"Of what nature was the abuse?" asked the counsel.
"I do not recollect the precise terms. It was to the effect that he, the deceased, tippled away his money instead of paying his debts. The man backed against the wall as he spoke: he appeared to have had rather too much himself. I drew the deceased on, and we were soon out of hearing."
"What became of the man?"
"I do not know. We left him standing against the wall. He called loudly after the deceased to know when his bill was to be paid. I judged him to be some petty tradesman."
"Did he follow you?"
"No. At least, we heard no more of him afterwards. I saw the deceased safely within his own gate, and left him."
"What state, as to sobriety, was the deceased in then?"
"He was what may be called half-seasover," replied the witness. "He could talk, but his words were not very distinct."
"Could he walk alone?"
"After a fashion. He stumbled as he walked."
"What time was this?"
"About half-past eleven. I think the half-hour struck directly after I left him, but I am not quite sure."
"As you returned, did you see anything of the man who had accosted the deceased?"
"Not anything."
Strange to say the very man thus spoken of was in court, listening to the trial. Upon hearing the evidence given by Mr. Brittle, he voluntarily came forward as a witness. He said he had been "having a drop," and it had made him abusive, but that Anthony Dare had owed him money long for work done, mending and making. He was a jobbing tailor, and the bill was a matter of fourteen pounds. Anthony Dare had only put him off and off; he was a poor man, with a wife and family to keep, and he wanted the money badly; but now, he supposed, he should never be paid. He lived close to the spot where he met the deceased and the gentleman who had just given evidence, and he could prove that he went home as soon as they were out of sight, and was in bed at half-past eleven. What with debts and various other things, he concluded the town had had enough to rue in young Anthony Dare. Still, the poor fellow didn't deserve such a shocking fate as murder, and he would have been the first to protect him from it.
That the evidence was given in good faith, was undoubted. He was known to the town as a harmless, inoffensive man, addicted, though upon rare occasions, to taking more than was good for him, when he was apt to dilate upon his grievances.
The constable who had been on duty that night near Mr. Dare's residence was the next witness called. "Did you see the deceased that night?" was asked of him.
"Yes, sir, I did," was the reply. "I saw him walking home with the gentleman who has given evidence—Mr. Brittle. I noticed that young Mr. Dare talked thick, as if he had been drinking."
"Did they appear to be on good terms?"
"Very good terms, sir. Mr. Brittle was laughing when he opened the gate for the deceased, and told him to mind he did not kiss the grass; or something to that effect."
"Were you close to them?"
"Quite close, sir. I said 'Good night' to the deceased, but he seemed not to notice it. I stood and watched him over the grass. He reeled as he walked."
"What time was this?"
"Nigh upon half-past eleven, sir."
"Did you detect any signs of people moving within the house?"
"Not any, sir. The house seemed quite still, and the blinds were down before the windows."
"Did you see any one enter the gate that night besides the deceased?"
"Not any one."
"Not the prisoner?"
"Not any one," repeated the policeman.
"Did you see anything of the prisoner later, between half-past one and two, the time he alleges as that of his going home?"
"I never saw the prisoner at all that night, sir."
"He could have gone in, as he states, without your seeing him?" interposed the prisoner's counsel.
"Yes, certainly, a dozen times over. My beat extended to half-a-mile beyond Mr. Dare's."
One witness, who was placed in the box, created a profound sensation: for it was the unhappy father, Anthony Dare. Since the deed was committed, two months ago, Mr. Dare had been growing old. His brow was furrowed, his cheeks were wrinkled, his hair was turning white, and he looked, as he obeyed the call to the witness-box, as a man sinking under a heavy weight of care. Many of the countenances present expressed deep commiseration for him.
He was sworn, and various questions were asked him. Amongst others, whether he knew anything of the quarrel which had taken place between his two sons.
"Personally, nothing," was the reply. "I was not at home."
"It has been testified that when they were parted, your son Herbert threatened his brother. Is he of a revengeful disposition?"
"No," replied Mr. Dare, with emotion; "that, I can truly say, he is not. My poor son, Anthony, was somewhat given to sullenness; but Herbert never was."
"There had been a great deal of ill-feeling between them of late, I believe."
"I fear there had been."
"It is stated that you yourself, upon leaving home that evening, left them a warning not to quarrel. Was it so?"
"I believe I did. Anthony entered the house as we were leaving it, and I did say something to him to that effect."
"The prisoner was not present?"
"No. He had not returned."
"It is proved that he came home later, dined, and went out again at dusk. It does not appear that he was seen afterwards by any member of your household, until you yourself went up to his room and found him there, after the discovery of the body. His own account is, that he had only recently returned. Do you know where he was, during his absence?"
"No."
"Or where he went to?"
"No," repeated the witness in sadly faltering tones, for he knew that this was the one weak point in the defence.
"He will not tell you?"
"He declines to do so. But," the witness added, with emotion, "he has denied his guilt to me from the first, in the most decisive manner: and I solemnly believe him to be innocent. Why he will not state where he was, I cannot conceive; but not a shade of doubt rests upon my mind that he could state it if he chose, and that it would be the means of establishing the fact of his absence. I would not assert this if I did not believe it," said the witness, raising his trembling hand. "They were both my boys: the one destroyed was my eldest, perhaps my dearest; and I declare that I would not, knowingly, screen his assassin, although that assassin were his brother."
The case for the prosecution concluded, and the defence was entered upon. The prisoner's counsel—two of them eminent men, Mr. Chattaway himself being no secondary light in the forensic world—laboured under one disadvantage, as it appeared to the crowded court. They exerted all their eloquence in seeking to divert the guilt from the prisoner: but they could not—distort facts as they might, call upon imagination as they would—they could not conjure up the ghost of any other channel to which to direct suspicion. There lay the weak point, as it had lain throughout. If Herbert Dare was not guilty, who was? The family, quietly sleeping in their beds, were beyond the pale of suspicion; the household equally so; and no trace of any midnight intruder to the house could be found. It was a grave stumbling-block for the prisoner's counsel; but such stumbling-blocks are as nothing to an expert pleader. Bit by bit Mr. Chattaway disposed, or seemed to dispose, of every argument that could tell against the prisoner. The presence of the cloak in the dining-room, from which so much appearance of guilt had been deduced, he converted into a negative proof of innocence. "Had he been the one engaged in the struggle," argued the learned Q.C., "would he have been mad enough to leave his own cloak there, underneath his victim, a damning proof of guilt? No! that, at any rate, he would have taken away. The very fact of the cloak being under the murdered man was a most indisputable proof, as he regarded it, that the prisoner remained totally ignorant of what had happened—ignorant of his unfortunate brother's being at all in the dining-room. Why! had he only surmised that his brother was lying, wounded or dead, in the room, would he not have hastened to remove his cloak out of it, before it should be seen there, knowing, as he must know, that, from the very terms on which he and his brother had been, it would be looked upon as a proof of his guilt?" The argument told well with the jury—probably with the judge.
Bit by bit, so did he thus dispose of the suspicious circumstances: of all, except one. And that was the great one, the one that nobody could get over: the refusal of the prisoner to state where he was that night. "All in good time, gentlemen of the jury," said Mr. Chattaway, some murmured words reaching his ear that the omission was deemed ominous. "I am coming to that later; and I shall prove as complete and distinct analibias it was ever my lot to submit to an enlightened court."
The court listened, the jury listened, the spectators listened, and "hoped he might." He had spoken, for the most part, to incredulous ears.
When the speech of the counsel ended, and the time came for the production of the witness or witnesses who were to prove thealibi, there appeared to be some delay. The intense heat of the court had been growing greater with every hour. The rays of the afternoon sun, now sinking lower and lower in the heavens, had only brought with them a more deadly feeling of suffocation. But, to go out for a breath of air, even had the thronged state of the passages permitted the movement, appeared to enter into no one's thoughts. Their suspense was too keen, their interest too absorbing. Who were those mysterious witnesses, that would testify to the innocence of Herbert Dare?
A stir at the extreme end of the court, where it joined the other passage. Every eye was strained to see, every ear to listen, as an usher came clearing the way. "By your leave there—by your leave; room for a witness!"
The spectators looked, and stretched their necks, and looked again. A few among them experienced a strange thrill of disappointment, and felt that they should have much pleasure in being allowed the privilege of boxing the usher's ears, for he preceded no one more important than Richard Winthorne, the lawyer. Ah, but wait a bit! What short and slight figure is it that Mr. Winthorne is guiding along? The angry crowd have not caught sight of her yet.
But, when they do—when the drooping, shrinking form is at length in the witness-box; her eyes never raised, her lovely face bent in timid dread—then a murmur arises, and shakes the court to its foundation. The judge feels for his glasses—rarely used—and puts them across his nose, and gazes at her. A fair girl, attired in the simple, modest garb peculiar to the sect called Quakers, not more modest than the lovely and gentle face. She does not take the oath, only the affirmation peculiar to her people.
"What is your name?" commenced the prisoner's counsel.
That she spoke words in reply, was evident, by the moving of her lips: but they could not be heard.
"You must speak up," interposed the judge, in tones of kindness.
A deep struggle for breath, an effort of which even those around could see the pain, and the answer came. "They call me Anna. I am the daughter of Samuel Lynn."
"Where do your live?"
"I live with my father and Patience, in the London Road."
"What do you know of the prisoner at the bar?"
A pause. She probably did not understand the sort of answer required. One came that was unexpected.
"I know him to be innocent of the crime of which he is accused."
"How do you know this?"
"Because he could not have been near the spot at the time."
"Where was he then?"
"With me."
But the reply came forth in so faint a whisper that again she had to be enjoined to speak louder, and she repeated it, using different words.
"He was at our house."
"At what hour did he go to your house?"
"It was past nine when he came up first."
"And what time did he leave?"
"It was about one in the morning."
The answer appeared to create some stir. A late hour for a sober little Quakeress to confess to.
"Was he spending the evening with your friends?"
"No."
"Did they not know he was there?"
"No."
"It was a clandestine visit to yourself, then? Where were they?"
A pause, and a very trembling answer. "They were in bed."
"Oh! You were entertaining him by yourself, then?"
She burst into tears. The judge let fall his glasses as though under the pressure of some annoyance, every feature of his fine face expressive of compassion: it may be, his thoughts had flown to daughters of his own. The crowd stood with open mouths, gaping with undisguised astonishment, and the burly Queen's counsel proceeded.
"And so he prolonged his visit until one o'clock in the morning?"
"I was locked out," she sobbed. "That is how he came to stay so late."
Bit by bit, with question and cross-questioning, it all came out: that Herbert Dare had been in the habit of paying stolen visits to the field, and that Anna had been in the habit of meeting him there. That she had gone in on this night just before ten, which was later than she had ever stayed out before: but, finding Hester had to go out for medicine for Patience, she had run to the field again to take a book to the prisoner; and that upon attempting to enter soon afterwards, she found the door locked, Hester having met the doctor's boy, and come back at once. She told it all, as simply and guilelessly as a child.
"What were you doing all that time? From ten o'clock until one in the morning?"
"I was sitting on the door-step, crying."
"Was the prisoner with you?"
"Yes. He stood by me part of the time, telling me not to be afraid; and the rest of the time—more than an hour, I think—he was working at the wires of the pantry window, to try to get in."
"Was he all that time at the wires?"
"It was a long time before I remembered the pantry window. He wanted to knock up Hester, but I was afraid to let him. I feared she might tell Patience, and they would have been so angry with me. He got in, at last, at the pantry window, and he opened the kitchen window for me, and I went in by it."
"And you mean to say he was all that time, till one o'clock in the morning, forcing the wires of a pantry window?" cried Sergeant Seeitall.
"It was nearly one. I am telling thee the truth."
"And you did not lose sight of the prisoner from the time he first came to the field, at nine o'clock, until he left you at one?"
"Only for the few minutes—it may have been four or five—when I ran in and came out again with the book. He waited in the field."
"What time was that?"
"The ten o'clock bell was going in Helstonleigh. We could hear it."
"He was with you all the rest of the time."
"Yes, all. When he was working at the pantry window I could not see him, because he was round the angle of the house, but I could hear him at the wires. Not a minute of the time but I heard him. He was more than an hour at the wires, as I have told thee."
"And until he began at the wires?"
"He was standing up by me, telling me not to be afraid."
"All the time? You affirm this?"
"I am affirming all that I say to thee. I am speaking as before my Maker."
"Don't you think it is a pretty confession for a young lady to make?"
She burst into fresh tears. The judge turned his grave face upon Sergeant Seeitall. But the sergeant had impudence enough for ten.
"Pray, how many times had that pretty little midnight drama been enacted?" he continued, whilst Anna sobbed in distress.
"Never before," burst forth a deep voice. "Don't you see it was a pure accident, as she tells you? How dare you treat her as you might a shameless witness?"
The interruption—one of powerful emotion—had come from the prisoner. At the sound of his voice, Anna started, and looked round hurriedly to the quarter whence it came. It was the first time she had raised her eyes to the court since entering the witness-box. She had glanced up to answer whoever questioned her, and that was all.
"Well?" said Sergeant Seeitall, as if demanding what else she might have to communicate.
"I have no more to tell. I have told thee all I know. It was nearly one o'clock when he went away, and I never saw him after."
"Did the prisoner wear a cloak when he came to the field that night?"
"No. He wore one sometimes, but he did not have it on that night. It was very warm——"
But, at that moment, Anna Lynn became conscious that a familiar face was strained upon her from the midst of the crowd: familiar, and yet not familiar; for the face was distorted from its natural look, and was blanched, as of one in the last agony—the face of Samuel Lynn. With a sharp cry of pain—of dread—Anna fell on the floor in a fainting fit. What the shame of being before that public court, of answering the searching questions of the counsel, had failed to take away—her senses—the sight of her father, cognizant of her disgrace, had effected. Surely it was a disgrace for a young and guileless maiden to have to confess to such an escapade—an escapade that sounded worse to censuring ears than it had been in reality. Anna fainted. Mr. Winthorne stepped forward, and she was borne out.
Another Quakeress was now put into the witness-box, and the court looked upon a little middle-aged woman, whose face was sallow, and who showed her defective teeth as she spoke. It was Hester Dell. She wore a brown silk bonnet, lined with white, and a fawn-coloured shawl. She was told that she must state what she knew, relative to the visit of Herbert Dare that night.
"I went to rest at my usual hour, or, maybe, a trifle later, for I had waited for the arrival of some physic, never supposing but that the child, Anna, had gone to her room before me, and was safe in bed. I had been asleep some considerable time, as it seemed, when I was awakened by what sounded like the raising of the kitchen window underneath. I sat up in bed and listened, and was convinced that the window was being raised slowly and cautiously, as if the raiser did not want it to be heard. I was considerably startled, the more so as I knew I had left the window fastened: and my thoughts turned to house-breakers. While I deliberated what to do, seeing I was but a lone woman in the house, save for the child Anna, and Patience who was disabled in her bed, I heard what appeared to be the voice of the child, and it sounded in the yard. I went to my window, but I could not see anything, it being right over the kitchen, and I not daring to open it. But I still heard Anna's voice: she was speaking in a low tone, and I believed I caught other tones also—those of a man. I thought I must be asleep and dreaming: next I thought it must be young Gar from the next door, Jane Halliburton's son. Her other sons I knew to be not at home; the one being abroad, the other at the University of Oxford. I deliberated, could anything be the matter at their house, and the boy have come for help. Then I reflected that that was most unlikely, for why should he be stealthily opening the kitchen window, and why should Anna be whispering with him? In short, to tell thee the truth"—raising her eyes to the judge, whom she appeared to address, to the ignoring of everyone else—"I did not know what to think, and I grew more disturbed. I quietly put on a few things, and went softly down the stairs, deeming it well, for my own sake, to feel my way, as it were, and not to run headlong into danger. I stood a moment at the kitchen door, listening; and there I distinctly heard Anna laugh—a little, gentle laugh. It reassured me, though I was still puzzled; and I opened the door at once."
Here the witness made a dead pause.
"What did you see when you opened the door?" asked the judge.
"I would not tell thee, but that I am bound to tell thee," she frankly answered. "I saw the prisoner, Herbert Dare. He appeared to have been laughing with Anna, who stood near him, and he was preparing to get out at the window as I entered."
"Well? what next?" inquired the counsel in an impatient tone; for Hester had stopped again.
"I can hardly tell what next," replied the witness. "Looking back, it appears nothing but confusion in my mind. It seemed nothing but confusion at the time. Anna cried out, and hid her face in fear; and the prisoner attempted some explanation, which I would not listen to. To see a son of Anthony Dare's in the house with the child at that midnight hour, filled me with anger and bewilderment. I ordered him away; I believe I pushed him through the window; I threatened to call in a policeman. Finally he went away."
"Saying nothing?"
"I tell you all, I would not listen to it. I remembered scraps of what he said afterwards. That Anna was not to blame—that I had no cause to scold her or to acquaint Patience with what happened—that the fault, if there was any fault, was mine, for locking the back door so quickly. I refused to hear farther, and he departed, saying he would explain when I was less angry. That is all I saw of him."
"Did you mention this affair to anyone?" asked the counsel for the prosecution.
"No."
"Why not?"
"The child clung about me in tears after he was gone, giving me the explanation that I would not hear from him, and beseeching me not to acquaint Patience. She told me how it had happened. That upon my going out to see after the sleeping-draught for Patience, she had taken the opportunity to run to the field with a book, where Herbert Dare waited: and that upon attempting to come in again she found the door locked."
"You returned sooner than she expected?"
"Yes. I met the doctor's boy near our house, bringing the physic, and I took it from him and went home again directly. Not seeing Anna about, I never thought but that she had retired to bed. I went up also, trying the back door as I passed it, which to my surprise I found unfastened."
"Why to your surprise?"
"Because I had, as I believed, previously turned the key of it. Finding it unlocked, I concluded I must have been mistaken. Afterwards, when the explanation came, I learnt that Anna had undone it. She clung about me, as I tell thee, sobbing and crying, saying, as he had said, that there was no cause to be angry with her: that she could not help what had happened; and that she had sat crying on the door-step the whole of the time, until he had effected an entrance for her. I went to the pantry window, and saw where the wires had been torn away, not roughly, but neatly; and I knew it must have taken a long time to accomplish. I fell in with the child's prayer, and did not speak of what had occurred; not even to Patience. This is the first time it has escaped my lips."
"So you deemed it desirable to conceal such an adventure, and give the prisoner opportunity to renew his midnight visits?" retorted the counsel for the prosecution.
"What was done could not be undone," said the witness. "I was willing to spare the scandal to the child, and not be the means of spreading it abroad. While I was deliberating whether to tell Patience, seeing she was in so suffering a state, news came that Herbert Dare was a prisoner. He had been arrested the following morning, on the accusation of murdering his brother, and I knew that he was safe for several weeks to come. Hence I held my tongue."
The witness had given her evidence in a clear, straightforward, uncompromising manner, widely at variance with the distressed timidity of Anna. Not a shade of doubt rested on the mind of any person in court that both had spoken the exact truth. But the counsel seemed inclined to question still.
"Since when did you know you were coming here to give this evidence?"
"Only when I did come. Richard Winthorne, the man of law, came to our house in a fly this afternoon, and brought us away with him. By some remarks he exchanged with Anna when we were in it, I found that she had known of it this day or two. They feared to avert me, I suppose, lest, maybe, I might refuse to attend."
"One question more, witness. Did the prisoner wear a cloak that night?"
"No; I did not see any."
This closed the evidence, and the witness was allowed to withdraw. Richard Winthorne went in search of Samuel Lynn, and found him seated on a bench in the outer hall surrounded by gentlemen of his persuasion, many of them of high standing in Helstonleigh. Tales of marvel, you know, never lose anything in spreading; neither are people given to placing a light construction on public gossip, when they can, by any stretch of imagination, give it a dark one. In this affair, however, no very great stretch was required. The town jumped to the charitable conclusion that Anna Lynn must be one of the naughtiest girls under the sun; imprudent, ungrateful, disobedient; I don't know what else. Had she been guilty of scattering poison in Atterly's field, and so killed all the lambs, they could not have said, or thought, worse than they did. All joined in it, charitable and uncharitable; all sorts of evil notions were spread, and were taken up. Herbert Dare, you may be very sure, came in forhisshare.
The news had been taken to Mr. Ashley's manufactory, sent by the astounded Patience, that Richard Winthorne had come and taken away Anna and Hester Dell to give testimony at the trial of Herbert Dare. The Quaker, perplexed and wondering, believed Patience must be demented; that the message could have no foundation in truth. Nevertheless, he bent his steps to the Guildhall, accompanied by William Halliburton, and was witness to the evidence. He, strict and sober-minded, was not likely to take up a more favourable construction of the general facts than the town was taking up. It may be guessed what it was for him.
He sat now on a bench in the outer hall, surrounded by friends, who, on hearing the crying scandal whispered, touching a young member of their body, had come flocking down to the Guildhall. When they spoke to him, he did not appear to hear; he sat with his hands on his knees, and his head sunk on his breast, never raising it. Richard Winthorne approached him.
"Miss Lynn and her servant will not be wanted again," said the lawyer. "I have sent for a fly."
The fly came. Anna was placed in it by Mr. Winthorne; Hester Dell followed; and Samuel Lynn came forward and stumbled into it. It is the proper word. He appeared to have no power left in his limbs.
"Thou wilt not be harsh with her, Samuel," whispered an influential Friend, who had a benevolent countenance. "Some of us will confer with thee to-morrow; but, meanwhile, do not be harsh with her. Thou wilt call to mind that she is thy child, and motherless."
Samuel Lynn made no reply. He did not appear to hear. He sat opposite his daughter, his eyes never lifted, and his face assuming a leaden hue. Hester suddenly leaned from the door, and beckoned to William Halliburton.
"Will thee please be so obliging as go up with us in the fly?" she said in his ear. "I do not like his look."
William stepped in, and the fly drove away with closed blinds, to the intense chagrin of the curious mob. Before it was out of the town, William and Hester, with a simultaneous movement, supported the Quaker. Anna screamed. "What is it?" she uttered, terrified at the sight of his drawn, distorted face.
"It is thy work," said Hester, less placidly than she would have spoken in a calmer moment. "If thee hast saved the life of thy friend, Herbert Dare, thee hast probably destroyed that of thy father."
They were close to the residence of Mr. Parry, and William ordered the fly to stop. The surgeon was at home, and took William's place in it. Samuel Lynn had been struck down with paralysis.
William was at the house before they were, preparing Patience. Patience was so far restored to health herself as to be able to walk about a little; she was very lame still.
They carried Mr. Lynn to his room. Anna in her deep humiliation and shame—having to give evidence, and such evidence, in the face of that open court, had been nothing less to her—flew to her own chamber, and flung herself, dressed as she was, on the carpet, in desperate abandonment. William saw her there as he passed it from her father's room. There was no one to attend to her, for they were occupied with Mr. Lynn. It was no moment for ceremony, and William entered and attempted to raise her.
"Let me be, William; let me be! I only want to die."
"Anna, child, this will not mend the past. Do not give way like this."
But she resolutely turned from him, sobbing more wildly. "Only to die! only to die!"
William went for his mother, and gave her the outline of the tale, asking her to go to the house of distress and see what could be done. Jane, in utter astonishment, sought further explanation. She could not understand him in the least.
"I assure you, I understand it nearly as little," replied William. "Anna was locked out through some mistake of Hester's, it appears, and Herbert Dare stayed with her. That it will be the means of acquitting him, there is no doubt; but Helstonleigh is making its comments very freely."
Jane went in, her senses bewildered. She found Patience in a state not to be described; she found Anna where William had left her, reiterating the same cry, "Oh, that I were dead! that I were dead!"
Meanwhile, the trial at the Guildhall was drawing to its close, and the judge proceeded to sum up. Not with the frantic bursts of oratory indulged in by those eloquent gentlemen, the counsel, but in a tone of dispassionate reasoning. He placed the facts concisely before the jury, not speaking in favour of the prisoner, but candidly avowing that he did not see how they could get over the evidence of the prisoner's two witnesses, the young Quaker lady and her maid. If that was to be believed—and for himself he fully believed it—then the prisoner could not have been guilty of the murder, and was clearly entitled to an acquittal. It was six o'clock when the jury retired to deliberate.
The judge, the bar, the spectators, sat on, or stood, with what patience they might, in the crowded and heated court. On the fiat of those twelve men hung the life of the prisoner: whether he was to be discharged an innocent man, or hanged as a guilty one. Reposing in the pocket of Sir William Leader was a certain little cap, black in colour, innocuous in itself, but of awful significance when brought forth by the hand of the presiding judge. Was it destined to be brought forth that night?
The jury were coming in at last. Only an hour had they remained in deliberation, for seven o'clock was booming out over the town. It had seemed to the impatient spectators more than two hours. What must it have seemed to the prisoner? They ranged themselves in their box, and the crier proclaimed silence.
"Have you agreed upon your verdict, gentlemen of the jury?"
"We have."
"How say you, gentlemen, guilty or not guilty?"
The foreman advanced an imperceptible step and looked at the judge, speaking deliberately:
"My lord, we find the prisonerNot Guilty."
"William, I have had my death-blow! I have had my death-blow!"
The speaker was Henry Ashley. Four days had elapsed since the trial of Herbert Dare, and William Halliburton saw him now for the first time after that event. What with mind and body, Henry was in a grievous state of pain: all William's compassion was called forth, as he leaned over his couch.
It has been hinted that Helstonleigh, in its charity, took up the very worst view of the case that could be taken up, with regard to Anna Lynn. Had she gone about with a blazing torch and set all the houses on fire, their inhabitants could not have mounted themselves on higher stilts. Somehow,everybodytook it up. It was like those apparently well-authenticated political reports that arrive now and then by telegram, driving the Stock Exchange, or the Paris Bourse, into a state of mad credulity. No onethoughtto doubt it; people caught up the notion from one another as they catch a fever. If even Samuel Lynn had looked upon it in the worst light, bringing to him paralysis, little chance was there that others might gaze through a brighter glass. It had half killed Henry Ashley: and the words were not, in point of fact, so wild as they sounded. "I have had my death-blow! I have had my death-blow!"
"No, you have not," was William's answer. "It is a blow—I know it—but not one that you cannot outlive."
"Why did you not come to me? Four whole days, and you have never been near the house!"
"Because I feared that you would be throwing yourself into the state of agitation that you are now doing," replied William, candidly. "Mr. Ashley said to me on the Wednesday, 'Henry has one of his bad attacks again.' I knew it to be more of mind than body this time, and I thought it well that you should be left in quiet. There's no one you can talk about it to, except me."
"Your staying away has not served your purpose, then. My father came to me with the details, thinking to divert me for a moment from my physical pain; never supposing that each word was a dagger plunged into my very being. My mother came, with this scrap of news, or the other scrap. Mary came, wondering and eager, asking information at second-hand: mamma was mysterious over it, and would not tell her. Mary cannot credit ill of Anna: she has as great a trust in her still as I had. As I had! Oh, William! she was my object in life. She was all my future—my world—my heaven!"
"Now you know you will suffer for this excitement," cried William, almost as he would have said it to a wayward child.
He might as well have talked to the wind. Henry neither heard nor heeded him. He continued, his manner as full of agitation as his mind.
"I am not as other men. You can go forth, all of you, into the world, to your pleasures, your amusements. I am confined here. But what mattered it? Did I envy you? No. While I had her to think of, I was happier than you."
"Had this not happened, you might have been crossed in some other way, and so it would have come to the same thing."
"And now it is over," reiterated Henry, paying no attention to the remark. "It is over, and gone; and I—I wish, William, I had gone with it."
"I wish you would be reasonable."
"Don't preach. You active men, with your innumerable objects and interests in life, cannot know what it is for one like me, shut out from the world, tolove. I tell you, William, it was literally my life; the core of my life; my all. I am not sure but that I have been mad ever since."
"I am not sure but that you are mad now," returned William, believing that to humour him might be the worst plan he could adopt.
"I dare say I am," was the unsatisfactory answer. "Four days, and I have had to bury it all within me! I could not wail it out to my own pillow at night; for they concluded it was one of my bad attacks, and old nurse was posted in the bed in the next room with the door open. There's no one I can rave to but you, and you must let me do it, unless you would have me go quite mad, I hope I shan't be here long to be a trouble to any of you."
William did not know what to say. He believed there was nothing for it at present but to let him "rave himself out." "But I wish," he said, aloud, continuing the bent of his own thoughts, "that you would be a little rational over it."
"Stop a bit. Did you ever experience a blow such as this?"
"No indeed."
"Then don't hold forth to me, I say. You do not understand. It was all the joy I had on earth."
"You must learn to find other joys, other——"
"The despicable villain!" broke forth Henry, the heat-drops welling to his brow, as they had welled to Anna's when before the judge. "The shame-faced, cowardly villain! Was she not Samuel Lynn's child, and my sister's friend? What possessed the jury to acquit him? Did they think a rope's-end too good for his neck?"
"He was proved innocent of the murder. If he has any conscience——"
"What?" fiercely interrupted Henry Ashley. "Hea conscience! I don't know what you are dreaming of. Is he going to stop in Helstonleigh?"
"I conclude so. He resumed his place quietly in his father's office the day after the trial. He is in London now, but only temporarily."
"Resumed his place quietly! What was the mob about, then?"
The question was put so quaintly, in such confiding simplicity, that a smile rose to William's face. "In awe of the police, I expect," he answered. "The Dares, while his fate was uncertain, have been rusticating. Cyril told me to-day, that now that the accusation was proved to have been false, they were 'coming out' again."
"Coming out in what? Villainy?"
"He left the 'what' to be inferred. In grandeur, I expect. The established innocence of Herbert——"
"If you apply that word to the man, William Halliburton, you are as black as he is."
William remembered Henry's tribulation both of mind and body, and went on without the shadow of a retort.
"I apply it to him in relation to the crime of which he was charged. His acquittal and release have caused the Dares to hold up their heads again. But they have lost caste in Helstonleigh."
"Caste!" was the scornful ejaculation of Henry Ashley. "They never had any caste to lose. Does the master intend to retain Cyril in the manufactory?"
"I have heard nothing to the contrary. If he retained him whilst the accusation was hanging over Herbert Dare's head, he will not be likely to discard him now it is removed."
"Removed!" shrieked Henry. "If one accusation has been removed, has not a worse taken its place?"
"Would it be just to visit on one brother the sins of another?"
"A nice pair of brothers they are!" cried Henry in the sharp, petulant manner habitual to him, when racked with pain. "How will Samuel Lynn like the company of Cyril Dare by his side in the manufactory, when he gets well again?"
William shook his head. These considerations were not for him. They were Mr. Ashley's.
"You heard her give her evidence?" resumed Henry, breaking a pause.
"Most of it."
"Tell it me."
"No, Henry; it would not do you good to hear it."
"Tell it me, I say," persisted Henry wilfully. "I know it in substance. I want to have it repeated over to me, word for word."
"But——"
Henry suddenly raised his hand and laid it on William's lips, with a warning movement. He turned and saw Mary Ashley.
"Take her back to the drawing-room, William," he whispered. "I can bear no one but you about me now. Not yet, Mary," he added aloud, motioning his sister away with his hand. "Not now."
Mary halted in indecision. William advanced, placed her hand within his arm, and led her, somewhat summarily, from the room.
"I am only obeying orders, Miss Ashley," said he. "They are to see you back to the drawing-room."
"If Henry can bear you with him, he might bear me."
"You know what his whims and fancies are, when he is suffering."
"Is there not a particularly good understanding between you and Henry?" she pointedly asked.
"Yes; we understand each other perfectly."
"Well, then, tell me—what is it that is the matter with him this time? I do not like to say so to mamma, because she might call me fanciful, but it appears to me that Henry's illness is more on the mind than on the body."
William made no reply.
"And yet, I cannot imagine it possible for Henry to have picked up any annoyance or grief," resumed Mary. "How can he have done so? He is not like one who goes out into the world—who has to meet with cares and cheeks. You do not speak," she added, looking at William. "Is it that you will not tell me? or do you know nothing?"
William lowered his voice. "I can only say that, should there be anything of the sort you mention, the kinder course for Henry—indeed the only course—will be, not to allow him to perceive that you suspect it. Conceal the suspicion both from him and from others. Remember his excessive sensitiveness. When he sees cause to hide his feelings, it would be almost death to him to have them scrutinized."
"I think you must be in his full confidence," observed Mary, looking at William.
"Pretty well so," he answered, with a passing smile.
"Then, if he has any secret grief, will you try and soothe it to him?"
"With all my best endeavours," earnestly spoke William. But there was not the least apparent necessity for his taking Mary Ashley's hand between his own, and pressing it there while he said it, any more than there was necessity for that vivid blush of hers, as she turned into the drawing-room.
But you must be anxious to hear of Anna Lynn. Poor Anna! who had fallen so terribly into the black books of the town, without really very much deserving it. It was a most unluckycontretemps, having been locked out; it was a still more unfortunate sequel, having to confess to it at the trial. She was not a pattern of goodness, it must be confessed: had not yet attained to that perfect model, which expects, as of a right, a niche in the saintly calendar. She was reprehensibly vain; she delighted in plaguing Patience; and she took to running out into the field, when it had been far better that she had remained at home. That running out entailed deceit and some stories: but it entailed nothing worse, and Helstonleigh need not have been so very severe in its judgment.
Never had there been a more forcible illustration of the old saying, "Give a dog a bad name, and hang him," than in this instance. When William Halliburton had told Anna that Herbert Dare was not a good man, and did not bear a good name, he had told her the strict truth. For that very reason a secret intimacy with him was undesirable, however innocent it might be, however innocent itwas, in itself: and for that very reason did Helstonleigh look at it through clouded spectacles. Had she been locked out all night, instead of half a one, with some one in better odour, Helstonleigh had not set up its scornful crest. It is quite impossible to tell you what Herbert Dare had done, to have such a burden on his back as people seemed inclined to lay there. Perhaps they did not know themselves. Some accused him of one thing, some of another; ill reports never lose by carrying: the two cats on the tiles, you know, were magnified into a hundred. No one is as black as he is painted—there's a saying to that effect—neither, I dare say, was Herbert Dare. At any rate—and that is what we have to do with—he was not so in this particular instance. He was as vexed at the locking out as any one else could have been; and he did the best (save one thing) that he could for Anna, under the circumstances, and got her in again. The only proper thing to have done, was to knock up Hester. He had wished to do it, but had yielded to Anna's entreaties, that were born of fear.
Not a soul seemed to cast so much as a good word or a charitable thought to him in the matter. Did he deserve none? However thoughtless or reprehensible his conduct was, in drawing Anna into those field excursions, when the explosion came, he met it as a gentleman. Many a one, more renowned for the cardinal graces than was Herbert Dare, might have spoken out at once, and cleared himself at the expense of making known Anna's unlucky escapade. Not so he. A doubt may have been upon him that were it betrayed Helstonleigh might cast a taint on her fair name: and he strove to save it. He suffered the brand of a murderer to be attached to him—he languished for many weeks in prison as a criminal—all to save it. He all but went to the scaffold to save it. He might have called Anna and Hester Dell forward at the inquest, at the preliminary examination before the magistrates, and thus have cleared himself; but he would not do so. Whilst there was a chance of his innocence being brought to light in any other manner, he would not call on Anna. He allowed the odium to settle upon his own head. He went to prison, hoping that he should be cleared in some other way. There was a generous, chivalric feeling in this, which Helstonleigh could not understand when emanating from Herbert Dare, and they declined to give him credit for it. They preferred to look at the affair altogether in a different light, and to lavish hard names upon it. Every soul was alike: there was no exception: Samuel Lynn, and all else in Helstonleigh. They caught the epidemic, I say, one from another.
The first sharpness of the edge worn off, Anna grew cross. She did not see why every one should be blaming her. What had so sadly prostrated herself was the shame of having to appear before the court; to stand in it and give her evidence. The excitement, the shame, combined with the terrifying illness of her father, brought on, as Hester told her, through her, had sent her into a wild state of contrition and alarm. Little wonder that she wished herself dead! The mood passed away as the days went on, and Anna became tolerably herself again. When Friends called at the house to inquire after or to see her father, she ran and hid herself in her room, fearful lest a lecture on those field recreations might be delivered to her gratuitously. She shunned Patience, too, as much as she could. Patience had grown cold and silent; and Anna rather liked the change.
She sat for the most part in her father's room, never moving from his bedside, unless disturbed from it; never speaking; eating only when food was placed before her. Anna was in grievous fear lest a public reprimand should be in store for her, delivered at meeting on First Day: but she saw no reason why every one should continue to be cross with her at home.
She happened to be alone with her father when he first recovered consciousness. Some fifteen days had elapsed since the trial. But for the fact of her being with him, a difficulty might have been experienced to get her there. She dreaded his anger, his reproach, more than anything. So long as he lay without his senses, knowing her not, so long was she content to sit, watching. She was seated by the bedside in her usual listless attitude, head and eyes cast down, when her father's hand, not the one affected, was suddenly lifted and laid upon hers, which rested on the counterpane. Startled, Anna turned her gaze upon him, and she saw that his intellects were restored. With a suppressed cry of dismay she would have flown away, but he clasped his fingers round hers.
"Anna!"
She sank down on her knees, shaking as if with ague, and buried her face in the clothes. Samuel Lynn stretched forth his hand and put it on her head.
"Thou art my own child, Anna; thy mother left thee to me for good and for ill; and I will stand by thee in thy sorrow."
She burst into a storm of hysterical tears. He let it have its course; he drew her wet face to his and kissed it; he talked to her soothingly, never speaking a single word of reproach; and Anna overcame her fear and her sobs. She knelt down by the bed still, and let her cheek rest on the counterpane.
"It has nearly killed me," he murmured, after a while. "But I pray for life: I will struggle hard to live, that thee mayst have one protector. Friends and foes may cast reproach to thee, but I will not."
"Why shouldtheycast reproach to me, father?" returned Anna, with a little spice of resentment. "I have not harmed them."
"No, child; thee hast not; only thyself. I will help thee to bear the reproach. Thou art my own child."
"But there's nothing forthemto reproach me with," she reiterated, her face buried deeper in the counterpane. "It was not pleasant to stand there; but it is over. And they need not reflect upon me for it."
"What is over? To stand where?" he asked.
"At the Guildhall, on the trial."
"It is notthatthat people will reproach thee with, Anna. It was not a nice thing for thee; but that, in itself, brings no reproach."
Anna lifted her head wonderingly. "What does, then?" she uttered.
He did not answer. He only closed his eyes, a deep groan bursting from the very depths of his heart. It came into Anna's mind that he must be thinking of her previous acquaintance with Herbert Dare; of her stolen meetings in the field by twilight.
"Oh, father, don't thee be angry with me!" she implored, the tears streaming from her eyes. "It was no harm; it was not indeed. Thee mightst have been present always, for all the harm there was, and I wish thee hadst been. Why should thee think anger of it? There was no more harm in my talking with him now and then in the field, than there was in my talking with him in Margaret Ashley's drawing-room."
Something in the simple words, in the tone, in the manner altogether, caused the Quaker's heart to leap within him. Had he been making a molehill into a mountain? Surely, yes! But what else he would have said or done, what questions asked, cannot be known, for they were interrupted by a visit from William Halliburton. Anna stole away.
William was full of hearty congratulation on the visible improvement—the, so far, restoration to health. The Quaker murmured some half-inarticulate words, indicating something to the effect that he might not have been ill, but for taking up a worse view of the case than, as he believed now, it really merited.
William leaned over him; a glad look in his eye; a glad sound in his low voice.
"My mother has been telling Patience so to-day. She, my mother, is convinced now that very exaggerated blame was cast upon Anna. It was foolish of her, of course, to fall into the habit of running to the field; but the locking out might have happened to anyone. My mother told me this not half an hour ago. She has seen and talked to Anna frequently this last day or two, and has drawn her own positive deductions. My mother is vexed with herself for having fallen into the popular condemnation."
"Ay!" uttered Samuel Lynn. "Thereiscondemnation abroad, then? I thought there was."
"People will come to their senses in good time," was William's answer. "Never doubt it."
The Quaker raised his feeble hand, and laid it upon William's. "The Ashleys—havetheyblamed her?"
"I fear they have," was the only reply he could make, in his strict truth.
"Then, William, thee go to them. Go to them now, and set them right."
He was already going, for he was engaged to the Ashleys that evening. Between Henry Ashley, the men at East's, and his own studies, which he would not wholly neglect, William's evenings had a tolerably busy time of it. He had assumed Samuel Lynn's place in the manufactory by Mr. Ashley's orders, head of all things, under the master. Cyril ground his teeth at this; he looked upon it as a slight to himself; but Cyril had no power to alter it.
William found Mr. and Mrs. Ashley alone. Mary was out. He sat with them for a few minutes, talking of Anna, and then rose to go to Henry. "How is he this evening?" he inquired.
"Ill and very fractious," was Mr. Ashley's reply. "William, you have great influence over him. I wish you could persuade him togive wayless. He is not ill enough, so far as we can see, to keep his room; but we cannot get him out of it."
Henry was in one of his depressed moods, excessively dispirited and irritable. "Oh! so you have come!" he burst forth as William entered. "I should be ashamed to neglect a sick fellow as you neglect me. If I were well and strong, and you ill, you would find it different."
"I know I am late," acknowledged William. "Samuel Lynn took up a little of my time; and I have been sitting some minutes in the drawing-room."
"Of course!" was the fractious answer. "Any one before me."
"Samuel Lynn is a great deal better," continued William. "His mind is restored."
Henry received the news ungraciously, making no rejoinder; but his side was twitching with pain. "How isshe?" he asked. "Is the shame fretting out her life?"
"Not at all. She is very well. As to shame—as you call it—I believe she has not taken much to herself."
"It will kill her: you'll see. The sooner the better for her I should say."
William sat down on the edge of the sofa, on which the invalid was lying. "Henry, I would set you right upon a point, if I thought it would be expedient to do so. You do go into fits of excitement so great, that it is dangerous to speak."
"Tell out anything you have to tell. Tell me, if you choose, that the house is on fire, and I must be pitched out of window to escape it. It would make no impression upon me. My fits of excitement have passed away with Anna Lynn."
"My news relates to Anna."
"What if it does? She has passed awayfor me."
"Helstonleigh, in its usual hasty fashion of jumping to conclusions, has jumped to a false one," continued William. "There have been no grounds for the great blame cast to Anna; except in the minds of a charitable public."
"A fact?" asked Henry, after a pause.
"There's not a shade of doubt about it."
He received the answer with equanimity; it may be said, with apathy. And turning on his couch, he drew the cover over him, repeating the words previously spoken: "She has passed away for me."
Samuel Lynn grew better, and Mr. Ashley, in his considerate kindness, proposed that he should reside abroad for a few months in the neighbourhood of Annonay, to watch the skin market, and pick up skins that would be suitable for their use. Anna and Patience were to accompany him. Anna had somewhat regained her footing in the good graces of the gossipers. That she did so, was partly owing to the indignant defence of her, entered upon by Herbert Dare. Herbert did behave well in this case, and he must have his due. Upon his return from London, whither he had gone soon after the termination of the trial, remaining away a week or two, he found what a very charitable ovation Helstonleigh was bestowing upon Anna Lynn. He met it with a storm of indignation; he bade them think as badly of him as they chose; believe him a second Burke if they liked; but to keep their mistaken tongues off Anna. What with one thing and another, some of the scandal-mongers did begin to think they had been too hasty, and withdrew their censure. Some (as a matter of course) preferred to doubt still; and opinions remained divided.
Helstonleigh took up the gossip on another score—that of Mr. Ashley's sending Samuel Lynn abroad, as his skin-buyer, for an indefinite period. "A famous trade Ashley must be doing, to go to that expense!" grumbled some of the envious manufacturers. True; hehada famous trade. And if he had not had one, he might have sent him all the same. Helstonleigh never knew the benevolence of Thomas Ashley's heart. The journey was fully decided upon; and Samuel Lynn had an application from a member of his own persuasion, to rent his house, furnished, for the term of his absence. He was glad to accept the accommodation.
But, before Mr. Lynn and his family started, Helstonleigh was fated to sustain another loss, in the person of Herbert Dare. Herbert contrived to get some sort of mission entrusted tohimabroad, and made rather a summary exit from Helstonleigh to enter upon it. A friend of Herbert's, who had gone over to live in Holland, and with whom he was in frequent correspondence, wrote and offered him a situation in a merchant's house in Rotterdam, as "English clerk." The offer came in answer to a hint, or perhaps more than a hint, from Herbert, that a year or two's sojourn abroad would be acceptable to him. He would receive a good salary, if he proved himself equal to the duties, the information stated, and might rise in it, if he chose to remain. Herbert wrote off-hand to secure it, and then told his father what he had done.
"Enter a house at Rotterdam, as English clerk!" repeated Mr. Dare, unable to credit his own ears. "Youa clerk!"
"What am I to do?" asked Herbert. "Since I came out of there," pointing in the direction of the county prison, "claims have thickened upon me. I do owe a good deal, and that's a fact—what with my own scores, and that for which I am liable for—for poor Anthony. People won't wait much longer; and I have no fancy to try the debtor's side of the prison."
They were standing in the front room of the office. Mr. Dare's business appeared to be considerably falling off, and the office had often leisure on its hands now. Of the two clerks kept, one had holiday, the other was out. Somehow, what with one untoward thing and another, people were growing shy of the Dares. Mr. Dare leaned against the corner of the window-frame, watching the passers-by, his hands in his pockets, and a blank look on his face.
"You say you can't help me, sir?" Herbert continued.
"You know I can't; sufficiently to do any good," returned Mr. Dare. "I am too much pressed for money myself. Look at the expenses attending the trial: and I was embarrassed enough before. Icannothelp you."
"It seems to me, too, that you want me gone from here."
"I have not said so," curtly responded Mr. Dare.
"You told me the other day that it was my presence in the office which scared clients from it."
Mr. Dare could not deny the fact. Hehadsaid it. What's more, he had thought it; and did so still. "I cannot tell what else it is that is keeping clients away," he rejoined. "We have not had a dozen in since the trial."
"It is a slack season of the year."
"Maybe," shortly answered Mr. Dare. "Slack as it is, there's some business astir, but people are going elsewhere to get it done; those, too, who have never for years been near anyone but us. The truth is, Herbert, you fell into bad odour with the town on the day of the trial; and that you must know. Though acquitted of the murder, all sorts of other things were laid to your charge. Quaker Lynn's stroke amongst the rest."
"Carping sinners!" ejaculated Herbert.
"And I suppose it turned people against the office," continued Mr. Dare. "My belief is, they won't come back again as long as you are in it."
"That's precisely what I meant you had hinted to me" said Herbert. "Therefore, I thought I had better leave it. Pattison says he can get me this berth, and I should like to try it."
"You'll not like to turn merchant's clerk," repeated Mr. Dare with emphasis.
"I shall like it better than being nailed for debt here," somewhat coarsely answered Herbert. "It is not so agreeable at home now, especially in this office, that I should cry to stay in it. You have changed, sir, amongst the rest: many a day through, you don't give me a civil word."
Again Mr. Dare felt that hehadchanged to Herbert. When he found that he—Herbert—might have cleared himself at first from the terrible accusation of fratricide, had he so chosen, instead of allowing the obloquy to rest upon himself and his family for so long a period, he had become bitterly angry. Mrs. Dare and the whole family joined in the feeling, and Herbert suffered.
"As to civility, Herbert, I must first get over the soreness left by your conduct. You acted very badly in allowing the case to go on to trial. If you had no objection to sit down quietly under the crime yourself, you had no right to throw the disgrace and expense upon your family."
"If it were to come over again, I would not do so," acknowledged Herbert. "I thought then I was acting for the best."
"Pshaw!" was the peevish ejaculation of Mr. Dare.
"Altogether," resumed Herbert, "I think I had better go away. After a time, something or other may turn up to make things smoother here, and then I can come home again; unless I find a better opening abroad. I may do so; and I believe I shall like living there."
"Very well," said Mr. Dare, after some minutes' silence. "It may be for the best. At all events, it will give time for things here to blow over. If you don't find it what you like, you can only return."
"I shall be sure not to return, unless I can square up some of my liabilities here," returned Herbert. "You must help me to get there, sir."
"What do you want?" asked Mr. Dare.
"Fifty pounds."
"I can't do it, Herbert," was the prompt answer.
"I must have it if I am to go," was Herbert's firm reply. "There are two or three trifles here which I will not leave unsettled, and I cannot go over there with pockets absolutely empty. Fifty pounds is not so great a sum, sir, to pay to get rid of me."
Old Anthony Dare knit his brow in perplexity. He supposed he must furnish the money, though he did not in the least see how it was to be done.
The matter settled, Herbert took his hat and went out. The first object his eyes alighted on outside was Sergeant Delves. That worthy, pacing through the town, had brought himself to an anchor opposite the office of Mr. Dare, and was regarding it, lost in a brown study. The sergeant was in a state of discomfiture, touching the affair of the late Anthony Dare. He had lost no time in "looking after" Miss Caroline Mason, as he had promised himself; and the sequence had been—defeat. Without any open stir on the part of the police—without allowing Caroline herself to know that she was doubted—the sergeant contrived to put himself in full possession of her movements on that night. The result proved that she must be exempt from the suspicion; or, as the sergeant expressed it, "was out of the hole;" and that gentleman remained at fault again.
Herbert crossed over to him. "What are you looking at, Delves?"
"I wasn't looking at anything in particular," was the answer. "Coming in sight of your office naturally brought my thoughts back to that unsatisfactory business. I never was so baffled before."
"It is very strange who it could have been," observed Herbert. "I often think of it."
"Never so baffled before," continued the sergeant, as if there had been no interruption to his own words. "I could almost have been upon oath at the time, that the murderer was in the house; hadn't left it. And yet——"
"You could have been upon oath that it was I," interrupted Herbert.
"That's true. I could. But you had yourself chiefly to thank for it, Mr. Herbert Dare, through making a mystery of your movements that night. After you were cleared, my mind turned to that girl; and that, I found, was no go."
"What girl?" interrupted Herbert.
"The one in Honey Fair: your brother Anthony's old sweetheart. It wasn't her, though; I have proofs. Charlotte East had her at her house that evening, and kept her till twelve o'clock, when she went home to bed in her garret. Charlotte's going to try to make something of her again. And now I am baffled, and I don't deny it."
"To suspect any girl is ridiculous," observed Herbert Dare. "No girl, it is to be hoped, would possess the courage or the strength to accomplish such a deed as that."
"You don't know 'em as we police do," nodded the sergeant. "I was asking your father only a day or two ago, whether he could make sure of his servants, that they had not been in it——"
"Of our servants?" interrupted Herbert, in surprise. "What an idea!"
"Well, I have gone round to my old opinion—that itwassome one in the house," returned the sergeant. "But it seems the servants are all on the square. I can't make it out."
"Why on earth should you suppose it to be any one in the house?" questioned Herbert, in considerable wonderment.
"Because I do," was the answer. "We police see and note down what others pass over. There was odds and ends of things at the time that made us infer it; and I can't get it out of my mind."
"It is an impossibility that it could have been a resident of the house," dissented Herbert. "Every one in it is above suspicion."
"Who doyoufancy it might have been?" asked the sergeant, abruptly, almost as if he wished to surprise Herbert out of an incautious answer.
But Herbert had nothing to tell him; no suspicion was on his mind to be surprised out of. "If I could fancy it was, or might be, any particular individual, I should come to you and say so, without asking," he replied. "I am as much at fault as you can be. Anthony may have made slight enemies in the town, what with his debts and his temper, and one thing or another; but no enemies of that terrible nature—capable of killing him. I wish I could see cause for a reasonable suspicion," he added with emotion. "I would give my right arm"—stretching it out—"to solve the mystery. As well for my sake as for my dead brother's."
"Well, all I can say is, that I am down on my beam ends," concluded the sergeant.
Meanwhile Henry Ashley was getting little better. He had fallen into a state of utter prostration. Mental anguish had told upon him physically, and his bodily weakness was no doubt great: but he made no effort to rouse himself. He would lie for hours, his eyes half-closed, noticing no one. The medical men said they had seen nothing like it, and Mr. and Mrs. Ashley grew alarmed. The only one to remonstrate with him—he alone held the key to its cause—was William Halliburton.
William's influence over him was very great: he yielded to no one, not even to his father, as he would yield to William. Henry gave the reins to his tongue, and said all sorts of irritating things to William, as he did to every one else. It only masked the deep affection, the lasting friendship, which had taken possession of his heart for William.
"Let me be; let me be," he said to William one day, in answer to a remonstrance that he should rouse himself. "I told you that my life had passed out withher."
"But your life has not passed out with her," argued William; "your life is in you, just as much as it ever was. And it is your duty to make some use of your life; not to let it run to waste—as you are doing."
"It does not affect you," was the tart reply.
"It does very much affect me. I am grieved to see you hug your pain, instead of shaking it off; vexed to think that a man should so bury his days. It is an unfortunate thing that no one is cognizant of this matter but myself."
"Is it though!" retorted Henry. "You are a fine Job's comforter!"
"Yes, it is. Were it known to those about you, you would not for shame lie here, and indulge regrets after an imprudent and silly girl."
Henry flashed an angry glance at him from his soft dark eyes. "Take care, my good fellow! I can stand some things; but I don't stand all."
"An imprudent, silly girl, who does not care a rush for you," emphatically repeated William: "whose wild and ill-judged affection is given to another. Was ever infatuation like unto yours!"