The Trial; Or, More Links of the Daisy Chain

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Not since this—not since September.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes. Had you no suspicion?'

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

'You had never thought of the other nephew?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, she was up and dressed by the middle of the next day, and, contrary to her wont since the first time, she sent Ella out of the room when her doctor came to see her.

'I wanted to speak to you,' she said, 'I have a great favour to ask of you. You will soon be going home. Would you, could you take Ella with you? I know it is a great, a too great thing to ask. But I would not have her in any one's way. I am going to write to Mrs. Wills, at the school where I was, and Ella's means are quite enough to keep her there, holidays and all, till Leonard can give her a home. It will be much better for her, and a relief to Henry; and it will be giving back one—one to Leonard! It will be one thing more that I shall be happy about.'

Tom had let her go on with her short gentle sentences, because he knew not how to answer; but at last she said, 'Forgive me, and do not think of it, if I have asked what I ought not, or would be troublesome.'

Troublesome! no, indeed! I was only thinking—if it might not be better managed,' he answered, rather by way of giving himself time to debate whether the utterance of the one thought in his heart would lead to his being driven away.

'Pray do not propose Leonard's coming for her! He must come to this feverish place in spring. And if he came, and I were not here, and Henry not wanting him! Oh no, no; do not let me think of his coming!'

'Averil,' he said, kneeling on one knee so as to be nearer, and to be able to speak lower, 'you are so unearthly in your unselfishness, that I dare the less to put before you the one way in which I could take Ella home to him. It is if you would overlook the past, and give me a brother's right in them both.'

She turned in amazement to see if she had heard aright. He had removed his glasses, and the deep blue expressive eyes so seldom plainly visible were wistfully, pleadingly, fixed on her, brimming over with the dew of earnestness. Her face of inquiry gave him courage to go on, 'If you would only let me, I think I could bring you home to see him; and if you would believe it and try, I believe I could make you happier,' and with an uncontrollable shake in his voice he ceased—and only looked.

She sat upright, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes shut, trying to collect her thoughts; and the silence lasted for several seconds. At last she said, opening her eyes, but gazing straight before her, not at him, 'I do not think I ought. Do you really know what you are saying? You know I cannot get well.'

'I know,' he said. 'All I ask is, to tend and watch over you while I may, to bring you home to Leonard, and to be Ella's brother.'

His voice was still and low, and he laid his hand on her folded ones with reverent solemnity; but though it did not tremble, its touch was cold as marble, and conveyed to Averil an instant sense of the force of his repressed emotion. She started under it, and exclaimed with the first agitation she had shown, 'No, no; it would cost you too much. You, young, beginning life—you must not take a sorrow upon you.'

'Is it not there already?' he said, almost inaudibly. 'Would it lessen it to be kept away from you?'

'Oh, do not go on, do not tempt me,' she cried. 'Think of your father.'

'Nay, think what he is yourself. Or rather look here,' and he took out a part of a letter from Ethel, and laid it before her.

'As to papa not guessing your object,' she said, 'that was a vain delusion if you ever entertained it, so you must not mind my having explained. He said if he had been you, it was just what he should have done himself, and he is quite ready to throw his heart into it if you will only trust to his kindness. I do so want you really to try what that is.'

'And you came for this,' faltered Averil, leaning back, almost overcome.

'I did not come meaning to hurry the subject on you. I hoped to have induced Henry to have brought you all home, and then, when I had done my best to efface the recollection of that unpardonable behaviour, to have tried whether you could look on me differently.'

'I don't like you to say that,' said Averil, simply but earnestly; 'I have felt over and over again how wrong I was—how ungrateful—to have utterly missed all the nobleness and generosity of your behaviour, and answered in that unjust, ill-tempered way.'

'Nothing was ever more deserved,' he answered; 'I have hated myself ever since, and I hope I am not as obnoxious now.'

'It was I!' she said; 'I have lived every bit of the winter over again, and seen that I was always ready to be offended, and somehow I could not help caring so much for what you said, that lesser things from you hurt and cut as other people's did not.'

'Do you know what that proves?' said Tom, with an arch subsmile lighting on his eyes and mouth; and as a glow awoke on her pale cheek, he added, 'and won't you believe, too, that my propensity to "contemptuous irony" was all from my instinctive fear of what you could do to me!'

'Oh, don't repeat that! I have been so bitterly ashamed of it!'

'I am sure I have.'

'And I have longed so to ask your pardon. I thought I would leave a letter or message with Ella that you would understand.'

'You can do better than that now. You can forgive me.'

'Oh!' said Averil, her hands suddenly joined over her face, 'this is one joy more! I cannot think why it is all growing so bright just at last—at last. It is all come now! How good it is!'

He saw that she could bear no more. He pressed no more for a decisive answer; he did not return to the subject; but from that time he treated her as what belonged to him, as if it was his business to think, act, and judge for her, and to watch over her; and her acquiescence was absolute.

There was not much speaking between them; there were chiefly skirmishes between him and Cora, to which she listened in smiling passive amusement; and even when alone together they said little—actually nothing at all about the future. He had written to Ethel on his first arrival, and on the reply, as well as on Averil's state, all must depend. Meanwhile such a look of satisfied repose and peace shone upon Averil's face as was most sweet to look upon; and though extremely feeble, and not essentially better, she was less suffering, and could in great languor, but in calm enjoyment, pass through day by day of the precious present that had come to crown her long trial.

CHAPTER XXX

Oh, when its flower seems fain to die,The full heart grudges smile or sighTo aught beside, though fair and dear;Like a bruised leaf, at touch of fear,Its hidden fragrance love gives out.—Lyra Innocentum

'The letters at last! One to Ethel, and three to Leonard! Now for it, Ethel!'

Ethel opened—read—ran out of the room without a word, and sought her father in his study, where she laid before him Tom's letter, written from Massissauga the day after his arrival.

'Dear Ethel,

'I have found my darling, but too late to arrest the disease—the work of her brother's perverseness and wrong-headedness. I have no hope of saving her; though it will probably be a matter of several months—that is, with care, and removal from this vile spot.

'I am writing to Henry, but I imagine that he is too much charmed with his present prospects to give them up; and in her angelic self-sacrifice she insists on Leonard's not coming out. Indeed, there would be no use in his doing so unless she leaves this place; but should no unforeseen complication supervene, it is my full persuasion that she could be removed, safely make the voyage, and even be spared for this summer among us. Surely my father will not object! It will be but a short time; and she has suffered so much, so piteously needs love and cherishing, that it is not in him to refuse. He, who consented to Margaret's engagement, cannot but feel for us. I would work for him all my life! I would never cast a thought beyond home, if only once hallowed by this dear presence for ever so short a time. Only let the answers be so cordial as to remove all doubts or scruples; and when they are sent prepare for her. I would bring her as quickly as her health permits. No time must be lost in taking her from hence; and I wait only for the letters to obtain her consent to an immediate marriage. Furnish the house at once; I will repay you on my return. There is £200 for the first floor, sitting, and bedrooms; for the rest the old will do. Only regard the making these perfect; colouring pink—all as cheerful and pleasant as money can accomplish. If Flora will bear with me, get her to help you; or else Mary, if Cheviot forgives me. Only don't spare cost. I will make it up some way, if you find more wanted. I saw an invalid sofa, an improvement on Margaret's, which I will write to Gaspard to send from Paris. If you could only see the desolateness of the house where she has wasted away these three years, you would long to make a bower of bliss for her. I trust to you. I find I must trust everything to you. I cannot write to my father; I have made nine beginnings, and must leave it to you. He has comforted her, he knows her sorrows; he could not see her and bid me leave her. Only there must be no hesitation. That, or even remonstrance, would prevent her from consenting; and as to the objections, I cannot know them better than I do. Indeed, all this may be in vain; she is so near Heaven, that I dare not talk to her of this; but I have written to Leonard, dwelling chiefly on the chance of bringing her to him. Her desire to keep him from attempting to come out will I trust be an inducement; but if you could only see her, you would know how irreverent it seems to persecute one so nearly an angel with such matters. If I may only tend her to the last! I trust to you. This is for my father.

'Ever yours,

'THOMAS MAY.'

The last sentence referred to a brief medical summary of her symptoms, on a separate paper.

'Can this be Tom?' was the Doctor's exclamation. 'Poor boy! it is going very hard with him!'

'This would soften it more than anything else could,' said Ethel.

'Oh yes! You write. Yes, and I'll write, and tell him he is free to take his own way. Poor child! she would have been a good girl if she had known how. Well, of all my eleven children that Tom should be the one to go on in this way!'

'Poor dear Tom! What do you think of his statement of her case? Is she so very ill?'

Dr. May screwed up his face. 'A sad variety of mischief,' he said; 'if all be as he thinks, I doubt his getting her home; but he is young, and has his heart in it. I have seen her mother in a state like this—only without the diseased lungs. You can't remember it; but poor Ward never thought he could be grateful enough after she was pulled through. However, this is an aggravated case, and looks bad—very bad! It is a mournful ending for that poor boy's patience—it will sink very deep, and he will be a sadder man all his days, but I would not hinder his laying up a treasure that will brighten as he grows older.'