North and South
the responsibility.”
“Well,” thought Watson, “it relieves me from an awkward job. None of my
witnesses seemed certain of anything except the young woman. She was
clear and distinct enough; the porter at the railroad had seen a
scuffle! or when he found it was likely to bring him in as a witness,
then it might not have been a scuffle, only a little larking, and
Leonards might have jumped off the platform himself;—he would not
stick firm to anything. And Jennings, the grocer’s shopman,—well, he
was not quite so bad, but I doubt if I could have got him up to an oath
after he heard that Miss Hale flatly denied it. It would have been a
troublesome job and no satisfaction. And now I must go and tell them
they won’t be wanted.”
He accordingly presented himself again at Mr. Hale’s that evening. Her
father and Dixon would fain have persuaded Margaret to go to bed; but
they, neither of them, knew the reason for her low continued refusals to
do so. Dixon had learnt part of the truth—but only part. Margaret would
not tell any human being of what she had said, and she did not reveal
the fatal termination to Leonards’ fall from the platform. So Dixon’s
curiosity combined with her allegiance to urge Margaret to go to rest,
which her appearance, as she lay on the sofa, showed but too clearly
that she required. She did not speak except when spoken to; she tried to
smile back in reply to her father’s anxious looks and words of tender
inquiry; but, instead of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves into
a sigh. He was so miserably uneasy that, at last, she consented to go
into her own room, and prepare for going to bed. She was indeed inclined
to give up the idea that the inspector would call again that night, as
it was already past nine o’clock.
She stood by her father, holding on to the back of his chair.
“You will go to bed soon, papa, won’t you? Don’t sit up alone!”
What his answer was she did not hear; the words were lost in the far
smaller sound that magnified itself to her fears, and filled her brain.
There was a low ring at the door-bell.
She kissed her father and glided down stairs, with a rapidity of motion
of which no one would have thought her capable, who had seen her the
minute before. She put aside Dixon.
“Don’t come; I will open the door. I know it is him—I can—I must
manage it all myself.”
“As you please, miss!” said Dixon, testily; but in a moment afterwards,
she added, “But you’re not fit for it. You are more dead than alive.”
“Am I?” said Margaret, turning round and showing her eyes all aglow with
strange fire, her cheeks flushed, though her lips were baked and livid
still.
She opened the door to the Inspector, and preceded him into the study.
She placed the candle on the table, and snuffed it carefully, before she
turned round and faced him.
“You are late!” said she. “Well?” She held her breath for the answer.
“I am sorry to have given any unnecessary trouble, ma’am; for, after
all, they’ve given up all thoughts of holding an inquest. I have had
other work to do and other people to see, or I should have been here
before now.”
“Then it is ended,” said Margaret. “There is to be no further enquiry.”
“I believe I’ve got Mr. Thornton’s note about me,” said the Inspector,
fumbling in his pocket-book.
“Mr. Thornton’s!” said Margaret.
“Yes! he’s a magistrate—ah! here it is.”
She could not see to read it—no, not although she was close to the
candle. The words swam before her. But she held it in her hand, and
looked at it as if she were intently studying it.
“I’m sure, ma’am, it’s a great weight off my mind; for the evidence was
so uncertain, you see, that the man had received any blow at all, and if
any question of identity came in, it so complicated the case, as I told
Mr. Thornton——”
“Mr. Thornton!” said Margaret again.
“I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this house, and,
as he’s an old friend of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw
Leonards last night, I made bold to tell him of my difficulty.”
Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any more; she was
afraid alike of what she had heard, and of what she might hear. She
wished that the man would go. She forced herself to speak.
“Thank you for calling. It is very late. I dare say it is past ten
o’clock. Oh! here is the note!” she continued, suddenly interpreting the
meaning of the hand held out to receive it. He was putting it up, when
she said, “I think it is a cramped, dazzling sort of writing. I could
not read it; will you just read it to me?”
He read it aloud to her.
“Thank you. You told Mr. Thornton that I was not there?”
“Oh, of course, ma’am. I’m sorry now that I acted upon information,
which seems to have been so erroneous. At first the young man was so
positive; and now he says that he doubted all along, and hopes that his
mistake won’t have occasioned you such annoyance as to lose their shop
your custom. Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night.” She rang the bell for Dixon to show him out. As Dixon
returned up the passage Margaret passed her swiftly.
“It is all right!” said she, without looking at Dixon; and before the
woman could follow her with further questions she had sped upstairs, and
entered her bed-chamber, and bolted her door.
She threw herself, dressed as she was, upon her bed. She was too much
exhausted to think. Half-an-hour or more elapsed before the cramped
nature of her position, and the chilliness, supervening upon great
fatigue, had the power to rouse her numbed faculties. Then she began to
recall, to combine, to wonder. The first idea that presented itself to
her was, that all this sickening alarm on Frederick’s behalf was over;
that the strain was past. The next was a wish to remember every word of
the Inspector’s which related to Mr. Thornton. When had he seen him?
What had he said? What had Mr. Thornton done? What were the exact words
of his note? And until she could recollect, even to the placing or
omitting an article, the very expressions which he had used in the note,
her mind refused to go on with its progress. But the next conviction she
came to was clear enough;—Mr. Thornton had seen her close to Outwood
station on the fatal Thursday night, and had been told of her denial
that she was there. She stood a liar in his eyes. She was a liar. But
she had no thought of penitence before God; nothing but chaos and night
surrounded the one lurid fact that, in Mr. Thornton’s eyes, she was
degraded. She cared not to think, even to herself, of how much of excuse
she might plead. That had nothing to do with Mr. Thornton; she never
dreamed that he, or any one else, could find cause for suspicion in what
was so natural as her accompanying her brother; but what was really
false and wrong was known to him, and he had a right to judge her. “Oh,
Frederick! Frederick!” she cried, “what have I not sacrificed for you!”
Even when she fell asleep her thoughts were compelled to travel the same
circle, only with exaggerated and monstrous circumstances of pain.
When she awoke a new idea flashed upon her with all the brightness of
the morning. Mr. Thornton had learnt her falsehood before he went to the
coroner; that suggested the thought, that he had possibly been
influenced so to do with a view of sparing her the repetition of her
denial. But she pushed this notion on one side with the sick wilfulness
of a child. If it were so, she felt no gratitude to him, as it only
showed her how keenly he must have seen that she was disgraced already,
before he took such unwonted pains to spare her any further trial of
truthfulness, which had already failed so signally. She would have gone
through the whole—she would have perjured herself to save Frederick,
rather—far rather—than Mr. Thornton should have had the knowledge that
prompted him to interfere to save her. What ill-fate brought him in
contact with the Inspector? What made him be the very magistrate sent
for to receive Leonards’ deposition? What had Leonards said? How much of
it was intelligible to Mr. Thornton, who might already, for aught she
knew, be aware of the old accusation against Frederick, through their
mutual friend, Mr. Bell? If so, he had striven to save the son, who came
in defiance of the law to attend his mother’s death-bed. And under this
idea she could feel grateful—not yet, if ever she should, if his
interference had been prompted by contempt. Oh! had any one just cause
to feel contempt for her? Mr. Thornton, above all people, on whom she
had looked down from her imaginary heights till now! She suddenly found
herself at his feet, and was strangely distressed at her fall. She
shrank from following out the premises to their conclusion, and so
acknowledging to herself how much she valued his respect and good
opinion. Whenever this idea presented itself to her at the end of a long
avenue of thoughts, she turned away from following that path—she would
not believe in it.
It was later than she fancied, for in the agitation of the previous
night, she had forgotten to wind up her watch; and Mr. Hale had given
especial orders that she was not to be disturbed by the usual awakening.
By and by the door opened cautiously, and Dixon put her head in.
Perceiving that Margaret was awake, she came forwards with a letter.
“Here’s something to do you good, miss. A letter from Master Frederick.”
“Thank you, Dixon. How late it is!”
She spoke very languidly, and suffered Dixon to lay it on the
counterpane before her, without putting out a hand to take it.
“You want your breakfast, I’m sure. I will bring it you in a minute.
Master has got the tray all ready, I know.”
Margaret did not reply; she let her go; she felt that she must be alone
before she could open that letter. She opened it at last. The first
thing that caught her eye was the date two days earlier than she
received it. He had then written when he had promised, and their alarm
might have been spared. But she would read the letter and see. It was
hasty enough, but perfectly satisfactory. He had seen Henry Lennox, who
knew enough of the case to shake his head over it, in the first
instance, and tell him he had done a very daring thing in returning to
England, with such an accusation, backed by such powerful influence,
hanging over him. But when they had come to talk it over, Mr. Lennox had
acknowledged that there might be some chance of his acquittal, if he
could but prove his statements by credible witnesses—that in such case
it might be worth while to stand his trial, otherwise it would be a
great risk. He would examine—he would take every pains. “It struck me,”
said Frederick, “that your introduction, little sister of mine, went a
long way. Is it so? He made so many inquiries, I can assure you. He
seemed a sharp, intelligent fellow, and in good practice too, to judge
from the signs of business and the number of clerks about him. But these
may be only lawyer’s dodges. I have just caught a packet on the point of
sailing—I am off in five minutes. I may have to come back to England
again on this business, so keep my visit secret. I shall send my father
some rare old sherry, such as you cannot buy in England (such stuff as
I’ve got in the bottle before me)! He needs something of the kind—my
dear love to him—God bless him. I’m sure—here’s my cab. P.S.—What an
escape that was! Take care you don’t breathe of my having been—not even
to the Shaws.”
Margaret turned to the envelope: it was marked “Too late.” The letter
had probably been trusted to some careless waiter, who had forgotten to
post it. Oh! what slight cobwebs of chances stand between us and
Temptation! Frederick had been safe, and out of England twenty, nay,
thirty hours ago; and it was only about seventeen hours since she had