William Shakespeare - "The Tragedy of Titus Andronicus"

Upton Sinclair - "The Metropolis"

Isabel Ecclestone Mackay - "The Window Gazer"

Alexander Maclaren - "Expositions of Holy Scripture"

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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




'So you think it a stupid pastime?'

'Of course it is. Why, just look. Hasn't everybody in the family
turned stupid, and of no use, as soon at they went and fell in love!
Only good old Ethel here has too much sense, and that's what makes
her such a dear old gurgoyle. And Harry--he is twice the fun after
he comes home, before he gets his fit of love. And all the story
books that begin pleasantly, the instant that love gets in, they are
just alike--so stupid! And now, if you haven't done it yourself, you
want to lug poor innocent Tom in for it.'

'When your time comes, may I be there to see!'

He retreated from her evident designs of clapper-clawing him; and she
turned round to Ethel with, 'Now, isn't it stupid, Ethel!'

'Very stupid to think all the zest of life resides in one particular
feeling,' said Ethel; 'but more stupid to talk of what you know
nothing about.'

Aubrey put in his head for a hurried farewell, and, 'Telegraph to me
when Mrs. Thomas May comes home.'

'If Mrs. Thomas May comes home, I'll--'

'Give her that chair cover,' said Ethel; and her idle needlewoman,
having been eight months working one corner of it, went off into fits
of laughter, regarding its completion as an equally monstrous feat
with an act of cannibalism on the impossible Mrs. Thomas May.

How different were these young things, with their rhodomontade and
exuberant animation and spirits, from him in whom all the sparkle and
aspiration of life seemed extinguished!




CHAPTER XXVII



A cup was at my lips: it pass'd
As passes the wild desert blast!
*****
I woke--around me was a gloom
And silence of the tomb;
But in that awful solitude
That little spirit by me stood--
But oh, how changed!
--Thoughts in Past Years


Under Richard's kind let-alone system, Leonard was slowly recovering
tone. First he took to ruling lines in the Cocksmoor account-books,
then he helped in their audit; and with occupation came the sense of
the power of voluntary exertion. He went and came freely, and began
to take long rambles in the loneliest parts of the heath and
plantations, while Richard left him scrupulously to his own devices,
and rejoiced to see them more defined and vigorous every day. The
next stop was to assist in the night-school where Richard had
hitherto toiled single-handed among very rough subjects. The
technical training and experience derived from Leonard's work under
the schoolmaster at Portland were invaluable; and though taking the
lead was the last thing he would have thought of, he no sooner
entered the school than attention and authority were there, and
Richard found that what had to him been a vain and patient struggle
was becoming both effective and agreeable. Interest in his work was
making Leonard cheerful and alert, though still grave, and shrinking
from notice--avoiding the town by daylight, and only coming to Dr.
May's in the dark evenings.

On the last Sunday in Advent, Richard was engaged to preach at his
original curacy, and that the days before and after it should
likewise be spent away from home was insisted on after the manner of
the friends of hard-working clergy. He had the less dislike to going
that he could leave his school-work to Leonard, who was to be housed
at his father's, and there was soon perceived to have become a much
more ordinary member of society than on his first arrival.

One evening, there was a loud peal at the door-bell, and the maid--
one of Ethel's experiments of training--came in.

'Please, sir, a gentleman has brought a cockatoo and a letter and a
little boy from the archdeacon.'

'Archdeacon!' cried Dr. May, catching sight of the handwriting on the
letter and starting up. 'Archdeacon Norman--'

'One of Norman's stray missionaries and a Maori newly caught; oh,
what fun!' cried Daisy, in ecstasy.

At that moment, through the still open door, walking as if he had
lived there all his life, there entered the prettiest little boy that
ever was seen--a little knickerbocker boy, with floating rich dark
ringlets, like a miniature cavalier coming forth from a picture, with
a white cockatoo on his wrist. Not in the least confused, he went
straight towards Dr. May and said, 'Good-morning, grandpapa.'

'Ha! And who may you be, my elfin prince?' said the Doctor.

'I'm Dickie--Richard Rivers May--I'm not an elfin prince,' said the
boy, with a moment's hurt feeling. 'Papa sent me.' By that time the
boy was fast in his grandfather's embrace, and was only enough
released to give him space to answer the eager question, 'Papa--papa
here?'

'Oh no; I came with Mr. Seaford.'

The Doctor hastily turned Dickie over to the two aunts, and hastened
forth to the stranger, whose name he well knew as a colonist's son, a
favourite and devoted clerical pupil of Norman's.

'Aunt Ethel,' said little Richard, with instant recognition; 'mamma
said you would be like her, but I don't think you will.'

'Nor I, Dickie, but we'll try. And who's that!'

'Yes, what am I to be like?' asked Gertrude.

'You're not Aunt Daisy--Aunt Daisy is a little girl.'

Gertrude made him the lowest of curtseys; for not to be taken for a
little girl was the compliment she esteemed above all others.
Dickie's next speech was, 'And is that Uncle Aubrey?'

'No, that's Leonard.'

Dickie shook hands with him very prettily; but then returning upon
Ethel, observed, 'I thought it was Uncle Aubrey, because soldiers
always cut their hair so close.'

The other guest was so thoroughly a colonist, and had so little idea
of anything but primitive hospitality, that he had had no notion of
writing beforehand to announce his coming, and accident had delayed
the letters by which Norman and Meta had announced their decision of
sending home their eldest boy under his care.

'Papa had no time to teach me alone,' said Dickie, who seemed to have
been taken into the family councils; 'and mamma is always busy, and I
wasn't getting any good with some of the boys that come to school to
papa.'

'Indeed, Mr. Dickie!' said the Doctor, full of suppressed laughter.

'It is quite true,' said Mr. Seaford; 'there are some boys that the
archdeacon feels bound to educate, but who are not desirable
companions for his son.'

'It is a great sacrifice,' remarked the young gentleman.

'Oh, Dickie, Dickie,' cried Gertrude, in fits, 'don't you be a
prig--'

'Mamma said it,' defiantly answered Dickie.

'Only a parrot,' said Ethel, behind her handkerchief; but Dickie, who
heard whatever he was not meant to hear, answered--

'It is not a parrot, it is a white cockatoo, that the chief of
(something unutterable) brought down on his wrist like a hawk to the
mission-ship; and that mamma sent as a present to Uncle George.'

'I prefer the parrot that has fallen to my share,' observed the
Doctor.

It was by this time perched beside him, looking perfectly at ease and
thoroughly at home. There was something very amusing in the aspect
of the little man; he so completely recalled his mother's humming-
bird title by the perfect look of finished porcelain perfection that
even a journey from the Antipodes with only gentleman nursemaids had
not destroyed. The ringleted rich brown hair shone like glossy silk,
the cheeks were like painting, the trim well-made legs and small
hands and feet looked dainty and fairy-like, yet not at all
effeminate; hands and face were a healthy brown, and contrasted with
the little white collar, the set of which made Ethel exclaim, 'Just
look, Daisy, that's what I always told you about Meta's doings. Only
I can't understand it.--Dickie, have the fairies kept you in repair
ever since mamma dressed you last?'

'We haven't any fairies in New Zealand,' he replied; 'and mamma never
dressed me since I was a baby!'

'And what are you now?' said the Doctor.

'I am eight years old,' said this piece of independence, perfectly
well mannered, and au fait in all the customs of the tea-table; and
when the meal was over, he confidentially said to his aunt, 'Shall I
come and help you wash up? I never break anything.'

Ethel declined this kind offer; but he hung on her hand and asked if
he might go and see the schoolroom, where papa and Uncle Harry used
to blow soap-bubbles. She lighted a candle, and the little gentleman
showed himself minutely acquainted with the whole geography of the
house, knew all the rooms and the pictures, and where everything had
happened, even to adventures that Ethel had forgotten.

'It is of no use to say there are no fairies in New Zealand,' said
Dr. May, taking him on his knee, and looking into the blue depths of
Norman's eyes. 'You have been head-waiter to Queen Mab, and
perpetually here when she made you put a girdle round the earth in
forty minutes.'

'Papa read that to the boys, and they said it was stupid and no use,'
said Dickie; 'but papa said that the electric telegraph would do it.'

The little cavalier appeared not to know what it was to be at a loss
for an answer, and the joint letter from his parents explained that
his precocious quickness was one of their causes for sending him
home. He was so deft and useful as to be important in the household,
and necessarily always living with his father and mother, he took
constant part in their conversation, and was far more learned in
things than in books. In the place where they were settled,
trustworthy boy society was unattainable, and they had felt their
little son, in danger of being spoilt and made forward from his very
goodness and brightness--wrote Meta, 'If you find him a forward imp,
recollect it is my fault for having depended so much on him.'

His escort was a specimen of the work Norman had done, not actual
mission-work, but preparation and inspiriting of those who went forth
on the actual task. He was a simple-minded, single-hearted man, one
of the first pupils in Norman's college, and the one who had most
fully imbibed his spirit. He had been for some years a clergyman,
and latterly had each winter joined the mission voyage among the
Melanesian Isles, returning to their homes the lads brought for the
summer for education to the mission college in New Zealand, and
spending some time at a station upon one or other of the islands. He
had come back from the last voyage much out of health, and had been
for weeks nursed by Meta, until a long rest having been declared
necessary, he had been sent to England as the only place where he
would not be tempted to work, and was to visit his only remaining
relation, a sister, who had married an officer and was in Ireland.
He was burning to go back again, and eagerly explained--sagely
corroborated by the testimony of the tiny archdeacon--that his
illness was to be laid to the blame of his own imprudence, not to the
climate; and he dwelt upon the delights of the yearly voyage among
the lovely islands, beautiful beyond imagination, fenced in by coral
breakwaters, within which the limpid water displayed exquisite sea-
flowers, shells, and fishes of magical gorgeousness of hue; of the
brilliant white beach, fringing the glorious vegetation, cocoa-nut,
bread-fruit, banana, and banyan, growing on the sloping sides of
volcanic rocks; of mysterious red-glowing volcano lights seen far out
at sea at night, of glades opening to show high-roofed huts covered
with mats: of canoes decorated with the shining white shells
resembling a poached egg; of natives clustering round, eager and
excited, seldom otherwise than friendly; though in hitherto unvisited
places, or in those where the wanton outrages of sandal-wood traders
had excited distrust, caution was necessary, and there was peril
enough to give the voyage a full character of heroism and adventure.
Bows and poisoned arrows were sometimes brought down--and Dickie
insisted that they had been used--but in general the mission was
recognized, and an eager welcome given; presents of fish-hooks, or of
braid and handkerchiefs, established a friendly feeling; and
readiness--in which the Hand of the Maker must be recognized--was
manifested to intrust lads to the mission for the summer's training
at the college in New Zealand--wild lads, innocent of all clothing,
except marvellous adornments of their woolly locks, wigged out
sometimes into huge cauliflowers whitened with coral lime, or
arranged quarterly red and white, and their noses decorated with
rings, which were their nearest approach to a pocket, as they served
for the suspension of fish-hooks, or any small article. A radiate
arrangement of skewers from the nose, in unwitting imitation of a
cat's whiskers, had even been known. A few days taught dressing and
eating in a civilized fashion; and time, example, and the wonderful
influence of the head of the mission, trained these naturally
intelligent boys into much that was hopeful. Dickie, who had been
often at the college, had much to tell of familiarity with the light
canoes that some cut out and launched; of the teaching them English
games, of their orderly ways in school and in hall; of the prayers in
their many tongues, and of the baptism of some, after full probation,
and at least one winter's return to their own isles, as a test of
their sincerity and constancy. Much as the May family had already
heard of this wonderful work, it came all the closer and nearer now.
The isle of Alan Ernescliffe's burial-place had now many Christians
in it. Harry's friend, the young chief David, was dead; but his
people were some of them already teachers and examples, and the whole
region was full to overflowing of the harvest, calling out for
labourers to gather it in.

Silent as usual, Leonard nevertheless was listening with all his
heart, and with parted lips and kindling eyes that gave back somewhat
of his former countenance. Suddenly his face struck Mr. Seaford, and
turning on him with a smile, he said, 'You should be with us
yourself, you look cut out for mission work.'

Leonard murmured something, blushed up to the ears, and subsided, but
the simple, single-hearted Mr. Seaford, his soul all on one object,
his experience only in one groove, by no means laid aside the
thought, and the moment he was out of Leonard's presence, eagerly
asked who that young man was.

'Leonard Ward? he is--he is the son of an old friend,' replied Dr.
May, a little perplexed to explain his connection.

'What is he doing? I never saw any one looking more suited for our
work.'

'Tell him so again,' said Dr. May; 'I know no one that would be
fitter.'

They were all taken up with the small grandson the next day. He was
ready in his fairy-page trimness to go to the early service at the
Minster; but he was full of the colonial nil admirari principle, and
was quite above being struck by the grand old building, or allowing
its superiority--either to papa's own church or Auckland Cathedral.
They took him to present to Mary on their way back from church, when
he was the occasion of a great commotion by carrying the precious
Master Charlie all across the hall to his mamma, and quietly
observing in resentment at the outcry, that of course he always
carried little Ethel about when mamma and nurse were busy. After
breakfast, when he had finished his investigations of all Dr. May's
domains, and much entertained Gertrude by his knowledge of them,
Ethel set him down to write a letter to his father, and her own to
Meta being engrossing, she did not look much more after him till Dr.
May came in, and said, 'I want you to sketch off a portrait of her
dicky-bird for Meta;' and he put before her a natural history with a
figure of that tiny humming-bird which is endowed with swansdown
knickerbockers.

'By the bye, where is the sprite?'

He was not to be found; and when dinner-time, and much calling and
searching, failed to produce him, his grandfather declared that he
was gone back to Elf-land; but Leonard recollected certain particular
inquiries about the situation of the Grange and of Cocksmoor, and it
was concluded that he had anticipated the Doctor's intentions of
taking him and Mr. Seaford there in the afternoon. The notion was
confirmed by the cockatoo having likewise disappeared; but there was
no great anxiety, since the little New Zealander appeared as capable
of taking care of himself as any gentleman in Her Majesty's
dominions; and a note had already been sent to his aunt informing her
of his arrival. Still, a summons to the Doctor in an opposite
direction was inopportune, the more so as the guest was to remain at
Stoneborough only this one day, and had letters and messages for Mr.
and Mrs. Rivers, while it was also desirable to see whether the boy
had gone to Cocksmoor.

Leonard proposed to become Mr. Seaford's guide to the Grange, learn
whether Dickie were there, and meet the two ladies at Cocksmoor with
the tidings, leaving Mr. Seaford and the boy to be picked up by the
Doctor on his return. It was his first voluntary offer to go
anywhere, though he had more than once been vainly invited to the
Grange with Richard.

Much conversation on the mission took place during the walk, and
resulted in Mr. Seaford's asking Leonard if his profession were
settled. 'No,' he said; and not at all aware that his companion did
not know what every other person round him knew, he added, 'I have
been thrown out of everything--I am waiting to hear from my brother.'

'Then you are not at a University?'

'Oh no, I was a clerk.'

'Then if nothing is decided, is it impossible that you should turn
your eyes to our work?'

'Stay,' said Leonard, standing still; 'I must ask whether you know
all about me. Would it be possible to admit to such work as yours
one who, by a terrible mistake, has been under sentence of death and
in confinement for three years?'

'I must think! Let us talk of this another time. Is that the
Grange?' hastily exclaimed the missionary, rather breathlessly.
Leonard with perfect composure replied that it was, pointed out the
different matters of interest, and, though a little more silent,
showed no other change of manner. He was asking the servant at the
door if Master May were there, when Mr. Rivers came out and conducted
both into the drawing room, where little Dickie was, sure enough. It
appeared that, cockatoo on wrist, he had put his pretty face up to
the glass of Mrs Rivers's morning-room, and had asked her, 'Is this
mamma's room, Aunt Flora? Where's Margaret?'

Uncle, aunt, and cousin had all been captivated by him, and he was at
present looking at the display of all Margaret's treasures, keenly
appreciating the useful and ingenious, but condemning the merely
ornamental as only fit for his baby sister. Margaret was wonderfully
gracious and child-like; but perhaps she rather oppressed him; for
when Leonard explained that he must go on to meet Miss May at
Cocksmoor, the little fellow sprang up, declaring that he wanted to
go thither; and though told that his grandfather was coming for him,
and that the walk was long, he insisted that he was not tired; and
Mr. Seaford, finding him not to be dissuaded, broke off his
conversation in the midst, and insisted on accompanying him, leaving
Mr. and Mrs. Rivers rather amazed at colonial breeding.

The first time Mr. Seaford could accomplish being alone with Dr. May,
he mysteriously shut the door, and began, 'I am afraid Mrs. Rivers
thought me very rude; but though no doubt he is quite harmless, I
could not let the child or the ladies be alone with him.'

'With whom?'

'With your patient.'

'What patient of mine have you been seeing to-day?' asked Dr. May,
much puzzled.

'Oh, then you consider him as convalescent, and certainly he does
seem rational on every other point; but is this one altogether an
hallucination?'

'I have not made out either the hallucination or the convalescent. I
beg your pardon,' said the courteous Doctor; 'but I cannot understand
whom you have seen.'

'Then is not that young Ward a patient of yours? He gave me to
understand to-day that he has been under confinement for three
years--'

'My poor Leonard!' exclaimed the Doctor; 'I wish his hair would grow!
This is the second time! And did you really never hear of the Blewer
murder, and of Leonard Ward?'

Mr. Seaford had some compound edifice of various murders in his mind,
and required full enlightenment. Having heard the whole, he was
ardent to repair his mistake, both for Leonard's own sake, and that
of his cause. The young man was indeed looking ill and haggard; but
there was something in the steady eyes, hollow though they still
were, and in the determined cast of features, that strangely
impressed the missionary with a sense of his being moulded for the
work; and on the first opportunity a simple straightforward
explanation of the error was laid before Leonard, with an entreaty
that if he had no duties to bind him at home, he would consider the
need of labourers in the great harvest of the Southern Seas.

Leonard made no answer save 'Thank you' and that he would think. The
grave set features did not light up as they had done unconsciously
when listening without personal thought; he only looked considering,
and accepted Mr. Seaford's address in Ireland, promising to write
after hearing from his brother.

Next morning, Dr. May gave notice that an old patient was coming to
see him, and must be asked to luncheon. Leonard soon after told
Ethel that he should not be at home till the evening, and she thought
he was going to Cocksmoor, by way of avoiding the stranger. In the
twilight, however, Dr. May, going up to the station to see his
patient off, was astonished to see Leonard emerge from a second-class
carriage.

'You here! the last person I expected.'

'I have only been to W-- about my teeth.'

'What, have you been having tooth-ache?'

'At times, but I have had two out, so I hope there is an end of it.'

'And you never mentioned it, you Stoic!'

'It was only at night.'

'And how long has this been?'

'Since I had that cold; but it was no matter.'

'No matter, except that it kept you looking like Count Ugolino, and
me always wondering what was the matter with you. And'--detaining
him for a moment under the lights of the station--'this extraction
must have been a pretty business, to judge by your looks! What did
the dentist do to you?'

'It is not so much that' said Leonard, low and sadly; 'but I began to
have a hope, and I see it won't do.'

'What do you mean, my dear boy? what have you been doing?'

'I have been into my old cell again,' said he, under his breath; and
Dr. May, leaning on his arm, felt his nervous tremor.

'Prisoner of the Bastille, eh, Leonard!'

'I had long been thinking that I ought to go and call on Mr. Reeve
and thank him.'

'But he does not receive calls there.'

'No,' said Leonard, as if the old impulse to confidence had returned;
'but I have never been so happy since, as I was in that cell, and I
wanted to see it again. Not only for that reason,' he added, 'but
something that Mr. Seaford said brought back a remembrance of what
Mr. Wilmot told me when my life was granted--something about the
whole being preparation for future work--something that made me feel
ready for anything. It had all gone from me--all but the remembrance
of the sense of a blessed Presence and support in that condemned
cell, and I thought perhaps ten minutes in the same place would bring
it back to me.'

'And did they?'

'No, indeed. As soon as the door was locked, it all went back to
July 1860, and worse. Things that were mercifully kept from me then,
mere abject terror of death, and of that kind of death--the disgrace
--the crowds--all came on me, and with them, the misery all in one of
those nine months; the loathing of those eternal narrow waved white
walls, the sense of their closing in, the sickening of their
sameness, the longing for a voice, the other horror of thinking
myself guilty. The warder said it was ten minutes--I thought it
hours! I was quite done for, and could hardly get down-stairs. I
knew the spirit was being crushed out of me by the solitary period,
and it is plain that I must think of nothing that needs nerve or
presence of mind!' he added, in a tone of quiet dejection.

'You are hardly in a state to judge of your nerve, after sleepless
nights and the loss of your teeth. Besides, there is a difference
between the real and imaginary, as you have found; you who, in the
terrible time of real anticipation, were a marvel in that very point
of physical resolution.'

'I could keep thoughts out _then_,' he said; 'I was master of
myself.'

'You mean that the solitude unhinged you? Yet I always found you
brave and cheerful.'

'The sight of you made me so. Nay, the very sight or sound of any
human being made a difference! And now you all treat me as if I had
borne it well, but I did not. It was all that was left me to do, but
indeed I did not.'

'What do you mean by bearing it well?' said the Doctor, in the tone
in which he would have questioned a patient.

'Living--as--as I thought I should when I made up my mind to life
instead of death,' said Leonard; 'but all that went away. I let it
slip, and instead came everything possible of cowardice, and hatred,
and bitterness. I lost my hold of certainty what I had done or what
I had not, and the horror, the malice, the rebellion that used to
come on me in that frightful light white silent place, were
unutterable! I wish you would not have me among you all, when I know
there can hardly be a wicked thought that did not surge over me.'

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