‘Why is Leonard to be always suspected of such things?’ cried Averil. ‘He never did them!’
‘Do you know?’ persisted Dr. May.
‘But you are mayor!’ cried Averil, indignantly, withdrawing her hand. ‘You want me to accuse him!’
‘My dear, if I were ten times mayor, it would make no difference. My jurisdiction does not even cross the river here; and if it did, this is a graver case than I deal with. I am come, as his friend, to beg you to help me to account for his unhappy absence in any harmless way. Were it ever so foolish or wrong, it would be the best news that ever I heard.’
‘But—but I can’t,’ said Averil. ‘I never knew he was going out! I know he used to get out at the passage window to bathe and fish before the house was astir—and—you know he is safe, Dr. May?’
Dr. May would almost sooner have known that he was at the bottom of the deepest pool in the river, than where he was. ‘He is safe, my poor child. He is well, and I trust he will be able to prove his innocence; but he must so account for his absence as to clear himself. Averil, there is a charge against him—of being concerned in your uncle’s death.’
Averil’s eyes dilated, and she breathed short and fast, standing like a statue. Little Minna, whom the Doctor had scarcely perceived, standing in a dark corner, sprang forward, exclaiming, ‘O, Ave, don’t be afraid! Nobody can hurt him for what he did not do!’
The words roused Averil, and starting forward, she cried, ‘Dr. May, Dr. May, you will save him! He is fatherless and motherless, and his brother has always been harsh to him; but you will not forsake him; you said you would be a father to us! Oh, save Leonard!’
‘My dear, as I would try to save my own son, I will do my utmost for him; but little or nothing depends on me or on any man. By truth and justice he must stand or fall; and you must depend on the Father of the fatherless, who seeth the truth! as this dear child tells you,’ with his hand on Minna’s head, ‘he cannot be really injured while he is innocent.’
Awed into calm, Averil let him seat her beside him, and put her in possession of the main facts of the case, Minna standing by him, her hand in his, evidently understanding and feeling all that passed.
Neither could throw light on anything. Leonard had been less communicative to them than to Aubrey, and had kept his resolution of uncomplainingly drinking the brewst he had brewed for himself. All Averil could tell was, that her uncle had once spoken to Henry in commendation of his steadiness and trustworthiness, though at the same time abusing him for airs and puppyism.
‘Henry would tell you. Where is Henry?’ she added.
‘In my study. He could not bear to bring you these tidings. You must be ready to comfort him, Ave.’
‘Don’t let him come,’ she cried. ‘He never was kind to Leonard. He drove him there. I shall always feel that it was his doing.’
‘Averil,’ said Dr. May gravely, ‘do you forget how much that increases his suffering? Nothing but mutual charity can help you through this fiery trial. Do not let anger and recrimination take from you the last shreds of comfort, and poison your prayers. Promise me to be kind to Henry, for indeed he needs it.’
‘O, Dr. May,’ said Minna, looking up with her eyes full of tears, ‘indeed I will. I was cross to Henry because he was cross to Leonard, but I won’t be so any more.’
Ave drooped her head, as if it were almost impossible to her to speak.
Dr. May patted Minna’s dark head caressingly, and said to the elder sister, ‘I will not urge you more. Perhaps you may have Leonard back, and then joy will open your hearts; or if not, my poor Ave, the sight of Henry will do more than my words.’
Mary looked greatly grieved, but said nothing, only following her father to take his last words and directions. ‘Keep her as quiet as you can. Do not worry her, but get out this root of bitterness if you can. Poor, poor things!’
‘That little Minna is a dear child!’ said Mary. ‘She is grown so much older than Ella, or than she was last year. She seems to understand and feel like a grown-up person. I do think she may soften poor Ave more than I can; but, papa, there is excuse. Mr. Ward must have made them more miserable than we guessed.’
‘The more reason she must forgive him. O, Mary, I fear a grievous lesson is coming to them; but I must do all I can. Good-bye, my dear; do the best you can for them;’ and he set forth again with a bleeding heart.
At the attorney’s office, he found the principal from home, but the partner, Edward Anderson, on the qui vive for a summons to attend on behalf of his fellow-townsman, and confident that however bad were the present aspect of affairs, his professional eye would instantly find a clue.
Aubrey was in an agony of excitement, but unable to endure the notion of approaching the scene of action; and his half-choked surly ‘Don’t’ was sufficient to deter his brother Thomas, who had never shown himself so kind, considerate, and free from sneer or assumption. In ‘hours of ease’ he might seem selfish and exacting, but a crisis evoked the latent good in him, and drew him out of himself.
Nor would Henry return to Bankside. After many vacillations, the moment for starting found him in a fit of despair about the family disgrace, only able to beg that ‘the unhappy boy’ should be assured that no expense should be spared in his defence; or else, that if he were cleared and returned home, his welcome should be most joyful. But there Henry broke off, groaned, said they should never look up again, and must leave the place.
Except for Averil’s own sake, Dr. May would almost have regretted his exhortations in favour of her eldest brother.
In due time the Doctor arrived at the mill, where the inquest was to take place, as the public-house was small, and inconveniently distant; and there was ample accommodation in the large rambling building. So crowded was the courtyard, that the Doctor did not easily make his way to the steps of the hall door; but there, after one brief question to the policeman in charge, he waited, though several times invited in.
Before long, all eyes turned one way, as a closed fly, with a policeman on the box, drove in at the gateway, stopped, and between the two men on guard appeared a tall young figure.
The Doctor’s first glance showed him a flushed and weary set of features, shocked and appalled; but the eyes, looking straight up in their anxiety, encountered his with an earnest grateful appeal for sympathy, answered at once by a step forward with outstretched hand. The grip of the fingers was heated, agitated, convulsive, but not tremulous; and there was feeling, not fear, in the low husky voice that said, ‘Thank you. Is Henry here?’
‘No, he is too—too much overcome; but he hopes to see you at home to-night; and here is Edward Anderson, whom he has sent to watch the proceedings for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Leonard, acknowledging Edward’s greeting. ‘As far as I am concerned, I can explain all in a minute; but my poor uncle—I little thought—’
There was no opportunity for further speech in private, for the coroner had already arrived, and the inquiry had been only deferred until Leonard should have come. The jury had been viewing the body, and the proceedings were to take place in the large low dining-room, where the southern windows poured in a flood of light on the faces of the persons crowded together, and the reflections from the rippling water danced on the ceiling. Dr. May had a chair given him near the coroner, and keenly watched the two nephews—one seated next to him, the other at some distance, nearly opposite. Both young men looked haggard, shocked, and oppressed: the eye of Axworthy was unceasingly fixed on an inkstand upon the table, and never lifted, his expression never varied; and Leonard’s glance flashed inquiringly from one speaker to another, and his countenance altered with every phase of the evidence.
The first witness was Anne Ellis, the young maid-servant, who told of her coming down at ten minutes after five that morning, the 6th of July, and on going in to clean the rooms, finding her master sunk forward on the table. Supposing him to have had a fit, she had run to the window and screamed for help, when Master Hardy, the foreman, and Mrs. Giles, the housekeeper, had come in.