William Shakespeare - "The Tragedy of Coriolanus"

Grover Cleveland - "State of the Union Addresses of Grover Cleveland"

Thomas Hardy - "Two on a Tower"

Martin Luther - "The Small Catechism of Martin Luther"

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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




'Free--yes, I know what that means--free among the dead,' said
Averil, calmly, smoothing Cora's hair, and looking in her face.
'Don't be afraid to let me hear. I shall be there with him and Minna
soon. Didn't somebody come to tell me? Please let him in, I'll be
quiet now.'

And as she made gestures of arranging her hair and dress, Tom
guardedly presented himself, saying in a voice that trembled with his
endeavour to render it calm, 'Did you think I should have come if I
had nothing better to tell you?' and as she put out her hand in
greeting, he took it in both his own, and met her eyes looking at him
wide open, in the first dawning of the hope of an impossible
gladness. 'Yes,' he said, 'the truth is come out--he is cleared--he
is at home--at Stoneborongh!'

The hot fingers closed convulsively on his own, then she raised
herself, pressed her hands together, and gasped and struggled
fearfully for breath. The joy and effort for self-command were more
than the enfeebled frame could support, and there was a terrible and
prolonged renewal of those agonizing paroxysms, driving away every
thought from the other two except of the immediate needs. At last,
when the violence of the attack had subsided, and left what was
either fainting or stupor, they judged it best to carry her to her
bed, and trust that, reviving without the associations of the other
room, the agitation would be less likely to return, and that she
might sleep under the influence of an anodyne. Poor Tom! it was not
the reception he had figured to himself, and after he had laid her
down, and left her to Cora and to Katty to be undressed, he returned
to the parlour, and stood over the sinking wood-fire in dejection and
dreariness of heart--wrung by the sufferings he had witnessed, with
the bitter words (too late) echoing in his brain, and with the still
more cruel thought--had it been his father or one of his brothers--
any one to whose kindness she could trust, the shock had not been so
great, and there would have been more sense of soothing and comfort!
And then he tried to collect his impressions of her condition, and
judge what would serve for her relief, but all his senses seemed to
be scattered; dismay, compassion, and sympathy, had driven away all
power of forming a conclusion--he was no longer the doctor--he was
only the anxious listener for the faintest sound from the room above,
but none reached him save the creaking of the floor under Katty's
heavy tread.

The gay tinkle of sleigh-bells was the next noise he heard, and
presently the door was opened, and two muffled hooded figures looked
into the room, now only lighted by the red embers of the fire.

'Where's Cora? where's Ave?' said the bright tone of the lesser. 'It
is all dark!' and she was raising her voice to call, when Tom
instinctively uttered a 'Hush,' and moved forward; 'hush, Ella, your
sister has been ill.'

The little muffled figure started at the first sound of his voice,
but as he stepped nearer recoiled for a second, then with a low cry,
almost a sob of recognition, exclaimed, 'Mr. Tom! Oh, Mr. Tom! I
knew you would come! Cousin Deborah, it's Mr. Tom!' and she flew
into his arms, and clung with an ecstasy of joy, unknowing the why or
how, but with a sense that light had shone, and that her troubles
were over. She asked no questions, she only leant against him with,
'Mr. Tom! Mr. Tom!' under her breath.

'But what is it, stranger? Do tell! Where are the girls? What's
this about Avy's being sick? Do you know the stranger, Ella?'

'It's Mr. Tom,' she cried, holding his arm round her neck, looking up
in a rapturous restfulness.

'I brought Miss Ward-en some good news that I fear has been too much
for her,' said he; 'I am--only waiting to--hear how she is.'

By way of answer, Deborah opened another door which threw more light
on the scene from the cooking stove in the kitchen, and at the same
moment Cora with a candle came down the stairs.

'O, Dr. May,' she said, 'you have been too long left alone in the
dark. I think she is asleep now. You will stay. We will have tea
directly.'

Tom faltered something about the hotel, and began to look at Cousin
Deborah, and to consider the proprieties of life; but Cousin Deborah,
Cora, and Ella began declaring with one voice that he must remain for
the evening meal, and a bustle of cheerful preparation commenced,
while Ella still hung on his hand.

'But, Ella, you've never asked my good news.'

'Oh dear! I was too glad! Are we going home then?'

'Yes, I trust so, I hope so, my dear; for Leonard's innocence has
come to light, and he is free.'

'Then Henry won't mind--and we may be called by our proper name
again--and Ave will be well,' cried the child, as the ideas came more
fully on her comprehension. 'O, Cora! O, Cousin Deborah, do you
hear? Does Ave know? May I run up and tell Ave?'

This of course was checked, but next Ella impetuously tore off her
wraps for the convenience of spinning up and down wildly about the
kitchen and parlour. Leonard himself did not seem to have great part
in her joy; Henry's policy had really nearly rooted out the thought
of him personally, and there was a veil of confusion over the painful
period of his trial, which at the time she had only partially
comprehended. But she did understand that his liberation would be
the term of exile; and though his name was to her connected with a
mysterious shudder that made her shrink from uttering or hearing
details, she had a security that Mr. Tom would set all right, and she
loved him so heartily, that his presence was sunshine enough for her.

A little discomfited at the trouble he was causing, Tom was obliged
to wait while not only Cousin Deborah, but Cora busied herself in the
kitchen, and Ella in her restless joy came backwards and forwards to
report their preparations, and at times to tarry a short space by his
side, and tell of the recent troubles. Ave had been very ill, she
said, very ill indeed about a month ago, and Henry had come home to
see her, but had been obliged to go away to the seige of Charleston
when she was better. They had all been ill ever since they came
there, but now Mr. Tom was come, should not they all go home to dear
Stoneborough, away from this miserable place? If they could only
take Cora with them!

It was still a childish tongue; but Ella had outgrown all her plump
roundness, and was so tall and pale that Tom would hardly have known
her. Her welcome was relief and comfort, and she almost inspired her
own belief that now all would be well. His English ideas were rather
set at rest by finding that Mrs. Deborah was to preside at the tea-
table, and that he was not to be almost tete-a-tete with Miss Muller.
Deborah having concluded her hospitable cares, catechized him to her
full content, and satisfied herself on the mystery of the Wardens'
life.

And now what brought himself out? She guessed he could not find an
opening in the old country. Tom smiled, explained his opening at
home, and mentioned his charge of his late friend's book.

'So you are come out about the book, and just come a few hundred
miles out of the way to bring this bit of news, that you could have
telegraphed,' said the Yankee dame, looking at him with her keen
eyes. 'Well, if you were coming, it was a pity you were not sooner.
She has pined away ever since she came here; and to such a worn-down
condition as hers, poor child, I doubt joy's kinder more upsetting
than trouble, when one is used to it. There; I'll fix the things,
and go up and sit with Avy. She'll be less likely to work herself
into a flight again if she sees me than one of you.'

So Tom--less embarrassed now--found himself sitting by the fire, with
Ella roasting her favourite nuts for him, and Miss Muller opposite.
He was taken by surprise by her beautiful face, elegant figure, and
lady-like manner, and far more by her evidently earnest affection for
Averil.

She told him that ever since the fatal turn of little Minna's
illness, Averil had been subject to distressing attacks of gasping
and rigidity, often passing into faintness; and though at the moment
of emotion she often showed composure and self-command, yet that
nature always thus revenged herself. Suspense--letters from home or
from Henry--even verses, or times connected with the past, would
almost certainly bring on the affection; and the heat of the summer
had relaxed her frame, so as to render it even more unable to resist.
There had been hope in the bracing of winter, but the first frosts
had brought a chill, and a terrible attack of pleurisy, so dangerous
that her brother had been summoned; she had struggled through,
however, and recovered to a certain point, but there had stopped
short, often suffering pain in the side, and never without panting
breath and recurring cough. This had been a slightly better day, and
she had been lying on the sofa, counting the days to Leonard's next
letter, when the well-known voice fell on her ears, and the one
strong effort to control herself had resulted in the frightful
spasms, which had been worse than any Cora had yet witnessed.

'But she will get well, and we shall go home,' said Ella, looking up
wistfully into Tom's mournful face.

'And I shall lose you,' said Cora; 'but indeed I have long seen it
was the only thing. If I had only known, she never should have come
here.'

'No, indeed, I feel that you would have led her to nothing that was
not for her good and comfort.'

'Ah! but I did not know,' said Cora; 'I had not been here--and I only
thought of my own pleasure in having her. But if there is any way of
freeing her from this unfortunate speculation without a dead loss, I
will make father tell me.'

This--from Cora's pretty mouth--though only honest and prudent,
rather jarred upon Tom in the midst of his present fears; and he
began to prepare for his departure to the inn, after having sent up
Ella to ask for her sister, and hearing that she still slept soundly
under the influence of the opiate.

When Averil awoke it was already morning, and Cora was standing by
her bed, with her eyes smiling with congratulation, like veronicas on
a sunny day.

'Cora, is it true?' she said, looking up.

Cora bent down and kissed her, and whispered, 'I wish you joy, my
dear.'

'Then it is,' she said; 'it is not all a dream?'

'No dream, dearest.'

'Who said it?' she asked. 'O, Cora, that could not be true!' and the
colour rose in her cheek.

'That! yes, Averil, if you mean that we had a visitor last evening.
I took him for Leonard, do you know! Only I thought his eyes and
hair did not quite answer the description.'

'He is a very gentleman-like person. Did you not think so?' said
Averil.

'Ah! Ave, I've heard a great deal. Don't you think you had better
tell me some more?'

'No, no!' exclaimed Averil; 'you are not to think of folly,' as
coughing cut her short.

'I'll not think of any more than I can help, except what you tell
me.'

'Never think at all, Cora. Oh! what has brought him here? I don't
know how I can dare to see him again; and yet he is not gone, is he?'

'Oh no, he is only at the inn. He is coming back again.'

'I must be up. Let me get up,' said Averil, raising herself, but
pausing from weakness and breathlessness.

And when they had forced some food upon her, she carried out her
resolution, though twice absolutely fainting in the course of
dressing; and at length crept softly, leaning on Cora's arm, into the
parlour. Though Tom was waiting there, he neither spoke nor came
forward till she was safely placed upon the sofa, and then gathering
breath, she sought him with her eager eyes, shining, large, lustrous,
and wistful, as they looked out of the white thin face, where the
once glowing colour had dwindled to two burning carnation spots. It
was so piteous a change that as he took her hand he was silent, from
sheer inability to speak calmly.

'You have come to tell me,' she said. 'I am afraid I could not thank
you last night.' How different that soft pleading languid voice from
the old half defiant tone!

'I did not know you had been so unwell,' he forced himself to say,
'or I would not have come so suddenly.'

'I am grown so silly' she said, trying to smile. 'I hardly even
understood last night;' and the voice died away in the intense desire
to hear.

'I--I was coming on business, and I thought you would not turn from
the good tidings, though I was the bearer,' he said, in a broken,
agitated, apologetic way.

'Only let me hear it again,' she said. 'Did you say he was free?'

'Yes, free as you are, or I. At home. My father was gone to fetch
him.'

She put her hands over her face, and looked up with the sweetest
smile he had ever seen, and whispered, 'Now I can sing my Nunc
dimittis.'

He could not at once speak; and before he had done more than make one
deprecatory gesture, she asked, 'You have seen him?'

'Not since this--not since September.'

'I know. You have been very good; and he is at home--ah! not home--
but Dr. May's. Was he well? Was he very glad?'

'I have not seen him; I have not heard; you will hear soon. I came
at once with the tidings.'

'Thank you;' and she clasped her hands together. 'Have you seen
Henry? does he know?'

'Could I? Had not you the first right?'

'Leonard! Oh, dear Leonard!' She lay back for a few moments,
panting under the gust of exceeding joy; while he was silent, and
tried not to seem to observe her with his anxious eyes. Then she
recovered a little and said, 'The truth come out! Did you say so?
What was the truth?'

'He paused a moment, afraid of the shock, and remembering that the
suspicion had been all unknown to her. She recalled probabilities,
and said,

'Was it from a confession? Is it known who--who was the real unhappy
person?'

'Yes. Had you no suspicion?'

'No--none,' said Averil, shuddering, 'unless it was some robber. Who
was it?'

'You had never thought of the other nephew?'

'You don't mean Samuel Axworthy! Oh! no. Why the last thing Leonard
bade me, was always to pray for him.'

'Ah!' said Tom, with bent head, and colouring cheeks; 'but who are
those for whom such as Leonard would feel bound to pray?'

There was a moment's silence, and then she said, 'His enemy! Is that
what you mean? But then he would have known it was he.'

'He was entirely convinced that so it must have been, but there was
no proof, and an unsupported accusation would only have made his own
case worse.'

'And has he confessed? has he been touched and cleared Leonard at
last?'

'No; he had no space granted him. It was the receipt in your
brother's writing that was found upon him.'

'The receipt? Yes, Leonard always said the receipt would clear him!
But oh, how dreadful! He must have had it all the time. How could
he be so cruel! Oh! I never felt before that such wickedness could
be;' and she lay, looking appalled and overpowered.

'Think of your brother knowing it all, and bidding--and giving you
that injunction--' said Tom, feeling the necessity of overcoming evil
with good.

'Oh! if I had known it, I could not--I could not have been like
Leonard! And where--what has become of him?' she asked,
breathlessly. 'You speak as if he was dead.'

'Yes. He was killed in a fray at a gaming-house!'

There was a long silence, first of awe, then of thankfulness plainly
beaming in her upraised eyes and transparent countenance, which Tom
watched, filled with sensations, mournful but not wholly wretched.
Shattered as she was, sinking away from her new-found happiness, it
was a precious privilege to be holding to her the longed--for draught
of joy.

'Tell me about it, please,' she presently said. 'Where--how did the
receipt come to light? Were the police told to watch for it? I want
to know whom I have to thank.'

His heart beat high, but there was a spirit within him that could not
brook any attempt to recall the promise he had pursued her with, the
promise that he would not rest till he had proved her brother's
innocence. He dreaded her even guessing any allusion to it, or
fancying he had brought the proffered price in his hand; and when he
began with, 'Can you bear to hear of the most shocking scene I ever
witnessed?' he gave no hint of his true motive in residing at Paris,
of the clue that Bilson's draft had given him in thither pursuing
Axworthy, nor of his severe struggle in relinquishing the quest. He
threw over all the completest accidental air, and scarcely made it
evident that it was he who had recognized the writing, and all that
turned on it. Averil listened to the narration, was silent for some
space, then having gone over it in her own mind, looked up and said--

'Then all this came of your being at that hospital;' and a burning
blush spread over the pale cheek, and made Tom shrink, start, and
feel guilty of having touched the chord of obligation, connected with
that obtrusive pledge of his. Above all, however, to repress emotion
was his prime object; and he calmly answered, 'It was a good
Providence that brought any one there who knew the circumstances.'

She was silent; and he was about to rise and relieve her from the
sense of his presuming on her gratitude, when a cough, accompanied
with a pressure of her hand on her side, betrayed an access of
suffering, that drew him on to his other purpose of endeavouring to
learn her condition, and to do what he could for her relief. His
manner, curiously like his father's, and all the home associations
connected with it, easily drew from her what he wanted to ascertain,
and she perfectly understood its purport, and was calm and even
bright.

'I was glad to be better when Henry went away,' she said; 'he had so
much to do, and we thought I was getting well then. You must not
frighten him and hurry him here, if you please,' she said, earnestly,
'for he must not be wasting his time here, and you think it will last
a month or two, don't you?'

'I want to persuade Henry to bring you all home, and enter into
partnership with Mr. Wright,' said Tom. 'The voyage would--might--it
would be the best thing for you.'

'Could I ever be well enough again? Oh, don't tell me to think about
it! The one thing I asked for before I die has been given me, and
now I know he is free, I will--will not set my mind on anything
else.'

There was a look so near heaven on her face, as she spoke, that Tom
durst not say any more of home, or earthly schemes; but, quiet,
grave, and awe-stricken, left her to the repose she needed, and
betook himself to the other room, where Ella, of course, flew on him,
having been hardly detained by Cora from breaking in before. His
object was to go to see the medical man who had been attending
Averil; and Cora assuring him the horse had nothing to do in the
frost, and telling him the times of the day when he would be most
likely to find Dr. Laidlaw, he set forth.

Averil meantime lay on her sofa calmly happy, and thankful, the worn
and wearied spirit full of rest and gladness unspeakable, in the
fulness of gratitude for the answered prayer that she might know her
brother free before her death. If she had ever doubted of her own
state, she had read full confirmation in her physician's saddened
eyes, and the absence of all hopeful auguries, except the single hint
that she might survive a voyage to England; and that she wished
unsaid. Life, for the last five years, had been mournful work; there
had been one year of blind self-will, discord, and bitterness, then a
crushing stroke, and the rest exhausted submission and hopeless
bending to sorrow after sorrow, with self-reproach running through
all. Wearied out, she was glad to lay down the burthen, and accept
the evening gleam as sunset radiance, without energy to believe it as
the dawn of a brighter day. She shrank from being made even to wish
to see Leonard. If once she began to think it possible, it would be
a hard sacrifice to give it up; and on one point her resolution was
fixed, that she would not be made a cause for bringing him to share
their wretchedness in America. Life and things of life were over
with her, and she would only be thankful for the softening blessings
that came at its close, without stirring up vain longings for more.
That kindness of Tom May, for instance, how soothing it was after her
long self-reproach for her petulant and cutting unjust reply to his
generous affection--generous above all at such a moment!

And after all, it was he--it was he and no other who had cleared
Leonard--he had fulfilled the pledge he had given when he did not
know what he was talking of. How she hated the blush that the sudden
remembrance had called up on her face! It was quite plain that he
had been disgusted by her unkind, undignified, improper tone of
rejection; and though out of humanity he had brought her the tidings,
he would not let her approach to thanking him, she was ashamed that
he should have traced an allusion, the most distant, to the scene he
had, doubtless, loathed in remembrance. He would, no doubt, go away
to-day or to-morrow, and then these foolish thoughts would subside,
and she should be left alone with Cora and her thankfulness, to think
again of the great change before her!

But Tom was not gone. Indeed Averil was much more ill before the
next morning, partly from hysteria, the reaction of the morning's
excitement, and partly from an aggravation of the more serious
pulmonary affection. It was a temporary matter, and one that made
his remaining the merest act of common humanity, since he had found
Dr. Laidlaw a very third-rate specimen, and her brother was too far
off to have arrived in time to be of use. The fresh science and
skill of the young physician were indeed of the highest value, and
under his care Averil rallied after a few days of prostration and
suffering, during which she had watched and observed a good deal, and
especially the good understanding between her doctor and Cora Muller.
When Cousin Deborah was sitting with her, they always seemed to be
talking in the drawing-room; nay, there were reports of his joining
in the fabrication of some of the delicacies that were triumphantly
brought to her room; and Ella was in a state of impatient pique at
being slighted by 'Mr. Tom,' who, she complained, was always fighting
with Cora about their politics; and Cora herself used to bring what
Dr. May had said, as the choicest entertainment to her sick friend;
while to herself he was merely the physician, kind and gentle to the
utmost degree; but keeping his distance so scrupulously, that the
pang awoke that he absolutely disliked her, and only attended her
from common compassion; and, it might be, found consolation in being
thus brought in contact with Cora. Oh, if it were only possible to
own her wrongs, and ask his pardon without a compromise of
maidenliness! Perhaps--perhaps she might, when she was still nearer
death, and when she was supposed to know how it was between him and
Cora. Dear Cora, it would be a beautiful reward for them both, and
they would take care of Ella. Cora would be happier than ever yet
among the Mays--and--Oh! why, why was there so much unkind selfish
jealousy left, that instead of being glad, the notion left her so
very miserable? Why did the prospect of such happiness for her self-
devoted friend and nurse make her feel full of bitterness, and hardly
able to bear it patiently, when she heard her speak the name of Dr.
May?

Averil had again left her bed, and resumed her place on the sofa
before letters arrived. There was Leonard's from Cocksmoor
Parsonage, the first real letter she had had from him since his term
of servitude had begun. It was a grave and thankful letter, very
short, doing little more than mention every one's kindness, and
express a hope of soon meeting her and Ella, however and wherever
Henry should think best. Brief as it was, it made her more
thoroughly realize his liberty, and feel that the yearning towards
him in her heart was growing more and more ardent, in spite of her
strivings not to let it awaken.

The same post brought Henry's answer to Tom May's representation. It
was decisive. He had broken off his whole connection with England,
and did not wish to return to a neighbourhood so full of painful
recollections. He was making his way rapidly upwards in his present
position, and it would be folly to give up the advantages it offered;
moreover, he had no fears of the future well-doing of the Massissauga
Company. As soon as the weather permitted it, he hoped to remove his
sister to a healthier locality for change of air, but she could not
be fit for a journey in the winter. There were plenty of
acknowledgments to the Mays for their kindness to Leonard, from whom
Henry said he had heard, as well as from Dr. May, and others at
Stoneborough. He should advise Leonard by all means to close with
Mr. Bramshaw's offer, for he saw no opening for him in the United
States at present, although the ultimate triumph over rebellion, &c.
&c. &c.--in the most inflated style of Henry's truly adopted country.
No one who had not known the whole affair would ever enter into
Leonard's entire innocence, the stigma of conviction would cleave to
him, and create an impression against him and his family among
strangers, and it was highly desirable that he should remain among
friends. In fact, it was plain that Henry was still ashamed of him,
and wished to be free of a dangerous appendage. Tom was so savagely
angry at this letter that he could only work off his wrath by a wild
expedition in the snow, in the course of which he lost his way,
wandered till the adventure began to grow perilous, came at last upon
a squatter, with great difficulty induced him to indicate the track
sufficiently for his English density, and arrived at Massissauga at
nine o'clock at night. Averil was still on her sofa, quite calm and
quiet, all but her two red spots; but afterwards, in her own room,
she had one of her worst fits of spasms.

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