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The Trial

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Trial




'Where is the old face?' Averil said. 'You look as you did in the
fever. Your smile brings back something of yourself. But, oh, those
hollow eyes!'

'Count Ugolino is Dr. May's name for me: but, indeed, Ave, I have
tried to fatten for your inspection.'

'It is not thinness,' she said, 'but I had carried about with me the
bright daring open face of my own boy. I shall learn to like this
better now.'

'Nay, it is you and Ella that are changed. O, Ave, you never let me
know what a place you were in.'

'There were many things better than you fancy,' she answered; 'and it
is over--it is all gladness now.'

'I see that in your face,' he said, gazing his fill. 'You do look
ill indeed; but, Ave, I never saw you so content.'

'I can't help it,' she said, smiling. 'Every moment comes some fresh
kindness from him. The more trouble I give him the kinder he is. Is
it not as if the tempest was over, and we had been driven into the
smoothest little sunshiny bay?'

'To rest and refit,' he said, thoughtfully.

'For me, "the last long wave;" and a most gentle smooth one it is,'
said Averil; 'for you to refit for a fresh voyage. Dear Leonard, I
have often guessed what you would do.'

'What have you guessed?'

'Only what we used to plan, in the old times after you had been at
Coombe, Leonard.'

'Dear sister! And you would let me go!'

'Our parting is near, any way,' she said, her eye turning to the
print from Ary Scheffer's St. Augustine and Monica. 'Whoever gave us
that, divined how we ought to feel in these last days together.'

'It was Richard May's gift,' said Leonard. 'Ave, there was nothing
wanting but your liking this.'

'Then so it is?' she asked.

'Unless the past disqualifies me,' he said. 'I have spoken to no one
yet, except little Dickie. When I thought I ought to find some
present employment, and wanted to take a clerkship at Bramshaw's, Dr.
May made me promise to wait till I had seen you before I fixed on
anything; but my mind is made up, and I shall speak now--with your
blessing on it, Ave.'

'I knew it!' she said.

He saw it was safer to quit this subject, and asked for Henry.

'He sent his love. He met us at New York. He is grown so soldierly,
with such a black beard, that he is more grown out of knowledge than
any of us, but I scarcely saw him, for he was quite overset at my
appearance, and Tom thought it did me harm. I wish our new sister
would have come to see me.

'Sister!'

'Oh, did you not know? I thought Tom had written! She is a
Virginian lady, whose first husband was a doctor, who died of camp-
fever early in the war. A Federal, of course. And they are to be
married as soon as Charleston has fallen.'

Leonard smiled. And Averil expressed her certainty that it had
fallen by that time.

'And he is quite Americanized?' asked Leonard. 'Does he return to
our own name! No? Then I do not wonder he did not wish for me.
Perhaps he may yet bear to meet me, some day when we are grown old.'

'At least we can pray to be altogether, where one is gone already'
said Averil. 'That was the one comfort in parting with the dear
Cora--my blessing through all the worst! Leonard, she would not go
to live in the fine house her father has taken at New York, but she
is gone to be one of the nurses in the midst of all the hospital
miseries. And, oh, what comfort she will carry with her!'

Here Tom returned, but made no objection to her brother's stay,
perceiving that his aspect and voice were like fulness to the hungry
heart that had pined so long--but keeping all the others away; and
they meanwhile were much entertained by Ella, who was in joyous
spirits; a little subdued, indeed, by the unknown brother, but in his
absence very communicative. Gertrude was greatly amused with her
account of the marriage, in the sitting-room at Massissauga, and of
Tom's being so unprepared for the brevity of the American form, that
he never knew where he was in the Service, and completed it with a
puzzled 'Is that all?'

Averil had, according to Ella, been infinitely more calm and
composed. 'She does nothing but watch his eyes,' said Ella; 'and
ever since we parted from Cora, I have had no one to speak to! In
the cabin he never stirred from sitting by her; and if she could
speak at all, it was so low that I could not hear. School will be
quite lively.'

'Are you going to school?'

'Oh yes! where Ave was. That is quite fixed; and I have had enough
of playing third person,' said Ella, with her precocious Western
manner. 'You know I have all my own property, so I shall be on no
one's hands! Oh, and Cora made her father buy all Ave's Massissauga
shares--at a dead loss to us of course.'

'Well,' said Gertrude, 'I am sorry Tom is not an American share-
holder. It was such fun!'

'He wanted to have made them all over to Henry; but Cora was
determined; and her father is making heaps of money as a commissary,
so I am sure he could afford it. Some day, when the rebellion is
subdued, I mean to go and see Cora and Henry and his wife,' added
Ella, whose tinge of Americanism formed an amusing contrast with
Dickie's colonial ease--especially when she began to detail the
discomforts of Massissauga, and he made practical suggestions for the
remedies of each--describing how mamma and he himself managed.

The younger ones had all gone to bed, Richard had returned home, and
Ethel was waiting to let her father in, when Leonard came back with
the new arrivals.

'I did not think you would be allowed to stay so late,' said Ethel.

'We did not talk much. I was playing chants most of the time; and
after she went to bed, I stayed with Tom.'

'What do you think of her?'

'I cannot think. I can only feel a sort of awe. End as it may, it
will have been a blessed thing to have had her among us like this.'

'Yes, it ought to do us all good. And I think she is full of
enjoyment.'

'Perfect enjoyment!' repeated Leonard. 'Thank God for that!'

After some pause, during which he turned over his pocket-book, as if
seeking for something, he came to her, and said, 'Miss May, Averil
has assented to a purpose that has long been growing up within me--
and that I had rather consult you about than any one, because you
first inspired it.'

'I think I know the purpose you mean,' said Ethel, her heart beating
high.

'The first best purpose of my boyhood,' he said. 'If only it may be
given back to me! Will you be kind enough to look over this rough
copy?'

It was the draught of a letter to the Missionary Bishop, Mr.
Seaford's diocesan, briefly setting forth Leonard's early history,
his conviction, and his pardon, referring to Archdeacon May as a
witness to the truth of his narrative.

'After this statement,' he proceeded, 'it appears to me little short
of effrontery to offer myself for any share of the sacred labour in
which your Lordship is engaged; and though it had been the wish of
the best days of my youth, I should not have ventured on the thought
but for the encouragement I received from Mr. Seaford, your
Lordship's chaplain. I have a small income of my own, so that I
should not be a burthen on the mission, and understanding that
mechanical arts are found useful, I will mention that I learnt
shoemaking at Milbank, and carpentry at Portland, and I would gladly
undertake any manual occupation needed in a mission. Latterly I was
employed in the schoolmaster's department; and I have some knowledge
of music. My education is of course, imperfect, but I am
endeavouring to improve myself. My age is twenty-one; I have good
health, and I believe I can bring power of endurance and willingness
to be employed in any manner that may be serviceable, whether as
artisan or catechist.'

'I don't think they will make a shoemaker of you,' said Ethel, with
her heart full.

'Will they have me at all? There will always be a sort of ticket-of-
leave flavour about me,' said Leonard, speaking simply, straight-
forwardly, but without dejection; 'and I might be doubtful material
for a mission.'

'Your brother put that in your head.'

'He implied that my case half known would be a discredit to him, and
I am prepared for others thinking so. If so, I can get a situation
at Portland, and I know I can be useful there; but when such a hope
as this was opened to me again, I could not help making an attempt.
Do you think I may show that letter to Dr. May?'

'O, Leonard, this is one of the best days of one's life!'

'But what,' he asked, as she looked over the letter, 'what shall I
alter?'

'I do not know, only you are so business-like; you do not seem to
care enough.'

'If I let myself out, it would look like unbecoming pressing of
myself, considering what I am; but if you think I ought, I will say
more. I have become so much used to writing letters under
constraint, that I know I am very dry.'

'Let papa see it first,' said Ethel. 'After all, earnestness is best
out of sight.'

'Mr. Wilmot and he shall decide whether I may send it,' he said; 'and
in the meantime I would go to St. Augustine's, if they will have me.'

'I see you have thought it all over.'

'Yes. I only waited to have spoken with my sister, and she--dear,
dear Ave--had separately thought of such a destination for me. It
was more than acquiescence, more than I dared to hope!'

'Her spirit will be with you, wherever she is! And,' with a sudden
smile, 'Leonard, was not this the secret between you and Dickie?'

'Yes,' said Leonard, smiling too; 'the dear little fellow is so fresh
and loving, as well as so wise and discreet, that he draws out all
that is in one's heart. It has been a new life to me ever since he
took to me! Do you know, I believe he has been writing a letter of
recommendation of me on his own account to the Bishop; I told him he
must enclose it to his father if he presumed to send it, though he
claims the Bishop as his intimate friend.'

'Ah,' said Ethel, 'papa is always telling him that they can't get on
in New Zealand for want of the small archdeacon, and that, I really
think, abashes him more than anything else.'

'He is not forward, he is only sensible,' said Leonard, on whose
heart Dickie had far too fast a hold for even this slight
disparagement not to be rebutted. 'I had forgotten what a child
could be till I was with him; I felt like a stock or a stone among
you all.'

Ethel smiled. 'I was nearly giving you "Marmion", in remembrance of
old times, on the night of the Christmas-tree,' she said; 'but I did
not then feel as if the "giving double" for all your care and trouble
had begun.'

'The heart to feel it so was not come,' said Leonard; 'now since I
have grasped this hope of making known to others the way to that
Grace that held me up,'--he paused with excess of feeling--'all has
been joy, even in the recollection of the darkest days. Mr. Wilmot's
words come back now, that it may all have been training for my
Master's work. Even the manual labour may have been my preparation!'
His eyes brightened, and he was indeed more like the eager, hopeful
youth she remembered than she had ever hoped to see him; but this
brightness was the flash of steel, tried, strengthened, and refined
in the fire--a brightness that might well be trusted.

'One knew it must be so,' was all she could say.

'Yes, yes,' he said, eagerly. 'You sent me words of greeting that
held up my faith; and, above all, when we read those books at Coombe,
you put the key of comfort in my hand, and I never quite lost it.
Miss May,' he added, as Dr. May's latch-key was heard in the front
door, 'if ever I come to any good, I owe it to you!'

And that was the result of the boy's romance. The first tidings of
the travellers next morning were brought near the end of breakfast by
Tom, who came in looking thin, worn, and anxious, saying that Averil
had called herself too happy to sleep till morning, when a short doze
had only rendered her feeble, exhausted, and depressed.

'I shall go and see her,' said Dr. May; 'I like my patients best in
that mood.'

Nor would the Doctor let his restless, anxious son do more than make
the introduction, but despatched him to the Hospital; whence
returning to find himself still excluded, he could endure nothing but
pacing up and down the lawn in sight of his father's head in the
window, and seeking as usual Ethel's sympathy.

There was some truth in what Charles Cheviot had said. Wedlock did
enhance the grief and loss, and Tom found the privilege of these
months of tendance more heart-wringing than he had anticipated,
though of course more precious and inestimable. Moreover, Averil's
depression had been a phase of her illness which had not before
revealed itself in such a degree.

'Generally,' he said, 'she has talked as if what she looks to were
all such pure hope and joy, that though it broke one's heart to hear
it, one saw it made her happy, and could stand it. Fancy, Ethel, not
an hour after we were married, I found her trying the ring on this
finger, and saying I should be able to wear it like my father! It
seemed as if she would regret nothing but my sorrow, and that my
keeping it out of sight was all that was needful to her happiness.
But to-day she has been blaming herself for--for grieving to leave
all so soon, just as her happiness might have been beginning! Think,
Ethel! Reproaching herself for unthankfulness even to tears! It
might have been more for her peace to have remained with her where
she had no revival of these associations, if they are only pain to
her.'

'Oh no, no, Tom. It only proves the pleasure they do give her. You
know, better than I do, that there must be ups and downs, failures of
spirits from fatigue when the will is peaceful and resigned.'

'I know it. I know it with my understanding, Ethel, but as to
reasoning about her as if she was anybody else, the thing is mere
mockery. What can my father be about?' he added, for the twentieth
time. 'Talking to her in the morning always knocks her up. If he
had only let me warn him; but he hurried me off in his inconsiderate
way.'

At last, however, the head disappeared, and Tom rushed indoors.

'So, Tom, you have made shorter work of twenty-five patients than I
of one.'

'I'll go again,' said poor Tom, in the desperation of resolute
meekness, 'only let me see how she is.'

'Let Ethel go up now. She is very cheery except for a little
headache.'

While Ethel obeyed, Dr. May began a minute interrogation of his son,
so lengthened that Tom could hardly restrain sharp impatient replies
to such apparent trifling with his agony to learn how long his father
thought he could keep his treasure, and how much suffering might be
spared to her.

At last Dr. May said, 'I may be wrong. Your science is fresher than
mine; but to me there seem indications that the organic disease is in
the way of being arrested. Good health of course she cannot have;
but if she weathers another winter, I think you may look for as many
years of happiness with her as in an ordinary case.'

It was the first accent of hope since the hysteric scream that had
been his greeting, and all his reserve and dread of emotion: could
not prevent his covering his face with his hands, and sobbing aloud.
'Father, father,' he said, 'you cannot tell what this is to me!'

'I can in part, my boy,' said the Doctor, sadly.

'And,' he started up and walked about the room, 'you shall have the
whole treatment. I will only follow your measures. No one at New
York saw the slightest hope of checking it.'

'They had your account, and you hardly allowed enough for the
hysterical affection. I do not say it is certainty--far less,
health.'

'Any way, any way, if I may only have her to lie and look at me, it
is happiness unlooked for! You don't think I could have treated her
otherwise?'

'No. Under His blessing you saved her yourself. You would have
perceived the change if she had been an indifferent person.'

Tom made another turn to the door, and came back still half wild, and
laid his face on his arms upon the table. 'You tell her,' he said,
'I shall never be able--'

Knocking at Averil's door, Dr. May was answered by a call of 'Tom.'

'Not this time, my dear. He is coming, but we have been talking you
over. Ave, you have a very young doctor, and rather too much
interested.'

'Indeed!' she said, indignantly; 'he has made me much better.'

'Exactly so, my dear; so much better that he agrees with me that he
expressed a strong opinion prematurely.'

'They thought the same at New York,' she said, still resolved on his
defence.

'My dear, unless you are bent on growing worse in order to justify
his first opinion, I think you will prove that which he now holds.
And, Ave, it was, under Providence, skill that we may be proud of by
which he has subdued the really fatal disorder. You may have much to
undergo, and must submit to a sofa life and much nursing, but I think
you will not leave him so soon.'

There was a long pause; at last she said, 'O, Dr. May, I beg your
pardon. If I had known, I would never--'

'Never what, my dear?'

'Never have consented! It is such a grievous thing for a
professional man to have a sick wife.'

'It is exactly what he wanted, my dear, if you will not fly at me for
saying so. Nothing else could teach him that patients are not cases
but persons; and here he comes to tell you what he thinks of the
trouble of a sick wife.'

'Well,' said Dr. May, as he and Ethel walked away together, 'poor
young things, they have a chequered time before them. Pretty well
for the doctor who hated sick people, Wards, and Stoneborough; but,
after all, I have liked none of our weddings better. I like people
to rub one another brighter.'

'And I am proud when the least unselfish nature has from first to
last done the most unselfish things. No one of us has ever given up
so much as Tom, and I am sure he will be happy in it.'

More can hardly be said without straying into the realms of
prediction; yet such of our readers as are bent on carrying on their
knowledge of the Daisies beyond the last sentence, may be told that,
to the best of our belief, Leonard's shoemaking is not his foremost
office in the mission, where he finds that fulness of hopeful
gladness which experience shows is literally often vouchsafed to
those who have given up home, land, and friends, for the Gospel's
sake. His letters are the delight of more than one at Stoneborough;
and his sister, upon her sofa, is that home member of a mission
without whom nothing can be done--the copier of letters, the depot of
gifts, the purveyor of commissions, the maker of clothes, the
collector of books, the keeper of accounts--so that the house still
merits the name of the S. P. G. office, as it used to be called in
the Spenserian era. But Mrs. Thomas May is a good deal more than
this. Her sofa is almost a renewal of the family centre that once
Margaret's was; the region where all tidings are brought fresh for
discussion, all joys and sorrows poured out, the external influence
that above all has tended to soften Gertrude into the bright grace of
womanhood. Mary Cheviot and Blanche Ernescliffe cannot be cured of a
pitying 'poor Tom'--as they speak of 'the Professor'--in which title
the awkward sound of Dr. Tom has been merged since an appointment
subsequent to the appearance of the "Diseases of Climate". But every
one else holds that not his honours as a scientific physician, his
discoveries, and ably-written papers--not even his father's full and
loving confidence and gratitude, give Professor May as much happiness
as that bright-eyed delicate wife, with whom all his thoughts seem to
begin and end.

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