig, and I ought to have
known better than to think I could comfort her.'

'I think the remembrance must have comforted her since.'

'What--what, has she said anything?'

'Oh no, she could not, you know. But I am sure, if it did anger her
at the moment, there must have been comfort in recollecting that even
such a terrible trouble had not alienated you. And now--'

'Now that's just what I don't want! I don't want to stalk in and say
here's the hero of romance that has saved your brother! I want to
get her home, and show her that I can be civil without being
satirical, and then, perhaps, she would forgive me.'

'Forgive you--'

'I mean forgiveness won, not purchased. And after all, you know it
was mere accident--Providence if you please--that brought me to that
poor wretch; all my plans of tracking him had come to an end; any one
else could have done what I did.'

'She will not feel that,' said Ethel; 'but indeed, Tom, I see what
you mean, and like it. It is yourself, and not the conferrer of the
benefit, that you want her to care for.'

'Exactly,' said Tom. 'And, Ethel, I must have seen her and judged of
my chance before I can be good for anything. I tried to forget it--
own it as a lucky escape--a mere passing matter, like Harry's
affairs--but I could not do it. Perhaps I could if things had gone
well; but that dear face of misery, that I only stung by my attempts
to comfort, would stick fast with me, and to go and see Leonard only
brought it more home. It is a horrid bad speculation, and Flora and
Cheviot and Blanche will scout it; but, Ethel, you'll help me
through, and my father will not mind, I know.'

'Papa will feel as I do, Tom--that it has been your great blessing,
turn out as it may.'

'H'm! has it? A blessing on the wrong side of one's mouth--to go
about with a barb one knew one was a fool for, and yet couldn't
forget! Well, I know what you mean, and I believe it was. I would
not have had it annihilated, when the first mood was over.'

'It was that which made it so hard to you to come home, was it not?'

'Yes; but it was odd enough, however hard it was to think of coming,
you always sent me away more at peace, Ethel. I can't think how you
did it, knowing nothing.'

'I think you came at the right time.'

'You see, I did think that while Spencer lived, I might follow up the
track, and see a little of the world--try if that would put out that
face and voice. But it won't do. If this hadn't happened, I would
have tied myself down, and done my best to get comfort out of you,
and the hospital, and these 'Diseases of Climate'--I suppose one
might in time, if things went well with her; but, as it is, I can't
rest till I have seen if they can be got home again. So, Ethel,
don't mind if I go before my father comes home. I can't stand
explanations with him, and I had rather you did not proclaim this.
You see the book, and getting Henry home, are really the reasons, and
I shan't molest her again--no--not till she has learnt to know what
is irony.'

'I think if you did talk it over with papa, you would feel the
comfort, and know him better.'

'Well, well, I dare say, but I can't do it, Ethel. Either he shuts
me up at first, with some joke, or--' and Tom stopped; but Ethel knew
what he meant. There was on her father's side an involuntary absence
of perfect trust in this son, and on Tom's there was a character so
sensitive that her father's playfulness grated, and so reserved that
his demonstrative feelings were a still greater trial to one who
could not endure outward emotion. 'Besides,' added Tom, 'there is
really nothing--nothing to tell. I'm not going to commit myself. I
don't know whether I ever shall. I was mad that day, and I want to
satisfy my mind whether I think the same now I am sane, and if I do,
I shall have enough to do to make her forget the winter when I made
myself such an ass. When I have done that, it may be time to speak
to my father. I really am going out about the book. When did you
hear last?'

'That is what makes me anxious. I have not heard for two months, and
that is longer than she ever was before without writing, except when
Minna was ill.'

'We shall know if Leonard has heard.'

'No, she always writes under cover to us.'

The course that the conversation then took did not look much like
Tom's doubt whether his own views would be the same. All the long-
repressed discussion of Averil's merits, her beautiful eyes, her
sweet voice, her refinement, her real worth, the wonder that she and
Leonard should be so superior to the rest of the family, were freely
indulged at last, and Ethel could give far heartier sympathy than if
this had come to her three years ago. Averil had been for two years
her correspondent, and the patient sweetness and cheerfulness of
those letters had given a far higher estimate of her nature than the
passing intercourse of the town life had left. The terrible
discipline of these years of exile and sorrow had, Ethel could well
believe, worked out something very different from the well-
intentioned wilful girl whose spirit of partisanship had been so
fatal an element of discord. Distance had, in truth, made them
acquainted, and won their love to one another.

Tom's last words, as he drew up under the lime-trees before the door,
were, 'Mind, I am only going about the 'Diseases of Climate'.'




CHAPTER XXVI



And Bishop Gawain as he rose,
Said, 'Wilton, grieve not for thy woes,
Disgrace and trouble;
For He who honour best bestows,
Can give thee double.'--Marmion


Dr. May had written to Portland, entreating that no communication
might be made to Leonard Ward before his arrival; and the good
physician's affection for the prisoner had been so much observed,
that no one would have felt it fair to anticipate him. Indeed, he
presented himself at the prison gates only two hours after the
arrival of the documents, when no one but the governor was aware of
their contents.

Leonard was as usual at his business in the schoolmaster's
department; and thither a summons was sent for him, while Dr. May and
the governor alone awaited his arrival. Tom's visit was still very
recent; and Leonard entered with anxious eyes, brow drawn together,
and compressed lips, as though braced to meet another blow; and the
unusual room, the presence of the governor instead of the warder, and
Dr. May's irrepressible emotion, so confirmed the impression, that
his face at once assumed a resolute look of painful expectation.

'My boy,' said Dr. May, clasping both his hands in his own, 'you have
borne much of ill. Can you bear to hear good news?'

'Am I to be sent out to Australia already?' said Leonard--for a
shortening of the eight years before his ticket-of-leave was the sole
hope that had presented itself.

'Sent out, yes; out to go wherever you please, Leonard. The right is
come round. The truth is out. You are a free man! Do you know what
that is? It is a pardon. Your pardon. All that can be done to
right you, my boy--but it is as good as a reversal of the sentence.'

The Doctor had spoken this with pauses; going on, as Leonard, instead
of answering, stood like one in a dream, and at last said with
difficulty, 'Who did it then?'

'It was as you always believed.'

'Has he told?' said Leonard, drawing his brows together with the
effort to understand.

'No, Leonard. The vengeance he had brought on himself did not give
space for repentance; but the pocket-book, with your receipt, was
upon him, and your innocence is established.'

'And let me congratulate you,' added the governor, shaking hands with
him; 'and add, that all I have known of you has been as complete an
exculpation as any discovery can be.'

Leonard's hand was passive, his cheek had become white, his forehead
still knit. 'Axworthy!' he said, still as in a trance.

'Yes. Hurt in a brawl at Paris. He was brought to the Hotel Dieu;
and my son Tom was called to see him.'

'Sam Axworthy! repeated Leonard, putting his hand over his eyes, as
if one sensation overpowered everything else; and thus he stood for
some seconds, to the perplexity of both.

They showed him the papers: he gazed, but without comprehension; and
then putting the bag, provided by Tom, into his hand, they sent him,
moving in a sort of mechanical obedience, into the room of one of the
officials to change his dress.

Dr. May poured out to the governor and chaplain, who by this time had
joined them, the history of Leonard's generous behaviour at the time
of the trial, and listened in return to their account of the growing
impression he had created--a belief, almost reluctant, that instead
of being their prime specimen, he could only be in their hands by
mistake. He was too sincere not to have confessed had he been really
guilty; and in the long run, such behaviour as his would have been
impossible in one unrepentant. He had been the more believed from
the absence of complaint, demonstration, or assertion; and the
constant endeavour to avoid notice, coupled with the quiet thorough
execution of whatever was set before him with all his might.

This was a theme to occupy the Doctor for a long time; but at last he
grew eager for Leonard's return, and went to hasten him. He started
up, still in the convict garb, the bag untouched.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, when his friend's exclamation had
reminded him of what had been desired of him; and in a few minutes he
reappeared in the ordinary dress of a gentleman, but the change did
not seem to have made him realize his freedom--there was the same
submissive manner, the same conventional gesture of respect in reply
to the chaplain's warm congratulation.

'Come, Leonard, I am always missing the boat, but I don't want to do
so now. We must get home to-night. Have you anything to take with
you?'

'My Bible and Prayer-Book. They are my own, sir;' as he turned to
the governor. 'May I go to my cell for them?'

Again they tarried long for him, and became afraid that he had fallen
into another reverie; but going to fetch him, found that the delay
was caused by the farewells of all who had come in his way. The
tidings of his full justification had spread, and each official was
eager to wish him good speed, and thank him for the aid of his
example and support. The schoolmaster, who had of late treated him
as a friend, kept close to him, rejoicing in his liberation, but
expecting to miss him sorely; and such of the convicts as were within
reach, were not without their share in the general exultation. He
had never galled them by his superiority; and though Brown, the
clerk, had been his only friend, he had done many an act of kindness;
and when writing letters for the unlearned, had spoken many a
wholesome simple word that had gone home to the heart. His hand was
as ready for a parting grasp from a fellow-prisoner as from a warder;
and his thought and voice were recalled to leave messages for men out
of reach; his eyes moistened at the kindly felicitations; but when he
was past the oft-trodden precincts of the inner court and long
galleries, the passiveness returned, and he received the last good-
byes of the governor and superior officers, as if only half alive to
their import. And thus, silent, calm, and grave, his composure like
that of a man walking in his sleep, did Leonard Ward pass the arched
gateway, enter on the outer world, and end his three and a half years
of penal servitude.

'I'm less like an angel than he is like St. Peter,' thought Dr. May,
as he watched the fixed dreamy gaze, 'but this is like "yet wist he
not that it was true, but thought he saw a vision." When will he
realize liberty, and enjoy it? I shall do him a greater kindness by
leaving him to himself.'

And in spite of his impatience, Dr. May refrained from disturbing
that open-eyed trance all the way down the long hill, trusting to the
crowd in the steamer for rousing him to perceive that he was no
longer among russet coats and blue shirts; but he stood motionless,
gazing, or at least his face turned, towards the Dorset coast,
uttering no word, making no movement, save when summoned by his
guide--then obeying as implicitly as though it were his jailor.

So they came to the pier; and so they walked the length of Weymouth,
paced the platform, and took their places in the train. Just as they
had shot beyond the town, and come into the little wooded valleys
beyond, Leonard turned round, and with the first sparkle in his eye,
exclaimed, 'Trees! Oh, noble trees and hedges!' then turned again to
look in enchantment at the passing groups--far from noble, though
bright with autumn tints--that alternated with the chalk downs.

Dr. May was pleased at this revival, and entertained at the start and
glance of inquiring alarm from an old gentleman in the other corner.
Presently, in the darkness of a cutting, again Leonard spoke: 'Where
are you taking me, Dr. May?'

'Home, of course.'

Whatever the word might imply to the poor lad, he was satisfied, and
again became absorbed in the sight of fields, trees, and hedgerows;
while Dr. May watched the tokens of secret dismay in their fellow-
traveller, who had no doubt understood 'home' to mean his private
asylum. Indeed, though the steady full dark eyes showed no
aberration, there was a strange deep cave between the lid and the
eyebrow, which gave a haggard look; the spare, worn, grave features
had an expression--not indeed weak, nor wandering, but half
bewildered, half absorbed, moreover, in spite of Tom's minute
selection of apparel, it had been too hasty a toilette for the
garments to look perfectly natural; and the cropped head was so
suspicious, that it was no wonder that at the first station, the old
gentleman gathered up his umbrella, with intense courtesy squeezed
gingerly to the door, carefully avoiding any stumble over perilous
toes, and made his escape--entering another carriage, whence he no
doubt signed cautions against the lunatic and his keeper, since no
one again invaded their privacy.

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