CHAPTER XI.
Marcella was lying on the sofa in the Mellor drawing-room. The Februaryevening had just been shut out, but she had told William not to bringthe lamps till they were rung for. Even the fire-light seemed more thanshe could bear. She was utterly exhausted both in body and mind; yet, asshe lay there with shut eyes, and hands clasped under her cheek, a startwent through her at every sound in the house, which showed that she wasnot resting, but listening. She had spent the morning in the Hurds'cottage, sitting by Mrs. Hurd and nursing the little boy. Minta Hurd,always delicate and consumptive, was now generally too ill from shockand misery to be anywhere but in her bed, and Willie was growingsteadily weaker, though the child's spirit was such that he would insiston dressing, on hearing and knowing everything about his father, and onmoving about the house as usual. Yet every movement of his wasted bonescost him the effort of a hero, and the dumb signs in him of longing forhis father increased the general impression as of some patient creaturedriven by Nature to monstrous and disproportionate extremity.
The plight of this handful of human beings worked in Marcella like somefevering torture. She was wholly out of gear physically and morally.Another practically sleepless night, peopled with images of horror, haddecreased her stock of sane self-control, already lessened by longconflict of feeling and the pressure of self-contempt. Now, as she laylistening for Aldous Raeburn's ring and step, she hardly knew whether tobe angry with him for coming so late, or miserable that he should comeat all. That there was a long score to settle between herself and himshe knew well. Shame for an experience which seemed to her maiden senseindelible--both a weakness and a treachery--lay like a dull weight onheart and conscience. But she would not realise it, she would not actupon it. She shook the moral debate from her impatiently. Aldous shouldhave his due all in good time--should have ample opportunity of decidingwhether he would, after all, marry such a girl as she. Meanwhile hisattitude with regard to the murder exasperated her. Yet, in some strangeway it relieved her to be angry and sore with him--to have a grievanceshe could avow, and on which she made it a merit to dwell. His gentle,yet firm difference of opinion with her on the subject struck her assomething new in him. It gave her a kind of fierce pleasure to fight it.He seemed somehow to be providing her with excuses--to be coming down toher level--to be equalling wrong with wrong.
The door handle turned. At last! She sprang up. But it was only Williamcoming in with the evening post. Mrs. Boyce followed him. She took aquiet look at her daughter, and asked if her headache was better, andthen sat down near her to some needlework. During these two days shehad been unusually kind to Marcella. She had none of the little femininearts of consolation. She was incapable of fussing, and she nevercaressed. But from the moment that Marcella had come home from thevillage that morning, a pale, hollow-eyed wreck, the mother had assertedher authority. She would not hear of the girl's crossing the thresholdagain; she had put her on the sofa and dosed her with sal-volatile. AndMarcella was too exhausted to rebel. She had only stipulated that a noteshould be sent to Aldous, asking him to come on to Mellor with the newsas soon as the verdict of the coroner's jury should be given. The juryhad been sitting all day, and the verdict was expected in the evening.
Marcella turned over her letters till she came to one from a London firmwhich contained a number of cloth patterns. As she touched it she threwit aside with a sudden gesture of impatience, and sat upright.
"Mamma! I have something to say to you."
"Yes, my dear."
"Mamma, the wedding must be put off!--it _must_!--for some weeks. I havebeen thinking about it while I have been lying here. How _can_ I?--youcan see for yourself. That miserable woman depends on me altogether. Howcan I spend my time on clothing and dressmakers? I feel as if I couldthink of nothing else--nothing else in the world--but her and herchildren." She spoke with difficulty, her voice high and strained. "Theassizes may be held that very week--who knows?--the very day we aremarried."
She stopped, looking at her mother almost threateningly. Mrs. Boyceshowed no sign of surprise. She put her work down.
"I had imagined you might say something of the kind," she said after apause. "I don't know that, from your point of view, it is unreasonable.But, of course, you must understand that very few people will see itfrom your point of view. Aldous Raeburn may--you must know best. But hispeople certainly won't; and your father will think it--"
"Madness," she was going to say, but with her usual instinct for themoderate fastidious word she corrected it to "foolish."
Marcella's tired eyes were all wilfulness and defiance.
"I can't help it. I couldn't do it. I will tell Aldous at once. It mustbe put off for a month. And even that," she added with a shudder, "willbe bad enough."
Mrs. Boyce could not help an unperceived shrug of the shoulders, and amovement of pity towards the future husband. Then she said drily,--
"You must always consider whether it is just to Mr. Raeburn to let amatter of this kind interfere so considerably with his wishes and hisplans. He must, I suppose, be in London for Parliament within sixweeks."
Marcella did not answer. She sat with her hands round her knees lost inperplexities. The wedding, as originally fixed, was now three weeks andthree days off. After it, she and Aldous were to have spent a shortfortnight's honeymoon at a famous house in the north, lent them for theoccasion by a Duke who was a cousin of Aldous's on the mother's side,and had more houses than he knew what to do with. Then they were to goimmediately up to London for the opening of Parliament. The furnishingof the Mayfair house was being pressed on. In her new-born impatiencewith such things, Marcella had hardly of late concerned herself with itat all, and Miss Raeburn, scandalised, yet not unwilling, had been doingthe whole of it, subject to conscientious worryings of the bride,whenever she could be got hold of, on the subject of papers andcurtains.
As they sat silent, the unspoken idea in the mother's mind was--"Eightweeks more will carry us past the execution." Mrs. Boyce had alreadypossessed herself very clearly of the facts of the case, and it was herperception that Marcella was throwing herself headlong into a hopelessstruggle--together with something else--a confession perhaps of a touchof greatness in the girl's temper, passionate and violent as it was,that had led to this unwonted softness of manner, this absence ofsarcasm.
Very much the same thought--only treated as a nameless horror not to berecognised or admitted--was in Marcella's mind also, joined however withanother, unsuspected even by Mrs. Boyce's acuteness. "Very likely--whenI tell him--he will not want to marry me at all--and of course I shalltell him."
But not yet--certainly not yet. She had the instinctive sense thatduring the next few weeks she should want all her dignity with Aldous,that she could not afford to put herself at a disadvantage with him. Tobe troubled about her own sins at such a moment would be like themeanness of the lazy and canting Christian, who whines about saving hissoul while he ought to be rather occupied with feeding the bodies of hiswife and children.
A ring at the front door. Marcella rose, leaning one hand on the end ofthe sofa--a long slim figure in her black dress--haggard and pathetic.
When Aldous entered, her face was one question. He went up to her andtook her hand.
"In the case of Westall the verdict is one of 'Wilful Murder' againstHurd. In that of poor Charlie Dynes the court is adjourned. Enoughevidence has been taken to justify burial. But there is news to-nightthat one of the Widrington gang has turned informer, and the police saythey will have their hands on them all within the next two or threedays."
Marcella withdrew herself from him and fell back into the corner of thesofa. Shading her eyes with her hand she tried to be very composed andbusiness-like.
"Was Hurd himself examined?"
"Yes, under the new Act. He gave the account which he gave to you and tohis wife. But the Court--"
"Did not believe it?"
"No. The evidence of motive was too strong. It was clear from his ownaccount that he was out for p
oaching purposes, that he was leading theOxford gang, and that he had a gun while Westall was unarmed. Headmitted too that Westall called on him to give up the bag of pheasantshe held, and the gun. He refused. Then he says Westall came at him, andhe fired. Dick Patton and one or two others gave evidence as to thelanguage he has habitually used about Westall for months past."
"Cowards--curs!" cried Marcella, clenching both her hands, a kind of sobin her throat.
Aldous, already white and careworn, showed, Mrs. Boyce thought, a ray ofindignation for an instant. Then he resumed steadily--
"And Brown, our steward, gave evidence as to his employment sinceOctober. The coroner summed up carefully, and I think fairly, and theverdict was given about half-past six."
"They took him back to prison?"
"Of course. He comes before the magistrates on Thursday."
"And you will be one!"
The girl's tone was indescribable.
Aldous started. Mrs. Boyce reddened with anger, and checking herinstinct to intervene began to put away her working materials that shemight leave them together. While she was still busy Aldous said:
"You forget; no magistrate ever tries a case in which he is personallyconcerned. I shall take no part in the trial. My grandfather, of course,must prosecute."
"But it will be a bench of landlords," cried Marcella; "of men with whoma poacher is already condemned."
"You are unjust to us, I think," said Aldous, slowly, after a pause,during which Mrs. Boyce left the room--"to some of us, at any rate.Besides, as of course you know, the case will be simply sent on fortrial at the assizes. By the way "--his tone changed--"I hear to-nightthat Harry Wharton undertakes the defence."
"Yes," said Marcella, defiantly. "Is there anything to say against it?You wouldn't wish Hurd not to be defended, I suppose?"
"Marcella!"
Even her bitter mood was pierced by the tone. She had never wounded himso deeply yet, and for a moment he felt the situation intolerable; thesurging grievance and reproach, with which his heart was really full,all but found vent in an outburst which would have wholly swept away hisordinary measure and self-control. But then, as he looked at her, itstruck his lover's sense painfully how pale and miserable she was. Hecould not scold! But it came home to him strongly that for her own sakeand his it would be better there should be explanations. After allthings had been going untowardly for many weeks. His nature moved slowlyand with much self-doubt, but it was plain to him now that he must makea stand.
After his cry, her first instinct was to apologise. Then the words stuckin her throat. To her, as to him, they seemed to be close on a trial ofstrength. If she could not influence him in this matter--so obvious, asit seemed to her, and so near to her heart--what was to become of thatlead of hers in their married life, on which she had been reckoning fromthe beginning? All that was worst in her and all that was best rose tothe struggle.
But, as he did not speak, she looked up at last.
"I was waiting," he said in a low voice.
"What for?"
"Waiting till you should tell me you did not mean what you said."
She saw that he was painfully moved; she also saw that he wasintroducing something into their relation, an element of proudself-assertion, which she had never felt in it before. Her own vanityinstantly rebelled.
"I ought not to have said exactly what I did," she said, almost stifledby her own excitement, and making great efforts not to play the merewilful child; "that I admit. But it has been clear to me from thebeginning that--that"--her words hurried, she took up a book andrestlessly lifted it and let it fall--"you have never looked at thisthing justly. You have looked at the crime as any one must who is alandowner; you have never allowed for the provocation; you have not letyourself feel pity--"
He made an exclamation.
"Do you know where I was before I went into the inquest?"
"No," she said defiantly, determined not to be impressed, feeling achildish irritation at the interruption.
"I was with Mrs. Westall. Harden and I went in to see her. She is ahard, silent woman. She is clearly not popular in the village, and noone comes in to her. Her"--he hesitated--"her baby is expected beforelong. She is in such a state of shock and excitement that Clarke thinksit quite possible she may go out of her mind. I saw her sitting by thefire, quite silent, not crying, but with a wild eye that means mischief.We have sent in a nurse to help Mrs. Jellison watch her. She seems tocare nothing about her boy. Everything that that woman most desired inlife has been struck from her at a blow. Why? That a man who was in nostress of poverty, who had friends and employment, should indulgehimself in acts which he knew to be against the law, and had promisedyou and his wife to forego, and should at the same time satisfy a wildbeast's hatred against the man, who was simply defending his master'sproperty. Have _you_ no pity for Mrs. Westall or her child?"
He spoke as calmly as he could, making his appeal to reason and moralsense; but, in reality, every word was charged with electric feeling.
"I _am_ sorry for her!" cried Marcella, passionately. "But, after all,how can one feel for the oppressor, or those connected with him, as onedoes for the victim?" He shook his head, protesting against the word,but she rushed on. "You do know--for I told you yesterday--how under theshelter of this _hateful_ game system Westall made Kurd's life a burdento him when he was a young man--how he had begun to bully him again thispast year. We had the same sort of dispute the other day about thatmurder in Ireland. You were shocked that I would not condemn theMoonlighters who had shot their landlord from behind a hedge, as youdid. You said the man had tried to do his duty, and that the murder wasbrutal and unprovoked. But I thought of the _system_--of the _memories_in the minds of the murderers. There _were_ excuses--he suffered for hisfather--I am not going to judge that as I judge other murders. So, whena Czar of Russia is blown up, do you expect one to think only of hiswife and children? No! I will think of the tyranny and the revolt; Iwill pray, yes, _pray_ that I might have courage to do as they did! Youmay think me wild and mad. I dare say. I am made so. I shall always feelso!"
She flung out her words at him, every limb quivering under the emotionof them. His cool, penetrating eye, this manner she had never yet knownin him, exasperated her.
"Where was the tyranny in this case?" he asked her quietly. "I agreewith you that there are murders and murders. But I thought your pointwas that here was neither murder nor attack, but only an act ofself-defence. That is Hurd's plea."
She hesitated and stumbled. "I know," she said, "I know. I believe it.But, even if the attack had been on Hurd's part, I should still findexcuses, because of the system, and because of Westall's hatefulness."
He shook his head again.
"Because a man is harsh and masterful, and uses stinging language, is heto be shot down like a dog?"
There was a silence. Marcella was lashing herself up by thoughts of thedeformed man in his cell, looking forward after the wretched,unsatisfied life, which was all society had allowed him, to the violentdeath by which society would get rid of him--of the wife yearning herheart away--of the boy, whom other human beings, under the name of law,were about to separate from his father for ever. At last she broke outthickly and indistinctly:
"The terrible thing is that I cannot count upon you--that now I cannotmake you feel as I do--feel with me. And by-and-by, when I shall wantyour help desperately, when your help might be everything--I suppose itwill be no good to ask it."
He started, and bending forward he possessed himself of both herhands--her hot trembling hands--and kissed them with a passionatetenderness.
"What help will you ask of me that I cannot give? That would be hard tobear!"
Still held by him, she answered his question by another:
"Give me your idea of what will happen. Tell me how you think it willend."
"I shall only distress you, dear," he said sadly.
"No; tell me. You think him guilty. You believe he will be convicted."
; "Unless some wholly fresh evidence is forthcoming," he said reluctantly,"I can see no other issue."
"Very well; then he will be sentenced to death. But, after sentence--Iknow--that man from Widrington, that solicitor told me--if--if stronginfluence is brought to bear--if anybody whose word counts--if LordMaxwell and you, were to join the movement to save him--There is sure tobe a movement--the Radicals will take it up. Will you do it--will youpromise me now--for my sake?"
He was silent.
She looked at him, all her heart burning in her eyes, conscious of herwoman's power too, and pressing it.
"If that man is hung," she said pleadingly, "it will leave a mark on mylife nothing will ever smooth out. I shall feel myself somehowresponsible. I shall say to myself, if I had not been thinking about myown selfish affairs--about getting married--about the straw-plaiting--Imight have seen what was going on. I might have saved these people, whohave been my friends--my _real_ friends--from this horror."
She drew her hands away and fell back on the sofa, pressing herhandkerchief to her eyes. "If you had seen her this morning!" she saidin a strangled voice. "She was saying, 'Oh, miss, if they do find himguilty, they can't hang him--not my poor deformed Jim, that never had achance of being like the others. Oh, we'll beg so hard. I know there'smany people will speak for him. He was mad, miss, when he did it. He'dnever been himself, not since last winter, when we all sat and starved,and he was driven out of his senses by thinking of me and the children.You'll get Mr. Raeburn to speak--won't you, miss?--and Lord Maxwell? Itwas their game. I know it was their game. But they'll forgive him.They're such great people, and so rich--and we--we've always had such astruggle. Oh, the bad times we've had, and no one know! They'll try andget him off, miss? Oh, I'll go and _beg_ of them.'"
She stopped, unable to trust her voice any further. He stooped over herand kissed her brow. There was a certain solemnity in the moment forboth of them. The pity of human fate overshadowed them. At last he saidfirmly, yet with great feeling:
"I will not prejudge anything, that I promise you. I will keep my mindopen to the last. But--I should like to say--it would not be any easierto me to throw myself into an agitation for reprieve because this manwas tempted to crime by _my_ property--on _my_ land. I should think itright to look at it altogether from the public point of view. Thesatisfaction of my own private compunctions--of my own privatefeelings--is not what I ought to regard. My own share in thecircumstances, in the conditions which made such an act possible doesindeed concern me deeply. You cannot imagine but that the moral problemof it has possessed me ever since this dreadful thing happened. Ittroubled me much before. Now, it has become an oppression--a torture. Ihave never seen my grandfather so moved, so distressed, in all myremembrance of him. Yet he is a man of the old school, with the oldstandards. As for me, if ever I come to the estate I will change thewhole system, I will run no risks of such human wreck and ruin asthis--"
His voice faltered.
"But," he resumed, speaking steadily again, "I ought to warn you thatsuch considerations as these will not affect my judgment of thisparticular case. In the first place, I have no quarrel with capitalpunishment as such. I do not believe we could rightly give it up. Yourattitude properly means that wherever we can legitimately feel pity fora murderer, we should let him escape his penalty. I, on the other hand,believe that if the murderer saw things as they truly are, he wouldhimself _claim_ his own death, as his best chance, his only chance--inthis mysterious universe!--of self-recovery. Then it comes to this--wasthe act murder? The English law of murder is not perfect, but it appearsto me to be substantially just, and guided by it--"
"You talk as if there were no such things as mercy and pity in theworld," she interrupted wildly; "as if law were not made andadministered by men of just the same stuff and fabric as thelawbreaker!"
He looked troubled.
"Ah, but _law_ is something beyond laws or those who administer them,"he said in a lower tone; "and the law--the _obligation-sense_--of ourown race and time, however imperfect it may be, is sacred, not becauseit has been imposed upon us from without, but because it has grown up towhat it is, out of our own best life--ours, yet not ours--the best proofwe have, when we look back at it in the large, when we feel its work inourselves of some diviner power than our own will--our best clue to whatthat power may be!"
He spoke at first, looking away--wrestling out his thought, as it were,by himself--then turning back to her, his eyes emphasised the appealimplied, though not expressed, in what he said--intense appeal to herfor sympathy, forbearance, mutual respect, through all acuteness ofdifference. His look both promised and implored.
He bad spoken to her but very rarely or indirectly as yet of his ownreligious or philosophical beliefs. She was in a stage when such thingsinterested her but little, and reticence in personal matters was so muchthe law of his life that even to her expansion was difficult. Sothat--inevitably--she was arrested, for the moment, as any quickperception must be, by the things that unveil character.
Then an upheaval of indignant feeling swept the impression away. Allthat he said might be ideally, profoundly true--_but_--the red blood ofthe common life was lacking in every word of it! He ought to beincapable of saying it _now_. Her passionate question was, how could he_argue_--how could he hold and mark the ethical balance--when a _woman_was suffering, when _children_ were to be left fatherless? Besides--theethical balance itself--does it not alter according to the hands thathold it--poacher or landlord, rich or poor?
But she was too exhausted to carry on the contest in words. Both felt itwould have to be renewed. But she said to herself secretly that Mr.Wharton, when he got to work, would alter the whole aspect of affairs.And she knew well that her vantage-ground as towards Aldous was strong.
Then at last he was free to turn his whole attention for a little to herand her physical state, which made him miserable. He had never imaginedthat any one, vigorous and healthy as she was, could look so worn out inso short a time. She let him talk to her--lament, entreat, advise--andat last she took advantage of his anxiety and her admissions to come tothe point, to plead that the marriage should be put off.
She used the same arguments that she had done to her mother.
"How can I bear to be thinking of these things?"--she pointed a shakingfinger at the dress patterns lying scattered on the table--"with thisagony, this death, under my eyes?"
It was a great blow to him, and the practical inconveniences involvedwere great. But the fibre of him--of which she had just felt thetoughness--was delicate and sensitive as her own, and after a very shortrecoil he met her with great chivalry and sweetness, agreeing thateverything should be put off for six weeks, till Easter in fact. Shewould have been very grateful to him but that something--some secretthought--checked the words she tried to say.
"I must go home then," he said, rising and trying to smile. "I shallhave to make things straight with Aunt Neta, and set a great manyarrangements in train. Now, you will _try_ to think of something else?Let me leave you with a book that I can imagine you will read."
She let herself be tended and thought for. At the last, just as he wasgoing, he said:
"Have you seen Mr. Wharton at all since this happened?"
His manner was just as usual. She felt that her eye was guilty, but thedarkness of the firelit room shielded her.
"I have not seen him since we met him in the drive. I saw the solicitorwho is working up the case for him yesterday. He came over to see Mrs.Hurd and me. I had not thought of asking him, but we agreed that, if hewould undertake it, it would be the best chance."
"It _is_ probably the best chance," said Aldous, thoughtfully. "Ibelieve Wharton has not done much at the Bar since he was called, butthat, no doubt, is because he has had so much on his hands in the way ofjournalism and politics. His ability is enough for anything, and he willthrow himself into this. I do not think Hurd could do better."
She did not answer. She felt that he was magnanimous, but felt itcoldly, without
emotion.
He came and stooped over her.
"Good-night--good-night--tired child--dear heart! When I saw you in thatcottage this morning I thought of the words, 'Give, and it shall begiven unto you.' All that my life can do to pour good measure, presseddown, running over, into yours, I vowed you then!"
When the door closed upon him, Marcella, stretched in the darkness, shedthe bitterest tears that had ever yet been hers--tears which transformedher youth--which baptised her, as it were, into the fulness of ourtragic life.
She was still weeping when she heard the door softly opened. She sprangup and dried her eyes, but the little figure that glided in was not oneto shrink from. Mary Harden came and sat down beside her.
"I knew you would be miserable. Let me come and cry too. I have been myround--have seen them all--and I came to bring you news."
"How has she taken--the verdict?" asked Marcella, struggling with hersobs, and succeeding at last in composing herself.
"She was prepared for it. Charlie told her when he saw her after youleft this afternoon that she must expect it."
There was a pause.
"I shall soon hear, I suppose," said Marcella, in a hardening voice, herhands round her knees, "what Mr. Wharton is doing for the defence. Hewill appear before the magistrates, I suppose."
"Yes; but Charlie thinks the defence will be mainly reserved. Only alittle more than a fortnight to the assizes! The time is so short. Butnow this man has turned informer, they say the case is quitestraightforward. With all the other evidence the police have there willbe no difficulty in trying them all. Marcella!"
"Yes."
Had there been light enough to show it, Mary's face would have revealedher timidity.
"Marcella, Charlie asked me to give you a message. He begs you notto--not to make Mrs. Hurd hope too much. He himself believes there is nohope, and it is not kind."
"Are you and he like all the rest," cried Marcella, her passion breakingout again, "only eager to have blood for blood?"
Mary waited an instant.
"It has almost broken Charlie's heart," she said at last; "but he thinksit was murder, and that Hurd will pay the penalty; nay, more "--shespoke with a kind of religious awe in her gentle voice--"that he oughtto be glad to pay it. He believes it to be God's will, and I have heardhim say that he would even have executions in public again--understricter regulations of course--that we may not escape, as we always doif we can--from all sight and thought of God's justice and God'spunishments."
Marcella shuddered and rose. She almost threw Mary's hand away from her.
"Tell your brother from me, Mary," she said, "that his God is to _me_just a constable in the service of the English game-laws! If He _is_such a one, I at least will fling my Everlasting No at him while Ilive."
And she swept from the room, leaving Mary aghast.
* * * * *
Meanwhile there was consternation and wrath at Maxwell Court, whereAldous, on his return from Mellor, had first of all given his great-auntthe news of the coroner's verdict, and had then gone on to break to herthe putting-off of the marriage. His championship of Marcella in thematter, and his disavowal of all grievance were so quiet and decided,that Miss Raeburn had been only able to allow herself a very modifiedstrain of comment and remonstrance, so long as he was still there tolisten. But she was all the more outspoken when he was gone, and LadyWinterbourne was sitting with her. Lady Winterbourne, who was at homealone, while her husband was with a married daughter on the Riviera, hadcome over to dine _tete-a-tete_ with her friend, finding it impossibleto remain solitary while so much was happening.
"Well, my dear," said Miss Raeburn, shortly, as her guest entered theroom, "I may as well tell you at once that Aldous's marriage is putoff."
"Put off!" exclaimed Lady Winterbourne, bewildered. "Why it was onlyThursday that I was discussing it all with Marcella, and she told meeverything was settled."
"Thursday!--I dare say!" said Miss Raeburn, stitching away with fieryenergy, "but since then a poacher has murdered one of our gamekeepers,which makes all the difference."
"What _do_ you mean, Agneta?"
"What I say, my dear. The poacher was Marcella's friend, and she cannotnow distract her mind from him sufficiently to marry Aldous, thoughevery plan he has in the world will be upset by her proceedings. And asfor his election, you may depend upon it she will never ask or knowwhether he gets in next Monday or no. That goes without saying. She ismeanwhile absorbed with the poacher's defence, _Mr. Wharton_, of course,conducting it. This is your modern young woman, my dear--typical, Ishould think."
Miss Raeburn turned her buttonhole in fine style, and at lightningspeed, to show the coolness of her mind, then with a rattling of all herlockets, looked up and waited for Lady Winterbourne's reflections.
"She has often talked to me of these people--the Hurds," said LadyWinterbourne, slowly. "She has always made special friends with them.Don't you remember she told us about them that day she first came backto lunch?"
"Of course I remember! That day she lectured Maxwell, at first sight,on his duties. She began well. As for these people," said Miss Raeburn,more slowly, "one is, of course, sorry for the wife and children, thoughI am a good deal sorrier for Mrs. Westall, and poor, poor Mrs. Dynes.The whole affair has so upset Maxwell and me, we have hardly been ableto eat or sleep since. I thought it made Maxwell look dreadfully oldthis morning, and with all that he has got before him too! I shallinsist on sending for Clarke to-morrow morning if he does not have abetter night. And now this postponement will be one more trouble--allthe engagements to alter, and the invitations. _Really_! that girl."
And Miss Raeburn broke off short, feeling simply that the words whichwere allowed to a well-bred person were wholly inadequate to her stateof mind.
"But if she feels it--as you or I might feel such a thing about some onewe knew or cared for, Agneta?"
"How can she feel it like that?" cried Miss Raeburn, exasperated. "Howcan she know any one of--of that class well enough? It is not seemly, Itell you, Adelaide, and I don't believe it is sincere. It's just done tomake herself conspicuous, and show her power over Aldous. For otherreasons too, if the truth were known!"
Miss Raeburn turned over the shirt she was making for some charitablesociety and drew out some tacking threads with a loud noise whichrelieved her. Lady Winterbourne's old and delicate cheek had flushed.
"I'm sure it's sincere," she said with emphasis. "Do you mean to say,Agneta, that one can't sympathise, in such an awful thing, with peopleof another class, as one would with one's own flesh and blood?"
Miss Raeburn winced. She felt for a moment the pressure of a democraticworld--a hated, formidable world--through her friend's question. Thenshe stood to her guns.
"I dare say you'll think it sounds bad," she said stoutly; "but in myyoung days it would have been thought a piece of posing--ofsentimentalism--something indecorous and unfitting--if a girl had putherself in such a position. Marcella _ought_ to be absorbed in hermarriage; that is the natural thing. How Mrs. Boyce can allow her to mixherself with such things as this murder--to _live_ in that cottage, as Ihear she has been doing, passes my comprehension."
"You mean," said Lady Winterbourne, dreamily, "that if one had been veryfond of one's maid, and she died, one wouldn't put on mourning for her.Marcella would."
"I dare say," said Miss Raeburn, snappishly. "She is capable of anythingfar-fetched and theatrical."
The door opened and Hallin came in. He had been suffering of late, andmuch confined to the house. But the news of the murder had made a deepand painful impression upon him, and he had been eagerly acquaintinghimself with the facts. Miss Raeburn, whose kindness ran with unceasingflow along the channels she allowed it, was greatly attached to him inspite of his views, and she now threw herself upon him for sympathy inthe matter of the wedding. In any grievance that concerned Aldous shecounted upon him, and her shrewd eyes had plainly perceived that he hadmade no great friendship with Ma
rcella.
"I am very sorry for Aldous," he said at once; "but I understand _her_perfectly. So does Aldous."
Miss Raeburn was angrily silent. But when Lord Maxwell, who had beentalking with Aldous, came in, he proved, to her final discomfiture, tobe very much of the same opinion.
"My dear," he said wearily as he dropped into his chair, his old facegrey and pinched, "this thing is too terrible--the number of widows andorphans that night's work will make before the end breaks my heart tothink of. It will be a relief not to have to consider festivities whilethese men are actually before the courts. What I am anxious about isthat Marcella should not make herself ill with excitement. The man sheis interested in will be hung, must be hung; and with her somewhatvolatile, impulsive nature--"
He spoke with old-fashioned discretion and measure. Then quickly hepulled himself up, and, with some trivial question or other, offered hisarm to Lady Winterbourne, for Aldous had just come in, and dinner wasready.