‘Oh, I believe it has all come on him now that it was his fault—driving Leonard to that place; and he was in such misery, that Richard could not leave him.’
‘I am glad he has the grace to feel it at last,’ said Tom.
‘It must be very terrible!’ said Mary. ‘He says he cannot stay in that house, for every room reproaches him; and he groaned as if he was in tremendous bodily pain.’
‘What, you assisted at this scene?’ said Tom, looking at her rather sharply.
‘No; but Richard told me; and I heard the groans as I sat on the stairs.’
‘Sat on the stairs?’
‘Yes. I could not go back to Ave’s room for fear of waking her.’
‘And how long?’
‘Towards an hour, I believe. I did all that piece,’ said Mary, displaying a couple of inches of a stocking leg, ‘and I think it was pretty well in the dark.’
‘Sitting on the stairs for an hour in the dark,’ said Tom, as he gave Mary the candle he had been lighting for her. ‘That may be called unappreciated devotion.’
‘I never can tell what Tom means,’ said Mary, as she went up-stairs with Ethel. ‘It was a very comfortable rest. I wish you had had the same, dear Ethel, you look so tired and worn out. Let me stay and help you. It has been such a sad long day; and oh! how terrible this is! And you know him better than any of us, except Aubrey.’
Mary stopped almost in dismay, for her sister, usually so firm, broke down entirely, and sitting down on a low chair, threw an arm round her, and resting her weary brow against her, gave way to long tearless sobs, or rather catches of breath. ‘Oh! Mary! Mary!’ she said, between her gasps, ‘to think of last year—and Coombe—and the two bright boys—and the visions—and the light in those glorious eyes—and that this should be the end!’
‘Dear, dear Ethel,’ said Mary, with fast-flowing tears and tender caresses, ‘you have kept us all up; you have always shown us it was for the best.’
‘It is! it is!’ cried Ethel. ‘I do, I will believe it! If I had only seen his face as papa tells of it, I could keep hold of the glory of it and the martyr spirit. Now I only see his earnest, shy, confiding look—and—and I don’t know how to bear it.’ And Ethel’s grasp of Mary in both arms was tightened, as if to support herself under her deep labouring sobs of anguish. Ah! he was very fond of you.’
‘There never was any one beyond our own selves that loved me so well. I always knew it would not last—that it ought not; but oh! it was endearing; and I did think to have seen him a shining light!’
‘And don’t you tell us he is a shining light now?’ said Mary, among the tears that really almost seemed to be a relief, as if her sister herself had shed them; and as she knelt down, Ethel laid her head on her shoulder, and spoke more calmly.
‘He is,’ she said, ‘and I ought to be thankful for it! I think I am generally—but now—it makes it the more piteous—the hopes—the spirit—the determination—all to be quenched, and so quenched—and to have nothing—nothing to do for him.
‘But, Ethel, papa says your messages do him more good than anything; and papa will let you go and see him, and that will comfort him.’
Ethel’s lips gave a strange sort of smile; she thought it was at simple Mary’s trust in her power, but it would hardly have been there but for the species of hope thus excited, and the sense of sympathy. Mary was not one to place any misconstruction on what had passed; she well knew that Leonard had almost taken a brother’s place in Ethel’s heart, and she prized him at the rate of her sister’s esteem. Perhaps her prominent thought was how cruel were those who fancied that Ethel’s lofty faith was unfeeling, and how very good Leonard must be to be thus mourned. At any rate, she was an excellent comforter, in the sympathy that was neither too acute nor too obtuse; and purely to oblige her, Ethel for the first time submitted to her favourite panacea of hair brushing, and found that in very truth those soft and steady manipulations were almost mesmeric in soothing away the hard oppressive excitement, and bringing on a gentle and slumberous resignation.
The sisters were early astir next morning, to inflict on their father a cup of cocoa, which he rebelled against, but swallowed, and to receive his last orders, chiefly consisting of messages to Tom about taking the petition to be approved of by Dr. Spencer and others, and then having it properly drawn out. Mary asked if women might sign it, and was answered with an impatient ‘Pshaw!’
‘But ladies do have petitions of their own,’ said Mary, with some diffidence. ‘Could not we have one?’
His lips were compressed for another ‘Pshaw,’ when he bethought himself. ‘Well, I don’t know—the more the better. Only it won’t do for you to set it going. Flora must be the woman for that.’
‘Oh, then,’ cried Mary, eagerly, ‘might not I walk over to breakfast at the Grange, and talk to Flora? Ethel, you would not mind going to Ave instead? Or will you go to Flora?’
‘You had better,’ said Ethel. ‘I must stay on Aubrey’s account; and this is your doing, Mary,’ she added, looking at her warmly.
‘Then put on your hat, Mary, and take a biscuit,’ said the Doctor, ‘and you shall have a lift as far as the cross roads.’
Thus the morning began with action and with hope. Mary found herself very welcome at the Grange, where there was much anxiety to hear of Aubrey, as well as the more immediate sufferers. The Riverses had dined at Drydale, and had met the judges, as well as a good many of the county gentlemen who had been on the grand jury and attended on the trial. They had found every one most deeply touched by the conduct of the prisoner. The judge had talked to Flora about her young brother, and the friendship so bravely avouched; had asked the particulars of the action to which Leonard had alluded, and shown himself much interested in all that she related.
She said that the universal impression was that the evidence was dead against Leonard, and taken apart, led to such conviction of his guilt, that no one could wonder at the verdict; but that his appearance and manner were such, that it was almost impossible, under their influence, not to credit his innocence. She had reason to believe that petitions were already in hand both from the county and the assize town, and she eagerly caught at Mary’s proposal of one from the ladies of Stoneborough.
‘I’ll drive in at once before luncheon, and take you home, Mary,’ she said. ‘And, first of all, we will begin with the two widows, and half the battle will be won.’
Nay, more than half the battle proved to be already gained in that quarter. The writing-table was covered with sheets of foolscap, and Mrs. Pugh was hard at work copying the petition which Mr. Harvey Anderson had kindly assisted in composing, and which the aunt and niece had intended to have brought to the Grange for Mrs. Rivers’s approval that very day. Harvey Anderson had spent the evening at Mrs. Ledwich’s in drawing it up, and giving his advice; and Flora, going over it word for word with Mrs. Pugh, felt that it could hardly have been better worded.
‘He is a very clever, a very rising young man, and so feeling, said Mrs. Ledwich to Mary while this was going on. ‘In fact, he is a perfect knight-errant on this subject. He is gone to London this morning to see what can be done by means of the press. I tell Matilda it is quite a romance of modern life; and indeed, the sweet girl is very romantic still—very young, even after all she has gone through.’
Not understanding this, Mary let it pass in calculations on the number of possible signatures, which the two ladies undertook to collect.
‘That is well,’ said Flora, as they went away. ‘It could not be in better hands. It will thrive the better for our doing nothing but writing our names.’
They met Tom on the like errand, but not very sanguine, for he said there had of late been an outcry against the number of reprieves granted, and the public had begun to think itself not sufficiently protected. He thought the best chance was the discovery of some additional fact that might tell in favour of Leonard, and confident in his own sagacity, was going to make perquisitions at the mill. Every one had been visiting of late, and now that he knew more, if he and his microscope could detect one drop of human blood in an unexpected place, they would do better service to the prisoner than all the petitions that could be signed.