The Trial; Or, More Links of the Daisy Chain Part 67

'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 gla.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.s. 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 pa.s.sing 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 antic.i.p.ate him. Indeed, he presented himself at the prison gates only two hours after the arrival of the doc.u.ments, 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 a.s.sumed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sive, 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 a.s.sertion; 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?'