The Two Sides of the Shield Part 50

'I don't blow properly,' said Dolores.

'I think I can say him,' said Mysie, and the little girls sat with enfolded arms, while Mysie reverently went through the parable.

'But he had been very wicked indeed,' objected Dolores, 'what one calls dissipated. Isn't that making too much of such things as girls like us can do.'

'I don't know,' said Mysie, knitting her young brows; 'you see if we are as bad as ever we can be while we are at home, it is really and truly as bad in us ourselves as in shocking people that run away, because it shows we might have done anything if we had not been taken care of. And the poor son felt as if he could not be pardoned, which is just what you do feel.'

'Aunt Lily forgives me,' said Dolores, wistfully.

'And your father will, I'm sure,' said Mysie, 'though he is yet a great way off. And as to Uncle Regie, I do wish something would happen that you could tell the truth about. If you had only broken the palm-tree instead of me, and I didn't do right even about that! But if any mischief does happen, or accident, I promise you, Dolly, you shall have the telling of it, if you have had ever so little to do with it, and then mamma will write to Uncle Regie that you have proved yourself truthful.'

Dolores did not seem much consoled by this curious promise, and Mysie's childishness suddenly gave way to something deeper. 'I suppose,' she said, 'if one is true, people find it out and trust one.'

'People can't see into one,' said Dolly.

'Mamma says there is a bright side and a dark side from which to look at everybody and everything,' said Mysie.

'I know that,' said Dolores; 'I looked at the dark side of you all when I came here.'

'Some day,' said Mysie, 'your bright side will come round to Uncle Regie, as it has to us, you dear, dear old Dolly.'

'But do you know, Mysie,' whispered Dolores, in her embrace, 'there's something more dreadful that I'm very much afraid of. Do you know there hasn't been a letter from father since he was staying with Aunt Phyllis--not to me, nor Aunt Jane, nor anybody!'

'Well, he couldn't write when he was at sea, I mean there wasn't any post.'

'It would not take so long as this to get to Fiji; and besides. Uncle Regie telegraphed to ask about that dreadful cheque, and there hasn't been any answer at all.'

'Perhaps he is gone about sailing somewhere in the Pacific Ocean; I heard Uncle William saying so to Cousin Rotherwood.' He said, 'Maurice is not a fellow to resist a cruise.'

'Then they are thinking about it. They are anxious.'

'Not very,' said Mysie, 'for they think he is sure to be gone on a cruise. They said something about his going down like a carpenter into the deep sea.'

'Making deep-sea soundings, like Dr. Carpenter! A carpenter, indeed!'

said Dolores, laughing for a moment. 'Oh! if it is that, I don't mind.'

The weight was lifted, but by-and-by, when the two girls said their prayers together, poor Dolores broke forth again, 'Oh, Mysie, Mysie, your papa has all--all of you, besides mamma, to pray that he may be kept safe, and my father has only me, only horrid me, to pray for him, and even I have never cared to do it really till just lately! Oh, poor, poor father! And suppose he should be drowned, and never, never have forgiven me!'

It was a trouble and misery that recurred night after night, though apparently it weighed much less during the day--and n.o.body but Mysie knew how much Dolores was suffering from it. Lady Merrifield was increasingly anxious as time went on, and still no mail brought letters from Mr. Mohun, but confidence based on his erratic habits, and the uncertainty of communication began to fail. And as she grieved more for the possible loss, she became more and more tender to her niece, and strange to say, in spite of the terror that gnawed so achingly every night, and of the ordeal that the Lent a.s.sizes would bring, Dolores was happier and more peaceful than ever before at Silverton, and developed more of her bright side.

'I really think,' wrote Lady Merrifield to Miss Mohun, 'that she is growing more simple and child-like, poor little maid. She is apparently free from all our apprehensions about dear Maurice, and I would not inspire her with them for the world. Neither does she seem to dread the trial, as I do for her, nor to guess what cross-examination may be.

Constance Hacket has been subpoenaed, and her sister expatiates on her nervousness. It is one comfort that Reginald must be there as a witness, so that it is not in the power of Irish disturbances to keep him from us! May we only be at ease about Maurice by that time!'

CHAPTER XXI. -- IN COURT AND OUT.

How Dolores's heart beat when Colonel Mohun drove up to the door! She durst not run out to greet him among her cousins; but stood by her aunt, feeling hot and cold and trembling, in the doubt whether he would kiss her.

Yes, she did feel his kiss, and Mysie looked at her in congratulation.

But what did it mean? Was it only that it came as a matter of course, and he forgot to withhold it, or was it that he had given up hopes of her father, and was sorry for her? She could not make up her mind, for he came so late in the evening that she scarcely saw him before bedtime, and he did not take any special notice of her the next morning. He had done his best to save her from being long detained at Darminster, by ascertaining as nearly as possible when Flinders's case would come on, and securing a room at the nearest inn, where she might await a summons into court. Lady Merrifield was going with them, but would not take either of her daughters, thinking that every home eye would be an additional distress, and that it was better that no one should see or remember Dolores as a witness.

Miss Mohun met the party at the station, going off, however, with her brother into court, after having established Lady Merrifield and her niece in an inn parlour, where they kept as quiet as they could, by the help of knitting, and reading aloud. Lady Merrifield found that Dolores had been into court before, and knew enough about it to need no explanation or preparation, and being much afraid of causing agitation, she thought it best only to try to interest her in such tales as 'Neale's Triumphs of the Cross,' instead of letting her dwell on what she most dreaded, the sight of the prisoner, and the punishment her words might bring upon him.

The morning ended, and Uncle Reginald brought word that his case would come on immediately after luncheon. This he shared with his sister and niece, saying that Jane had gone to a pastrycook's with--with Rotherwood--thinking this best for Dolly. He seemed to be in strangely excited spirits, and was quite his old self to Dolores, tempting her to eat, and showing himself so entirely the kind uncle that she would have been quite cheered up if she had not been afraid that it was all out of pity, and that he knew something dreadful.

Lord Rotherwood met them at the hotel entrance, and took his cousin on his arm; Dolores following with her uncle, was sure that she gave a great start at something that he said; but she had to turn in a different direction to wait under the charge of her uncle, who treated her as if she were far more childish and inexperienced in the ways of courts than she really was, and instructed her in much that she knew perfectly well; but it was too comfortable to have him kind to her for her to take the least offence, and she only said 'Yes' and 'Thank you'

at the proper places.

The sheriff, meantime, had given Lord Rotherwood and Lady Merrifield seats near the judge, where Miss Mohun was already installed. Alfred Flinders was already at the bar, and for the first time Lady Merrifield saw his somewhat handsome but shifty-looking face and red beard, as the counsel for the prosecution was giving a detailed account of his embarra.s.sed finances, and of his having obtained from the inexperienced kindness of a young lady, a mere child in age, who called him uncle, though without blood relationship, a draft of her father's for seven pounds, which, when presented at the bank, had become one for seventy.

As before, the presenting and cashing of the seventy pounds was sworn to by the banker's clerk, and then Dolores Mary Mohun was called.

There she stood, looking smaller than usual in her black, close-fitting dress and hat, in a place meant for grown people, her dark face pale and set, keeping her eyes as much as she could from the prisoner. When the counsel spoke she gave a little start, for she knew him, as one who had often spent an evening with her parents, in the cheerful times while her mother lived. There was something in the familiar glance of his eyes that encouraged her, though he looked so much altered by his wig and gown, and it seemed strange that he should question her, as a stranger, on her exact name and age, her father's absence, the connection with the prisoner, and present residence. Then came:

'Did your father leave any money with you?'

'Yes.'

'What was the amount?'

'Five pounds for myself; seven besides.'

'In what form was the seven pounds?'

'A cheque from W.'s bank.'

'Did you part with it?'

'Yes.'

'To whom?'

'I sent it to him.'

'To whom if you please?'

'To Mr. Alfred Flinders.' And her voice trembled.

'Can you tell me when you sent it away?'

'It was on the 22nd of December.'

'Is this the cheque?'

'It has been altered.'