CHAPTER XVI. The captives went to their own places, to their separate glooms, unsheered by glance, or hand or hope, to brood on those impossible glories of the past when they might touch the grass and see the sky and do the works of men. But manly work is sometimes in a prison. SM Queen Isabel. Commutation of Punishment to Penal Servitude for Life Such were the tidings that ran through Stoneboro on Sunday morning, making all feel as if they had the oppression had been taken from the air. In gratitude to the merciful authorities, and thankfulness for the exemptions and death, the first impressions were that justice was at last speaking, that innocence could not suffer, and that right was reasserting itself, even when the more sober and sad remembered that leniency was not pardoned, nor life liberty, they were hastily answered that life was everything, life was hope, life was time, and time would show truth. Avril's first tears dropped freely, as she later had on Mary's shoulder, and with her hand in Dr. May's assay to utter the words, It is your doing, you have twice saved him for me, and ministered calmly glad, but without surprise. I knew they could not hurt him, God would not let them. The joy and relief were so great as to absorb all thought or realization of what this mercy was to the prisoner himself, until Dr. May was able to pay him a visit on Monday afternoon. It was at a moment when the first effects of the tidings of life had subsided in, and there had been time to look forth on the future with the spirit more steadfast and buoyant. The strain of the previous weeks was reacting on the bodily frame, and in this position unhinged the spirits, so that, when Dr. May entered, beaming with congratulations, he was met with the same patient glance of endurance, endeavoring at resignation, that he knew so well, but without the victorious peace that had, of late, gained the ascendant expression. There was instead an almost painful endeavor to manifest gratitude by cheerfulness, and the smile was far less natural than those of the last interview, as fervently returning the pressure of the hand. He said, You were right, Dr. May. You have brought me past the crisis. A sure sign of ultimate recovery, my boy.  Leonard attended a responsive smile, but it was a hopeless business. From the moment when at the inquest he found himself entangled in the mesh of circumstance, his mind had braced itself to endure rather than hope, and his present depressed state, both mental and bodily, rendered even that endurance almost beyond his powers. He could only say, You have been very good to me. My dear fellow, you are sadly knocked down. I wish, and the doctor looked at him anxiously, I wish you had been here yesterday, said Leonard, then you would not have found me so. No, not thankless, indeed. No indeed, but, yes, I see it was folly.  I am thankful, said Leonard, struggling to make the words truth. Wednesday is off my mind. Yes, it is more than I deserve. I knew I was not fit to die, and those at home are spared. But I am as much cut off from them, perhaps more, than by death. And it is the same disgrace to them, the same exile. I suppose Henry still goes. Yes, he does. Ah, then one thing, doctor May, if he had a knife or scissors, I do not know how soon they may cut my hair, and I want to secure a bit for poor Abe. Doctor May was too handless to have implements of the first order, but a knife he had, and was rather dismayed at Leonard's reckless hacking at his bright shining lady hair, pulling out more than he cut, with perfect indifference to the king. The doctor stroked the chestnut head as tenderly as if it had been Gertrude's sunny curls, but Leonard started aside, and dashing away the tears that were overflowing his eyes under the influence of the gentle action, asked vigorously, have you heard what they will do with me? I do not know thoroughly. A year or six months may be at one of the great model establishments. Then probably you will be sent to some of the public works, said the doctor, sadly.  If it were only transportation. Yes, in a new world you could live it down and begin afresh. And even here, Leonard, I looked at finding you like Joseph in his prison. The iron entering into his soul, said Leonard, with a mournful smile. No, in the trustworthiness that made him honored and blessed, even there. Leonard, Leonard, conduct will tell. Even there, you can live this down and will. Eighteen tomorrow, replied the boy. Fifty years of it, perhaps. I know God can help me through with it, but it is a long time to be patient. By way of answer, the doctor launched in debris and auguries of the impression the prisoner's conduct would produce, uttering assurances, highly extravagant in his worship the mayor of the charms of the modern system of prison discipline, but they fell flat. There could be no disguising that penal servitude for life was penal servitude for life, and might well be bitterer than death itself. Sympathy might indeed be balm to the captive, but the good doctor pierced his own breast to afford it, so that his heart sank even more than when he had left the young men under sentence of death. His least unavailing consolations were his own promises of frequent visits, and auguries of correspondence, but they produced more of dejected gratitude than of exhilaration. But it was not in the way of murmur or retining, but rather of suffering and being strong, and only to this one friend was the suffering permitted to be apparent. To all the officials he was simply submissive and greatly resolute, impassive if he encountered sharpness or sternness, but alert and grateful towards kindness, of which he met more and more as the difference between dealing with him and the ordinary prisoners made itself felt. To Dr. Malone was the depth of pain betrayed, but another comforter proved more efficient in cheering the prisoner, namely Mr. Wilmot, who, learning from the doctor the depression of their young friend, hastened to endeavor at imparting a new spring of life on this melancholy birthday. Physically the boy was better, and perhaps a new day had worn off somewhat of the berthand of anticipation, for Mr. Wilmot found him already less downcast and open to consolation. It might be, too, that the sense that the present was to have been his last day upon earth had made him more conscious of the relief from the immediate shadow of death, for he expressed his thankfulness far more freely and without the effort of the previous day. And depend on it, said Mr. Wilmot, you are spared because there is something for you to do. To bear, said Leonard, no to do, perhaps not immediately, but try to look on whatever you have to bear, not only as carrying the cross as I think you already feel it, or there would be no standing in it at all. True, said Mr. Wilmot, and your so feeling it convinces me the more that whatever may follow is likewise to be looked upon as discipline to train you for something beyond. Who knows what work may be in store, for which this fiery trial may be meant to prepare you? The head was raised, and the eyes brightened with something like hope in their fixed interrogative glance. Even as things are now, who knows what good may be done by the presence of a man educated, religious, unstained by crime, yet in the same case as those around him. I do not mean by quitting your natural place, but by merely living as you must live. You were willing to have followed your master in his death. You now have to follow him by living as one under punishment, and be sure it is for some purpose for others as well as yourself. If there is any work to be done for him, it is all right, said Leonard, cheerily. And as Mr. Wilmot paused, he added, it would be like working for a friend if I may dare say so, after the hours when this place has been made happy to me. I should not mind anything if I might only feel it working for him. Feel it, be certain of it, as you have realized the support of that friend in a way that is hardly granted, safe in great troubles, so now realize that every task is for him. Do not look on the labor as hardship inflicted by mistake and authority. Oh, I only want to get to that. I have been so long with nothing to do. And your hearty doing of it, be it what it may, as unto the Lord, can be as acceptable as Dr. Me's laborers of love among the poor, as entirely a note in the great concord in heaven and earth, as the work of the ministry itself, as completely in unison. Nay, further, such obedient and hearty work will form you for whatever may yet be awaiting you, and what that may be will show itself in good time when you are ready for it. The right chord was touched, the spirit of energy was aroused, and Leonard was content to be a prisoner of hope, not the restless hope of liberation, but the restful hope that he might yet render faithful service, even in his present circumstances. Not much passed his lips in this interview, but its effect was apparent when Dr. Me again saw him, and this time in company with Aubrey. Most urgent had been the boys and treaties to be taken to see his friend, and Dr. Me had only hesitated because Leonard's depression had made himself so unhappy that he feared its effect on his susceptible son, whose help had already suffered from the long course of grief and suspense. But it was plain that if Aubrey were to go at all, it must be at once, since the day it was fixed for the prisoner's removal, and the still-nearer and dear claims must not clash with those of the friend. Flora shook her head and reminded her father that Leonard would not be out of reach in future, and that the meeting now might seriously damage Aubrey's already uncertain help. I cannot help it, Flora, said the doctor. It may do him some temporary harm, but I had rather see him knock down for a dare-to than breed him up to be such a poor creature as to sacrifice his friendship to his health. And Mrs. Rivers, who knew what the neighborhood thought of the good doctor's infatuation, felt there was not much use in suggesting how shocked the world would be at his encouragement of the intimacy between the convict and his young son. People did look surprised when the doctor asked the admission to the cell for his son as well as himself, and truly Aubrey, who in silence had worked himself into an agony of nervous education, looked far from fit for anything trying. Dr. May saw that he must not ask to leave the young friends alone together, but in his reverence for the rights of their friendship he withdrew himself as far as the limits of his cell would allow, turned his back, and endeavored to read the thirty-nine articles in Leonard's prayer book. But in spite of all his abstraction, he could not avoid a complete consciousness that the two lads sat on the bed, clinging with arms round one another like young children, and that it was Leonard's that was the upright, sustaining figure, his own Aubrey's, the prone and leaning one, and of the low whispering murmurs that reached his would-be deafened ear, the gasping almost sobbing tones for Aubrey's, the first distinct words that he could not help hearing were, No such thing. There can't be slavery where one works with a will. And again, in reply to something unheard, Yes, one can. Why, how do one do one's Greek? Very different. How? Oh. Yes, but you are a clever chap, and had her to teach you, but I only liked it because I'd got it to do. Just the same with the desk work down at the mill, so it may be the same now. Then came fragments of what poor Aubrey had expressed more than once at home, that his interest in life, in study, in sport, was all gone with his friend. Come, Aubrey, that's stuck. You'd have had to go to Cambridge, you know, without me, after I doggedly put myself at that place. There's just as much for you to do as ever there was.  Why, what are we coming here for, into this world, I mean, but to do, returned Leonard, and I take it, if we do it right, it does not much matter what or where it is. I shouldn't have any hard for it, sighed Aubrey. Nonsense, not with all your people at home? And though the voice fell again, the doctors' ears distinguished the murmur. Why, just the little things she let drop are the greatest help to me here, and you always have her. Then ensued much that was quite inaudible, and at last Leonard said, No, old fellow, as long as you don't get ashamed of me, thinking about you, and knowing what you are about, will be one of the best pleasures I shall have. And look here, Aubrey, if we only consider it right, you and I will be just as really working together, when you are at your books, and I am making mats, as if we were both at Cambridge side by side. It is quite true, is it not, Dr. May? He added, since the doctor, finding it time to depart, had turned around to close the interview. Quite true, my boy, said the doctor, and I hope Aubrey will try to take comfort and spirit from it. As if I could, said Aubrey impatiently, when it only makes me more mad to see what a fellow they have shut up in here. Not mad, I hope, said Dr. May, but I'll tell you what it should do for both of us, Aubrey. It should make us very careful to be worthy to remain his friends. Oh, Dr. May, broken Leonard, distressed. Yes, returned Dr. May, I mean what I say, however you break in, Master Leonard. As long as this boy of mine is doing his best for the right motives, he will care for you as he does now. Not quite in the same despairing way, of course, for holes in one's daily life do close themselves up with time. But if he slacks off in his respect or affection for you, then I shall begin to have fears of him. Now come away, Aubrey, and remember for your comfort it is not the goodbye it might have been, he added. As he watched the mute intensity of the boy's farewell clasp of the hands. But even then had some difficulty in getting Aubrey away from the friend, so much stronger as the consoler than as the console, and unconsciously showing how, in the last 24 hours, his mind had acted on the topics presented to him by Mr. Willmott. Changed as he was from the impetuous boyish lad of a few weeks since, a change even more noticeable when with his contemporary that in intercourse with elder men, yet the nature was the same. Obstinacy had softened into constancy, pride into resolution, generosity made pardon less difficult and elevation of temper bore him through many a humiliation that through him bitterly galled his brother. Whatever he might feel, prison regulations were accepted by him as matters of course, not worth being treated as separate grievances. He never showed any shrinking from the assumption of the convict dress, whilst Henry was fretting and lancing over the very notion of his wearing it and trying to arrange that the farewell interview should precede its adoption. End of chapter 16, recorded by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 17 of the trial, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The trial by Charlotte Mary Young, chapter 17. Scorn of me recoils on you, E.B. Browning. After the first relief, the relaxation of his brother's sentence had by no means mitigated Henry Ward's sense of disgrace, but had rather deepened it by keeping poor Leonard a living, not a dead, sorrow. He was determined to leave England as soon as possible that his sisters might never feel that they were the relative of a convict and, bringing Ella home, he promulgated a decree that Leonard was never to be mentioned, hoping that his existence might be forgotten by the little ones. To hurry from all scenes and sever former connections was his sole thought as if he could thus break the tie of brotherhood. There was a half-form link that had more easily snapped. His courtship had been one of prudence and convenience and in the overwhelming period of horror and suspense had been almost forgotten. The ladies' attempts at sympathy had been rejected by Avril without obstruction from him, for he had no such love as could have prevented her good offices from becoming oppressive to his wounded spirit, and he had not sufficient energy or inclination to rouse himself to a response. And when the granted life enabled him to raise his head and look around him, he felt the failure of his plans and aggregation of his calamity, though he did not perceive that his impatience to rid himself of an encumbrance and clear the way for his marriage had been the real origin of the misfortune. Still he was glad that matters had gone no further and that there was no involvement beyond what could be handsomely disposed of by a letter, resigning his pretensions and rejoicing that innate delicacy and prudence had prevented what might have involved the ladies' feelings more deeply in the misfortune of his family, representing himself in all good faith as having retreated from her proffered sympathy out of devoted consideration for her and closing with a vibrant thanks for her exertions on behalf of this unhappy brother. The letter had the honor of being infinitely lauded by Mrs. Ledwich, who dwelt on its nobleness and tenderness in many a teta-teta and declared her surprise and thankfulness at the immunity of her dear Matilda's heart in strict confidence to Dr. Spencer, among others, learned that, though it was not to be breathed till the year was out, above all till the poor wards were gone, the de-romantic girl had made her hand a girdin for obtaining Leonard's life. So there's your fate, Dick, concluded his friend. You forget the influence of the press, returned Dr. May. People don't propose such girdins without knowing who is to earn them. Yes, she has long believed in King John, said Ethel. Meanwhile, Averward was acquiescing in all Henry's projects with calm, desperate passiveness. She told Mary that she had resolved that she would never again contend with Henry, but would let him do what he would with herself and her sisters, nor had his tenderness during her illness been in vain. It had inspired reliance and affection, such as to give her the instinct of adherence to him as the one stay left to her. With Leonard shut up, all places were the same to her, but that she was in haste to escape from the scenes connected with her lost brother, and she looked forward with dull, despairing acquiescence to the new life with which Henry hoped to shake off the past. A colony was not changed enough for Henry's wishes. Even there he made sure of being recognized as a convict's brother and was resolved to seek his new home in the wide field of America, disguising his very name as Warden and keeping up no communication with the prisoner except undercover to Dr. May. To this unfailing friend was committed the charge of the brother. He undertook to watch over the boy, visit him from time to time, take care of his health, and obtained for him any alleviations permitted by the prison rules. And as Henry reiterated to April, it was absolutely certain that everything possible from external kindness was thus secured. What more could they themselves had done, but show him their faces at the permitted intervals, which would be mere wear and fear of feeling, very bad for both parties. April drooped and disputed not, guessing, though not yet understanding, the heart hunger she should feel even for such a dreary glance. Every hour seemed to be another turn of the wheel that hurried on the departure. The successor wished to take house and furniture as they stood and to enter into possession as soon as possible as he already had taken the practice. This coincided with Henry's burning in patience to be quit of everything and to try to drown the sense of his own identity in the crowds of London. He was his sister's only guardian. Their property was entirely in his hands and no one had the power of offering any obstacle so that no delay could be interposed. And the vague design passed with startling suddenness to a fixed decision to be carried into execution immediately. It came in one burst upon the May household that April and her sisters were coming to spend a last evening before their absolute packing to go on a Saturday to London where they would provide their outfit and start in a month for America. The tidings were brought by Mary, who had, as usual, been spending part of the morning with April. No one seemed to be so much taken by surprise as Tom, whose first movement was to fall on his sisters for not having made him aware of such a preposterous scheme. They thought he knew. He knew that all the five quarters of the world had been talked of in a wild sort of way. But how could he suppose that any man could be crazed enough to prefer to be an American citizen when he might remain a British subject? Repugnance to America was naturally strong in Tom and had of late been enhanced by conversations with an eaten friend who, while quartered in Canada, had made excursions into the States and acquired such impressions as high-regulating officers were apt to bring home from a superficial view of them. Thus fortified, he demanded whether any reasonable person had tried to bring Henry Ward to his senses. Ethel believed that Papa had advised otherwise. Advised? It should have been enforced. If he is full enough to alter his name and throw up all his certificates, what is to become of him? He will get no practice in any civilized place and will have to be take himself to some pestilential swamp, will slave his sisters to death, spend their money and destroy them with a cue. How can you sit still and look on, Ethel? But what could I do? Stir up my father to interfere. I thought you always warned us against interfering with Henry Ward. He treated the speech as maliciously designed to enrage him. Ethel, he stammered, in a case like this, where the welfare, the very life of one, of your dearest friend, of Mary's, I mean, I did think you would have been above. But, Tom, I would do my utmost and so would Papa if it were possible to do anything, but it is quite in vain. Henry is resolved against remaining under British rule and America seems to be the only field for him. Much you know or care, cried Tom. Well, if no one else will, I must. With which words he departed, leaving his sister surprised at his solicitude and dubious of the efficacy of his remonstrance, though she knew by experience that Tom was very different in a great matter from what he was in a small one. Tom be took himself to Bankside and the first person he encountered there was his little friend Ella, who ran up to him at once. Oh, Mr. Tom, we are going to America. Shall you be sorry? Very sorry, said Tom, as the little hand was confidingly thrust into his. I should not mind it if you were coming to, Mr. Tom. What, to play at French billiards? No indeed, to find the optics for the microscope. I shall save all the optics I meet and send them home in a letter. An alligator, too, or a branch of the Mississippi, said Tom, in a young man's absent way of half answering a pet child. But the reply so struck Ella's fancy that, springing through the open French window, she cried. Oh, Abe, Abe, here is Mr. Tom saying I'm to send him a branch of the Mississippi in a letter as an object for his microscope. I beg your pardon, said Tom, shocked at Avril's nervous start and still more shocked at her appearance. She looked like one shattered by long and severe illness. Her eyes were restless and distressed, her hair thrust back as if it oppressed her temples, her manner startled and overwrought, her hand hot and unsteady, her whole air that of went totally unequal to the task before her. He apologized for having taken her by surprise and asked for her brother. She answered that he was busy at Mr. Bramshaw's and she did not know when he would come in. But still Tom lingered. He could not bear to leave her to exertions beyond her strength. You are tiring yourself, he said. Can I do nothing to help you? No, no, thank you. I am only looking over things. Menna is helping me and I am making an inventory. Then you must let me be of use to you. You must be as quiet as possible. You need rest. I can't rest. I'm better busy, she said hastily with quick, aimless bustling movements. But Tom had his father's tone as he gently arrested the trembling hand that was pulling open a drawer and with his father's sweet, convincing smile said, what's that for? Then drew up a large armchair, placed her in it and taking pin and list began to write, sometimes at her suggestion, sometimes at his own, giving business-like and efficient aid. The work was so grave and regular that Ella soon found the room tedious and crept out, calling men to aid in some of their own personal matters. Slowly enumerating the articles, they came to the piano. Ava went up to it, leaned fondly against it and softly touched the keys. My own, she said, bought for a surprise to me when I came home from school and oh, how he loved it. Everyone had reason to love it, said Tom in a low voice, but she did not heed or hear. I cannot, cannot par with it. When I sit here, I can almost feel him leaning over me. You must go, I will pay your expenses myself. I wonder if we should have such rough roads as would hurt you, she added, caressingly toying with the notes and bringing soft replies from them as if she were conversing with a living thing. Ah, said Tom, coming nearer. You will, I hope. Take care to what your brother's impetuosity might expose either this or yourself. We shall all fare alike, she said carelessly. But how, said Tom, Henry will take care of that. Do you know, Ms. Ward, I came down here with the purpose of setting some matters before your brother that might dissuade him from making the United States his home. You have justly more influence than I. Will you object to hear them from me? I could not imagine why Tom may, of all people in the world, should thrust himself into the discussion of her plans. But she could only submit to listen or more truly to lean back with wandering thoughts and mechanical signs of ascent as he urged his numerous objections. Finally, she uttered a meek, thank you, in the trust that it was over. And will you try to make your brother consider these things? Or Abe could not have stood an examination on these things and feeling inadequate to undertake the subject, nearly said something of very kind that she feared it would be of no use. I assure you, if you would persuade him to talk it over with me, that I could show him that he would involve you all in what would be most distasteful. Thank you, but his mind is made up. No other course is open. Could he not, at least, go and see what he thinks of it before taking you and your sisters? Impossible, said April. We must all keep together. We have no one else. No, indeed, you must not say that, cried Tom, with a fire that startled April in the midst of her language dreary indifference. I did not mean, she said, to be ungrateful for the kindness of your family, the doctor and do Mary above all. But you must know, I know, he interrupted, that I cannot see you exiling yourself with your brother because you think you have no one else to turn to, you, who are so infinitely dear. This is no time for satire, she said, drawing aside with a fence, but still wearily, as if she had not given attention enough to understand him. You mistake me, he explained. I mean that no words can tell how strong the feeling is that, that, no, I never know it's forced till now, but April, I cannot part with you, you, who are all the world to me. Lifting her heavy eyelids for a moment, she looked bewildered and then, moving towards the door, said, I don't know whether this is just or earnest anyway, it is equally unsuitable. What do you see in me? cried Tom, throwing himself before her, that you should suppose be capable of justing on such a subject, at such a moment. I never saw anything but supercilious irony, she answered in the same dreamy, in different way, as if hardly aware what she was saying and still moving on. I cannot let you go thus, you must hear me, he cried, and he will round an easy chair with a gesture of entreaty, which she obeyed, partly because she was hardly alive to understand his drift, partly because she could scarcely stand, and there she sat, in the same drowsy resignation with which she had listened to his former expost relation. Calm, collected Tom was almost beside himself. April, April he cried as he sat down opposite and been as close to her as possible. If I could only make you listen or believe me, what shall I say? It is only the honest truth that you are the dearest thing in the whole world to me. The very things that have given you most offense arose from my struggles with my own feelings. I tried to crush but would have its way in spite of me, and now you see its force. He saw greater life and comprehension in her eye as he spoke, but the look was not encouraging, and he continued, how can I make you understand? Oh, if I had but more time, but it was only the misery of those moments that showed me why it was that I was always irresistibly drawn to you, and yet made instinctive efforts to break the spell, and now you will not understand. I do understand, said April, at length entirely roused, but chiefly by resentment. I understand how much a country surgeon's daughter is beneath an envy's attention, and how needful it was to preserve the distance by marks of contempt. As a convict's sister, the distance is so much widened that it is well for both that we shall never meet again. Therewith she had risen and moved to the door. Nay, nay, he cried. It is for that very reason that all my past absurdity is trampled on. I should glory in a connection with such as Leonard. Yes, April, as he fancied he saw her touched. You have never known me yet, but trust yourself and him to me, and you will give him a true brother proud of his nobleness. You shall see him constantly.  He would have said more, but April recalled herself and said, this is mere folly. You will be very sorry where I to take you at your word. It would be unworthy in me towards your father, towards Henry, towards you, for me to listen to you, even if I liked you, and that you have taken good care to prevent me from doing. And she opened the door and made her way into the hall. But April, Ms. Ward, he continued pursuing her. If, as I swear I will, I track out the real offender, bring him to justice, proclaim Leonard's innocence, then she was halfway up the stairs. He had no alternative but to take his hat and stride off in a tumult of dismay, first of all at the rejection, and next at his own betrayal of himself. Had he guessed what it would come to, would he ever have trusted himself in that drawing room? This was the meaning of it all, wasn't it? He, the sensible man of the family, not only to be such an egregious ass, but to have made such a fool of himself, for he was as furious at having committed himself to himself as he was at his avowal to April. He, who had always been certain of loving so wisely and so well, choosing an example of the true feminine balance of excellence, well-born but not too grand for the made pretensions, soundly religious but not philanthropically pious, of good sense and ability enough for his comfort, but not of overgrown genius for his discomfort, of good looks enough for satisfaction, but not for dangerous admiration, of useful but not overwhelming wealth, of creditable and not troublesome kindred, that he should find himself plunged headlong into love by those brown eyes and straight features, by the musical genius, talents, anything, but domestic ill-regulated enthusiasm, nay, disliked to himself, in the very girl who stationed in family he condemned at the best, and at the very time when her brother was a convict, and her sister's dependent, was he crazed? Was he transformed? What frenzy had come over him to endear her the more for being the reverse of his ideal? And, through all, his very heart was bursting at the thought of the wounds he had given her in his struggles against the net of fascination. He had never imagined the extent of the provocation he gave, and in truth, his habitual manner was such that it was hard to distinguish between irony and genuine interest, and now it was too late. What should he be henceforth to her? What would Stoneboro and his future be to him? He would, he believed, have taught himself to acquiesce, had he seen any chance of happiness before her. But the picture he drew of her prospects justified his misery at being only able to goad her on instead of drawing her back. He was absolutely amazed at himself. He had spoken only the literal truth when he said that he had been unconscious of the true nature of the feelings that always drew him towards her, though only to assert his independence and make experiments by teasing in his ironically courteous way. None until the desolate indifference of her tone had incited him to show her that Henry was not. All that remained to her had he arrived at the perception that in the late weeks of anxiety, she had grown into his heart, and that it was of no use to argue the point with himself or think what he would do, the fact was accomplished. His first love was a direct contradiction to his fixed opinions. He had offended her irrevocably and made a fool of himself, and she was going away to dreariness. At first, he had rushed off into the melancholy meadows among the sodden haycocks still standing among the green growth of grass, but a shower increasing the damp forlorness of the ungenial day made him turn homewards. When, late in the afternoon, Ethel came into the school room for some cocks more stores, she found him leaning over his books on the table. This was his usual place for study, and she did not at once proceed that the attitude was only assumed on her entrance.  I have not seen him. Oh, I thought I saw you going. Nevermind. I mean, he added with some confusion. I wish for a little peace. I have a horrid headache.  I am sure you're not well, she said. Quite well. Nonsense, I only want quiet. Let me give you some of Aubrey's camphor liniment. Thank you, submitting to a burning application to his brow, but as she lingered in anxiety, I really want nothing but quiet. How like Norman, he looks, about Ethel as she cast her last glance and departed. Can he be going to be ill? If he would only tell when anything is the matter, I know Papa says that some of us feel with our bodies and some with our minds, but then I never knew Tom much affected anyway, and what is all this to him? And aside betrayed the suppressed heartache that underlaid all her sensations. I am afraid it must be illness, but anyway he will neither tell nor bear to have it noticed so I can only watch. Enter the two little wards with a message that Abe was sorry, but that she was too much tired to come that evening. And when Mary regretted not having been able to come and help her, Ella answered that, Mr. Tom had come and helped her for a long time. Yes, he said, Nenna, but I think he must have done it all wrong. For, do you know, I found the list he had made torn up into little bits. Ethel almost visibly started, almost audibly exclaimed. At tea time, Tom appeared, his trimester stored, but not his usual coloring, and Ella hailed him with reproaches for having gone away without telling her. The soft attention of which the child had a monopoly did not fail, though he bent down, trying to keep her to himself and prevent their colloquy from attracting notice, but they were so close behind Ethel's chair that she could not help hearing. We were only going to dig up the violets that you are to have, and if you had only stayed, you would have seen Henry. For he came in by the little gate, and when I went to tell you, you were gone. Ethel wondered whether the blushes she felt burning all over her face and neck would be remarked by those before her or would reveal to Tom behind her that the child was giving her the key to his mystery. Marvelling at the exemplary gentleness and patience of his replies to his little coquettish tall mentor, she next set herself to relieve him by a summons to Ella, to tea, and cherries. Fortunately, the fruit suggested Dr. May's reminiscences of old raids on cherry orchards now a mere name, and he thus engrossed all the younger audience not entirely preoccupied. He set himself to make the little guests forget all their sorrows, as if he could not help warming them for the last time in the magic of his own sunshine. But Ethel heard and saw little, one figure in the quietest corner of the room, a figure at which she scarcely dared to look. And there you are, so went her thoughts. It is true, then, fairly caught. Your lofty crest veiled at last, and at such a time. Oh, Tom, generous and true-hearted, in spite of all your nonsense, how could she help being touched in the net and against his will? Oh, triumph of womanhood! I am so glad. No, I'm not. It is best this way, for what an awkward mess it would have been. She is dear Leonard's sister, to be sure, and there is stuff in her, but Papa does not take to her, and I don't know whether she would fit in with Tom himself. But oh, the fun it would have been to see Flora's horror at finding her one prudent brother, no better than the rest of us. Dear old Tom, the may-heart has been too strong for the old Professor Nature. What a retribution for his high mightiness. Harry and Richard to be guarded for making fools of themselves. What a nice cloak for jealousy. But it is no laughing matter. How miserable, how thoroughly upset he is.  And I don't know whether it is quite safe to screen the lamp from those aching eyes that are bearing it like a martyr. There, well, maybe he will just stand the knowing that I know, provided I don't say a word. But I wish people would not be so self-contained. Self-contained Tom still continued in the morning, though looking sallow and wan. But in a political argument with his father, he was snappish and overbearing, and in the course of the day gave another indication of being thrown off his balance, which was even harder for Ethel to endure. Throughout the suspense on Leonard's account, Aubrey had been a source of anxiety to all, especially to Tom. The boy's sensitive frame had been so much affected that tender dealings with him were needful and all compulsion had been avoided. His father had cost him to be put on the sick list of the volunteers, and as for his studies, though the books were daily brought out, it was only to prevent the vacuum of idleness. And Tom had made it his business to nurse his brother's powers, avoid all strain on the attention, and occupy without exciting, bearing with his fitful moods of despondence or of hope, whether they took the form of talking or of dreaming. But now that all was over, everyone knew that it was time to turn over a new leaf. And Tom, with this sore heart, did it with a vengeance and on the first instance of carelessness, fell on the poor family pet as a younger brother and legitimate souffle de l'heure with vehement's proportion to his own annoyance. It was a fierce lecture upon general listlessness, want of manliness, spirit, and perseverance, indifference to duties he had assumed, nonsense about feelings. A fellow was not worth a snap of a finger who could not subdue his feelings. Trash. The sisters heard the storm from the drawing room, and Gertrude grew hotly indignant and wanted Ethel to rush in to the rescue. But Ethel, though greatly moved, knew that female interposition only aggravated such matters and restrained herself and her sister till she heard Tom stride off. Then creeping in on tiptoe, she found the boy sitting stunned and confounded by the novelty of the thing. What can it be all about, Ethel?  I don't think Tom is quite well. He had a bad headache last night.  I know my aches as if I had been next door to the great bell and he leaned against his sister. I'm afraid you really were inattentive. No worse than since the heart has gone out of everything. But that was not all.  It would be a great effort, I know, said Ethel, smoothing his hair.  The country? I don't care for it since it condemned him when he was serving it. He would not say that, Aubrey. He would only be vexed to hear that you gave in and were fickle to your undertaking. Indeed, if I were the volunteer, I should think it due to him not to shrink as if I were ashamed of what he was connected with. Aubrey tried to answer her sweet high-spirited smile, but he had been greatly hurt and distressed and the late reproach to his mantid embittered his tears without making it easier to repress them and pushing away his chair. He darted upstairs. Poor dear fellow, I've been very hard on him and only blamed instead of comforting, thought Ethel, sadly, as she slowly entered the passage. What shall I think of to make a break for both of those two? So you have been conquering your infant, said Tom, meeting her. You mean to keep him a baby all his life. Tom, I want to talk to you, said she. In expectation of her displeasure, he met it halfway, setting his back against the passage wall and dogmatically declaring, you'll be the ruin of him if you go on in this way.  Of course he must rough it, said Ethel, setting her back against the opposite wall. I only want him to be hardened, but after a shock like this, one cannot go on as if one was a stock or stake. Even a machine would have its wheels out of order. Well, well, but it is time that should be over. So it is, and as the sudden thought flashed on her. Tom, I want you to reconsider your journey that you gave up in the spring and take him. I don't want to go anywhere, he wearily said. Only it would be so good for him, said Ethel earnestly. He really ought to see something taller than the Minster Tower, and you are the only right person to take him. You are so kind to him. For instance, he said, smiling. Accidents will happen in the best regulated families. Besides, he did want shaking up. I dare say he will be the better for it. There's the dinner bell.  I thought I should have caught it, he said.  Aubrey was not in the dining room, and after having carved, Tom, in some compunction, was going to look for him when he made his appearance in his uniform. Oh ho, said the doctor, surprised. There's to be a grand parade with the Whitford Division, he answered, and no more was said. Not till the eight o'clock twilight of the dripping August evening did the family reassemble. Ethel had been preparing for a journey that Mary and Gertrude were to make to Maplewood, and she did not come down till her father had returned. When, following him into the drawing room, she heard his exclamation, winter again. For the fire was burning, Tom was sitting crumpled over it, with his feet on the fender and his elbows on his knees, and Aubrey in his father's armchair, his feet over the side, so fast asleep that neither entrance nor exclamation roused him. The room was pervaded with an odor of nutmeg and port wine and a kettle, a decanter, and empty tumblers told tales. Now the doctor was a hearty and abstinious man of a water-drinking generation, and his wife's influence had further tended to make him indulgent as he was, scornful of whatever savored of effeminacy or dissipation, so his look and tone were sharp and disregardful of Aubrey's slumbers. We got wet through, said Tom. He was done up, had a shivering fit, and I tried to prevent mischief. Hmm, said the doctor, not modified. Cold is always the excuse, but another time don't teach your brother to make this place like a fast man's room. Ethel was amazed at Tom's bearing this so well. With the slightest possible wrinkle of the skin of his forehead, he took up the decanter and carried it off to the cellar. How that boy sleeps, said his father, looking at him. He has had such bad nights, said Ethel. Don't be hard on Tom. He is very good about such things and would not have done it without need. He is so careful of Aubrey. Too careful by half, said the doctor, smiling placably as his son returned. You are all in a league to spoil that youngster. He would be better if you would not try your hand on his ailments, but would knock him about. I never do that without repenting it, said Tom. Then, after a pause, it is not spirit that is wanting, but you would have been frightened yourself at his state of exhaustion. Of collapse, don't you mean? said the doctor, with a little lurking smile. However, it is vexatious enough. He had been gaining ground all the year, and now he is regularly beaten down again. Suppose that was to take him for a run on the continent. What, tired of the hospital? A run now and then is duty not pleasure, replied Tom quietly, while Ethel burnt to avert from him these consequences of his peculiar preference for appearing selfish. So much for railway days. That will be a new doctrine at Stoneboro. Well, where do you want to go? I don't want to go anywhere. Ethel would not have wondered to see him more sullen than he looked at that moment. It was lamentable that those two never could understand each other, and that either from Tom's childish faults, his resemblance to his grandfather, or his habitual reserve, Dr. May was never free from a certain suspicion of ulterior motives on his part. She was relieved at the influx of the rest of the party, including Richard. And Aubrey Awakening was hailed with congratulations on the soundness of his sleep, whilst she looked at Tom with a meaning smile as she saw her father quietly feel the boy's hand in brow. The whole family were always nursing the lad and scolding one another for it. Tom had put himself beside Ethel under the shade of her urn, and she perceived that he was ill at ease, probably uncertain whether any confidences had been bestowed on her or Mary from the other side. There was no hope that the topic would be avoided, for Richard began with inquiries for Avril. She is working herself to death, said Mary, sadly, but she says it suits her. And it does, said the doctor. She is stronger every day. There is nothing really to matter with her. Contrary blasts keep a ship upright, said Gertrude, and she housed them in abundance. We found her in the midst of six people, all giving diametrically opposite advice. Dr. Spencer was really helping, and Mr. Wright was there about his own affairs, said Ethel, in a tone of oppression. And Mrs. Ledwich wanted her to settle on the Ohio to assist the runaway slaves, continued Gertrude. It does not tease her as if she heard it, said Mary. No, said the doctor. She moves about like one in a dream and has no instinct but to obey her brother. Well, I am glad to be going, said Daisy. It will be flat when all the excitement is over, and we have not the fun of seeing Tom getting rises out of a ward. This time, Tom could not repress the sudden jerk, and Ethel silenced her sister by hand that such references were not nice when people were in trouble. By the by, said Aubrey, speaking of going away, what were you saying while I was asleep? Or was it a dream that I was looking through Tom's microscope at a rifle bullet in the Tyrol? An inspiration from Tom Sprew, said the doctor. Weren't you saying anything, said Aubrey, eagerly? I'm sure there was something about duty and pleasure. Were you really talking of it? Tom was, and if it is to put some substance into those long, useless legs, I don't care if you do start off. Aubrey flashed into a fresh being. He had just been reading a book about the Tyrol, and Tom not caring at all where they were to go, this gave the direction. Aubrey rushed to borrow a continental Bradshaw from Dr. Spencer, and the plan rapidly took form, with eager suggestions thrown in by everyone, ending with the determination to start on the next Monday morning. That settled, said Tom, warily, when he and Ethel, as often happened, had lingered behind the rest. Only, Ethel, there's one thing. You must keep your eye on the ventry mill, and fire off a letter to me if the fellow shows any disposition to bolt. If I can possibly find out, keep your eyes open, and then Haslet has promised to let me know if that check of Bilsons is cashed, if I am away, telegraph, and, meantime, set my father on the scent. It may not hang that dog himself, but it may save Leonard. Oh, if it would come. And, meantime, silence, you know. Very well, then lingering. Tom, I am sure you did the right thing by Aubrey, and so was Papa afterwards. His proud doctrine for a moment, but shaking it off, he said, I'll do my best for your constant lamb, and bring him back in condition. Thank you. I had rather trust him with you than anyone. And how is it that no one proposes a lark for you, old Ethel? Said Tom, holding her so as to study her face. You look awfully elderly and ragged. Oh, I'm going to be left alone with a doctor, and that will be the greatest holiday I ever had. I suppose it is to you, said Tom, with a deep, heavy sigh, perhaps glad to have some ostensible cause for sighing. Dear Tom, when you are living here and working with him, ah, ah, he said, almost with disgust, don't talk of slavery to me before my time.  Good night. Poor Tom, thought Ethel. I wish Papa knew him better and would not go to him. Will Avril ever wait to see what she has done and feel for him? Though I don't know why I should wish two people to be unhappy instead of one, and there is wait enough already. Oh, Leonard, I wonder if your one bitter affliction will shield you from the others that may be as trying and more tempting. End of Chapter 17, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 18 of the Trial. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Trial by Charlotte Mary Young, Chapter 18. All bright hopes and hues of day have faded into twilight gray. Christian year. No fear of Aubrey's failing, said Tom. He has a better foundation than nine-tenths of the last that go up, and he is working like a man. He always did work hardly, said Ethel, with pleasure in his work. I, like a woman, like a scholar. A scholar is a kind of woman. A man, when he's a boy, only works because he can't help it, and afterwards, for what he can get by it. For what he can do with it would have a worthier sound. Sound or sense, it is all the same. Scaffolding granted, what is the building? Tom apparently thought it would be working like a woman to give himself the trouble of answering, and Ethel went on in her own mind. For the work's own sake, for what can be got by it, for what can be done with it, because it can't be helped, are these all the springs of labor here? Then how is work done in the solitary cell? Is it because it can't be helped, or is it as the Lord's freemen? And when he can hear of Aubrey's change, will he take it as out of his love, or grieve for having been the cause? For the change had been working at Aubrey ever since Leonard had altered his career. The boy was at a sentimental age, and had the susceptibility inseparable from home breeding. His desire to become a clergyman had been closely connected with the bright visions of the happy days at Coombe, and had begun to wane with the first thwarting of Leonard's plans. And when the terrible catastrophe of the one friend's life occurred, the other became alienated from all that they had hoped to share together. Nor could even Dr. May's household be so wholly exempt from the spirit of the age, that Aubrey was not aware of the strivings and trials of faith at the university. He saw what Harvey Anderson was, and knew what was passing in the world. And while free from all doubts, shrank voyously from the investigations that he fancied might excite them, or perhaps these fears of possible scruples were merely his self-justification for gratifying his reluctance. At any rate, he came home from his two months' tour, brown, robust, with revived spirits, but bent on standing in examination for the Academy at Woolwich. He had written about it several times before his return, and his letters were, as his father said, so appallingly sensible that perhaps he would change his mind. But it was not changed when he came home, and Ethel, though sorely disappointed, was convinced by her own sense, as well as by Richard Prudence, that interference was dangerous. No one in Israel was to go forth to the wars of the Lord, save those who willingly offered themselves, and though greed that her own young knight should be one of the many champions unwilling to come forth in the church's cause, she remembered the ordeal to Norman's faith and felt that the exertion of her influence was too great a responsibility. You don't like this, said Tom, after a pause. It is not my doing, you know. No, I did not suppose it was, said Ethel. You would not withhold anyone in these days of exceeding want of able clergymen. I told him it would be a grief at home, added Tom, but when a lad gets into that desperate mood, he always may be a worse greed if you thwart him, and I give you credit, Ethel, you have not fold the curb. Richard told me not. Richard represents the common sense of the family when I'm not at home. Tom was going the next day to his course of study at the London hospitals, and this, the late afternoon, was the first time that he and his sister had been alone together.  At last he said, do those people ever write? Prisoners, do you mean? Not for three months. No, exiles. Mary has heard twice. He held out Mary's little leather and writing case to her. Oh, Tom, it is only Mary. Ethel accepted the plea, a word that there could be no treason between herself and Mary, and moreover that the letters had been read by all the family. She turned the key, looked them out, and standing by the window to catch the light, began to read. You need not be afraid, kind Mary, wrote April, on the first days of her voyage. I am quite well, as well as a thing can be whose heart is dried up. I am hardened past all feeling and seem to be made of India rubber. Even my color has returned.  Fancy. In a shop in London, I met an old school fellow who was delighted to see me, talked like old times, and insisted on knowing where we were staying. I used to be very fond of her, but it was as if I had been dead and was afraid she would find out I was a ghost. Yet I talked quite indifferently and never faltered in my excuses. When we embarked, it was no use to know it was the last of England, where he and you and home and life were left. How I envied the poor girl who was crying as her heart would break. On those very words broke the announcement of Mr. Shevio. Tom Cooley held out his hand for the letters, so much as a matter of course that Ethel complied with his gesture and he composed what they pocketed them while she felt desperately guilty. Mary's own entrance would have excited no compunction. Ethel would have said that Tom wanted to hear of the voyage, but in the present case she could only blush, conscious that the guest recognized her sister's property and was wondering what business she had with it and she was unwilling to explain, not only on Tom's account, but because she knew that Mr. Shevio greatly disapproved of petitioning against the remission of capital sentences and thought her father under a delusion. After Tom's departure the next day, she found the letters in her work basket and restored them to Mary, laughing over Mr. Shevio's evident resentment at the detection of her doings. I think it looked rather funny, said Mary. I beg your pardon, said Ethel, much astonished, but I thought as everyone else had seen him, Tom always laughed at poor Ed. He is very different now, but indeed Mary, I am sorry since you didn't like it. Oh, cried Mary, discomforted by Ethel's apology. Indeed, I did not mean that. I wish I had not said anything. You know you are welcome to do what you please with all I have. Only, she recurred, you can't wonder that Mr. Shevio thought it funny. If he had any call to think at all, said Ethel, who was one of those who thought that Charles Shevio had put a liberal interpretation on Dr. May's welcome to Stone Whirl. He had arrived after the summer holidays as second master of the school, and at Christmas was to succeed Dr. Hoxton, who had been absolutely frightened from his chair by the commissions of inquiry that had beset the Witchcoat Foundation, and in compensation was at present perched on the highest niche sacred to conservative martyrdom in Dr. May's loyal heart. Charles Shevio was a very superior man who had great influence with young boys and was admirably fitted to bring about the much-required reformation in the school. He came frequently to discuss his intentions with Dr. May, and his conversation was well worth being listened to, but even the doctor found three evenings in a week a large allowance for good sense and good behavior. The evenings treated as inviolable even by old friends like Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilma, the fast-wanting evenings of Aubrey's home life.  Any attempt of the ladies to join in the conversation was replied to, with the condescending levity that reduced Ethel to her childhood's awkward sense of forwardness and presumption. Mary was less disconcerted because her remarks were never so aspiring, and Harry's wristbands sufficed her, but the never-daunted Daisy rebelled openly, related the Daisy vents to her papa, fearless of any presence, and when she had grown tired of the guest's regular formula of expecting to meet Richard, she told him that the adult school always kept Richard away in the winter evenings. But if you want to see him, he is always to be found at Coxmore, and he would be very glad of help. Did he express any such wish? Said Mr. Chavio, looking rather puzzled. Oh, dear, no. Only I thought you had so much time on your hands. Oh, no, oh, no, exclaimed Mary in great confusion. Gertrude did not mean. I am sure I don't know what she was thinking of. And at the first opportunity, Mary, for once in her life, administered to Gertrude a richly deserved reproof for sauciness and contempt of improving conversation. But the consequence was a fancy of the idle younglings to make Mary accountable for the infesting of their evenings. And as she was always ready to afford sport to the household, they thus obtained a happy outlet for their drollery and discontent. And the imputation was the more comical from his apparent indifference and her serene composure until one evening when, as the bell rung, and mutterings passed between Aubrey and Gertrude of Day Set and Chavio's Mountain's Lone, the head of the family, for the first time, showed cognizance of the joke, and wirily taking down his slippered feet from their repose, said, Lone, yes, there's the rub. I shall have to fix days of reception if Mary will insist on being so attractive. Mary, with an instinct that she was blamed, began to be very sorry, but broke off amid peals of merriment and blushes that were less easily extinguished, and which caused Ethel to tell each of the young ones privately that their sport was becoming boy and frogwork, and she would have no more of it. The daisy was inclined to be rested, but Ethel told her that many people thought this kind of fun could never be safe or delicate. I have always said that it might be quite harmless if people do were to stop. Now show me that I am right. And to Aubrey she put the question whether he would like to encourage daisy in being a 19th-century young lady without reticence. However, as Mary heard no more of their mischievous wit, Ethel was quite willing to let them impute to herself a delusion that the schoolmaster was smitten with Mary and to laugh with them in private over all the ridiculous things they chose to say. Had last Flora insisted on Ethel's coming with her to make a distant call, and, as soon as they were in the carriage, said, it was not only for the sake of Mrs. Copeland, though it is highly necessary you should go, that it is the only way I've ever speaking to you, and I want to know what all this is about Mary. The children have not been talking their nonsense to you. No one ever talks nonsense to me intentionally, I mean. Not even you, Ethel. I wish you did, but I hear it is all over the town. George has been congratulated and so have I, and one does not like contradicting only to eat it up again. You always did hear everything before it was true, Flora. Then is it going to be true? Oh, Flora, can it be possible, said Ethel, with a startled, astonished look? Possible. I'd be obvious and proper, as it seems to me. The only doubt in my mind was whether it was not too obvious to happen. He is always coming in, said Ethel, but I never thought it was really for that mischief. The children only laugh about it as the most preposterous thing they can think of, for he never speaks to a woman if he can help it. That may not prevent him from wanting a good wife. Wanting a wife, I, as he would want a housekeeper, just because he has got to the proper position for it, but is he to go and get our Bonnie Mary in that way, just for an appendage to the master ship? Well done, old Ethel. I'm glad to see you so like yourself. I remember when we thought Mrs. Hoxton's position very sublime. I never thought of positions. Never. I know that very well, and I am not thinking of it now, except as an adjunct to a very worthy man whom Mary will admire to the depths of her honest heart and who will make her very happy. Yes, I suppose if she once begins to like him, that he will, said Ethel slowly, but I can't bring myself to swallow it yet. She has never given in to his being a bore, but I thought that was her universal benevolence, and he says less to her than anyone. Depend upon it. He thinks he is perceiving sole mérène. Then he ought to be flogged. Has he any business to think of my Mary without falling red hot in love with her? Why, Hector was regularly crazy that last half year, and dear old Polly is worth ever so much more than Blanche. I must say you have fulfilled my desire of hearing you talk nonsense, Ethel. Mary would never think of those transports. She deserves them all the more.  She will not go far if, yes, but she will be the worst loss.  Oh no, that always was wrong. And living close by, she will not come on a visit, all festal, to resume home habits. No, you must make up your mind, Ethel, if, as you say, if he will be a man from monopolies, and he will resent anything that he thinks management from you. I suspect it is a real sign of the love that you deny that he has ventured on the sister of a clever woman living close by and a good deal looked up to. Flora, Flora, you should not make one wicked. If she is to be happy, why can't you let me rejoice freely and only have her drawn off from me bit by bit in the right way of nature? I did not tell you to make you dislike it. Of course not. Only I thought that a little tact, a little dexterity, might prevent Charles Cheviot from being so much afraid of you as if he saw at once how really the head of the family you are. Nonsense, Flora, I am no such thing. If I am domineering, the sooner anyone sees it and takes me down the better. If this does come, I will try to behave as I ought and not to mind so Mary's happy. But I can't act except just as the moment needs me. I hope it will soon be over. Now you have made me begin to believe in it. I am afraid it will spoil Harry's pleasure at home. Poor dear Harry, what will he do? When does he come? Any day now. He could not quite tell when he could get away. When they came back and doctor may run out to say, can you come in, Flora? We want you. The sisters doubted whether his excitement were due to the crisis or to the arrival.  You girls leave on no rest, he said. Here I have had this young Cheviot telling me that the object of his attentions has been apparent. I'm sure I did not know if it were Mab or one of you.  And when I tell her she shall do as she pleases, she cries the more. Or if I ask her if I am to say yes, she goes into ecstasies of crying. I wish one of you would go up and see if you can do anything with her. Is he about the house? Ask Flora, preparing to obey. No, I was obliged to tell him that she must have time and he has gone home. I am glad he should have a little suspense. He seemed to make so certain of her. Did he think he was making love all the time he was boring me with his gas in the dormitories? I hope she will serve him out.  But in 10 minutes, Flora returned with the same report of nothing but tears. And she was obliged to leave the party to their perplexity and drive home. While Ethel went in her turn to use all manner of pleas to her sister to cheer up, know her own mind and be sure that they only wished to guess what would make her happiest. To console or to scold were equally unsuccessful. And after attempting all varieties of treatment, bracing or tender, Ethel found that the only approach to calm was produced by the promise that she should be teased no more that evening, but be left quite alone to recover and cool her burning eyes and aching head. So, lighting her fire, shaking up a much neglected easy chair, bathing her eyes, desiring her not to come down to tea, and engaging both that Gertrude should not behold her and that Papa would not be angry, provided that she tried to know what she really wished and be wiser on the morrow, Ethel left her. The present concern was absolutely more to persuade her to give an answer of some sort than what that answer should be. Ethel would not wish. Dr. May had very little doubt and Gertrude, from whom there was no concealing the state of affairs, observed, if she cries so much the first time she has to know her own mind, it shows she can't do without someone to do it for her. The evening passed in expeditions of Ethel's to look after her patient and in disultery talk on all that was probable and improbable between Dr. May and the younger ones, until just as Ethel was coming down at nine o'clock with a report that she had persuaded Mary to go to bed. She was startled by the street door being open as far as the chain would allow and a voice calling, I say, is anyone there to let me in? Harry, oh, Harry, I'm coming. And she had scarcely had time to shut the door previous to taking down the chain before the three others were in the hall, the tumult of greetings breaking forth. But where's Polly, he asked, as soon as he was free to look round them all. Going to bed with a bad headache was the answer with which Daisy had since enough not to interfere. And the theater had been brought into the drawing room, examined on his journey and offered supper before he returned to the charge. Nothing really to matter with Mary, I hope. Oh, no, nothing. Can't I go up and see her? Not just at the present, said Ethel. I will see how she is when she is in bed. But if she is going to sleep, we had better not disturb her. Harry thinks she must sleep better for the sight of him, said the doctor. But it is a melancholy business. Harry, your nose is out of joint. Who is it, said Harry, gravely? Ah, you have chosen a bad time to come home. We shall know no comfort till it is over. Who, cried Harry, no nonsense, Gertrude, I can't stand guessing. This was directed to Gertrude, who was only offending by pursed lips and twinkling eyes because he could not fall foul of his father. Dr. May took pity and answered it once. Shevio, cried Harry, excellent. He always did know how to get the best of everything. Holly turning into a Mrs. Hoxton. Ha, ha. Well, that is a relief to my mind. You did look rather dismayed, certainly. What were you afraid of? Why, when the poor young Leonard Ward's business was in the papers, a mess made of mine was asked if we were not all very much interested because of some attachment between some of us. I thought he must mean me or Tom, or I was tremendously smitten with that sweet, pretty girl. And I used to be awfully jealous of Tom.  I think you might have known Mary better, exclaimed Gertrude. And it's not Tom either, he asked. Exactly the reverse, laughed his father. Well, Tom is a sly fellow and he had a knack of turning up whenever one wanted to do a civil thing by that poor girl. Where is she now? At New York? They'd better take care of how they send me to watch the Yankees then. Your passion does not alarm me greatly, laughed the doctor. I don't think it ever equaled that for the reigning ship. I hope there's a vacancy in that department for the present and that we may have you at home a little. Indeed, sir, I'm afraid not, said Harry. I saw Captain Gordon at Portsmouth this morning and he tells me he is to go out in the Clio to the Pacific station and would apply for me as his first lieutenant if I like to look up the islands again. So if you have any commissions for Norman, I'm your man. And how soon? Uncertain. That Chevio and Mary must settle their affairs in good time. I've missed all the weddings in the family hitherto and won't be balked of Polly's. I say, Ethel, you can't mean me not to go and wish her joy. We are by no means come to joy yet, said Ethel. Poor Mary is over-set by the suddenness of the thing. Why, I thought it was all fixed. Nothing less so, said the doctor. One would think it was a nyad that had had an offer from the mountains next, for she has been shedding a perfect river of tears ever since. And all that the united discernment of the family has yet gathered is that she cries rather more when we tell her she is right to say no than when we tell her she is right to say yes. I declare, Ethel, you must let me go up to her. But Harry, I promise you should hear no more about it tonight. You must say nothing unless she begins. And, thinking a quiet night's rest, free from further excitement, the best chance of a rational day, Ethel was glad that her mission resulted in the report, far too nearly asleep to be disturbed. But on the way up to bed, soft as Harry's footfalls always were, a voice came down the stairs, that's Harry. Oh, come!  Oh, Harry, why didn't you come, as she threw her arms round his neck? They wouldn't let me. I did think I'd hurt you, but when no one came, I thought it was only Richard, till I heard the dear old step, and then I knew. Oh, Harry! And still she gasped with her head on his shoulder. They said you must be quiet. Oh, Harry, did you hear? Yes, indeed, holding her closer, and hardly glad I am. I know him as well as if I had sailed with him, and I could not wish you in better hands. But, oh, Harry dear, and there was a struggle with the sob between each word. Indeed, I won't mind if you had rather not. Do you mean that you don't like him? I should see him, you know, and perhaps he would not mind. He could always come and talk to Papa in the evenings. And is that what you want to put a poor man off with, Mary? Only, only, if you don't want me to, I not want you to. Why, Mary, isn't it the very best thing I could want for you? What are you thinking about? Don't you remember when you came home after your wound, you said, I, I mustn't. And she fell into such a paroxysm of crime that he had quite to hold her up in his arms. And though his voice was Mary, there was a moisture on his eyelashes.  Was that all? Was that what made you distract them all? Why not have said so? Oh, never, they would have said you were foolish. As I was for not knowing that you wouldn't understand that I only meant you were to wait, the right one turned up. Why, if I had been it often, would you have cried till I came home? Oh, I'm sorry I was silly, but I'm glad you didn't mean it, dear Harry, squeezing him convulsively. There, and now you'll sleep sound and meet them as fresh as a fair wind tomorrow, eh? Only please tell Papa I'm sorry I worried him. And how about somebody else, Mary, whom you've kept on tenterhooks ever so long? Are you sure he is not walking up and down under the limes on the brink of despair? Oh, do you think? But he would not be so foolish. There now, go to sleep.   Promise you'll go to bed the instant I'm gone. Well, said Dr. May, looking out of his room, I augured that the spirit of the flood has something to say to the spirit of the fell. I should think so. Genuine article, no mistake. Then what was all this about? All my fault. Some wrote a montagne of mine about not letting her, Mary, had cast anchor in her dear little ridiculous heart, and it is well I turned up before she had quite dissolved herself away. Is that really all? The sum total of the whole, as sure as, said Harry, pausing for an acceleration, and ending with, as sure as your name is Dick May, where at they both fell a laughing, though they were hardly drops of laughter that Harry brushed from the weathermarked pucker in the corner of his eyes. And Dr. May gave a sigh of relief and said, well, that's right. Where's the latchkey? I must run down and put Shevio out of his misery. It is 11 o'clock, he'll be gone to bed. Then I would forbid the bands. Where does he hang out? Has he got into old Hoxton's? No, it is being revivified. He is at Davis's lodgings. But I advise you not, a little suspense will do him good. One would think you had never been in love, said Harry indignantly. At least I can't sleep till I've shaken hands with the old fellow. Good night, Father. I'll not be long. He kept his word, and the same voice greeted him out of the dressing room. How was the spirit of the fell? Sleeps thou, brother? Brother, nay, answered Harry. He was only looking over Latin verses. He always was a cool hand. The spirit of the fell. Dr. Fell, with a vengeance, said Dr. May. I say, Harry, is this going to be your business transaction on his part? Young folks have done a bit of romance in these days, and one does not know where to have them. But if I thought, you may be sure of him, sir, said Harry, speaking the more eagerly because he suspected the impression his own manner had made. He is thoroughly worthy, and feels Mary's merits pretty nearly as much as I do. More perhaps, I have to say. There's more warmth in him than shows. I don't know that Norman ever could have gone through that terrible time after the accident, but for the care he took of him, and that little brother of his that sailed with me in the Eurydice, and died at Singapore. I know how he looked to his brother, Charles, and I do assure you, Father, you could not put the dear Mary into safer, sounder hands, or where should be more prized or happier. He is coming up tomorrow morning, and you'll see he is in earnest, in spite of all of his set speeches. Good night, Father. I am glad to be in time for the last of my Polly. This was almost the only moment at which Harry betrayed a consciousness that his Polly was less completely his own, and yet it seemed as if it must have been born in on him again and again, for Mary awoke the next morning as thoroughly, foolishly, deeply in love as woman could be, and went about concording herself in the most comically commonplace style, forgetting and neglecting everything, not hearing nor seeing, making absurd mistakes, restless whenever Mr. Shevio was not present, and then perfectly content if he came to sit by her, as he always did. For his courtship, now it had fairly begun, was equally exclusive and determined. Every day they walked a road together. Almost every evening he came and sat by her, and on each holiday they engrossed the drawing room, very looking prettier than she had ever been seen before. Aubrey and Gertrude both bored and critical. Harry, treating the whole as a pantomime, got up for his special delectation, and never betokening any sense that Mary was neglecting him. It was the greatest help to Ethel in keeping up the like spirit under the same innocent unconscious neglect from the hitherto devoted Mary, who was only helpful in an occasional revival of mechanical instinct in lucid intervals, and then could not be depended on. To laugh good-naturedly and not bitterly, to think the love-making pretty and not foolish, to repress Gertrude's saucy scorn, instead of encouraging it, would have been far harder without the bright face of the brother who generously surrendered instead of her pining. She never told herself that there was no proportion between the trials, not only because her spirit still suffered from the ever-present load of pity at her heart, nor because the loss would be hourly to her, but also because Charles Cheviot drew Harry towards him, but kept her at a distance, or more truly, laughed her down. She was used to being laughed at. Her ways had always been a matter of amusement to her brothers, and perhaps it was a natural assumption of brotherhood to reply to any suggestion or remark of hers with something intended for drullery, and followed with a laugh, which, instead of as usual stirring her up to good-humored repartee, suppressed her, and made her feel foolish and awkward. Asked Aflora's advice to behave with tack, she could not if she would, she would not if she could. In principle, she tried to acquiesce in a man's desire to show that he meant to have his wife to himself, and in practice she accepted his extinguisher because she could not help it. Mr. Cheviot was uneasy about the chances of Aubrey's success in the examination at Woolwich and offered assistance in the final preparation, but though Aubrey willingly accepted the proposal, two or three violent headaches from overstudy and anxiety made Dr. May insist on his old regimen of entire holiday and absence of work for the last week. To secure which repose, Aubrey was sent to London with Harry for a week's idleness and the Society of Tom, who professed to be too busy to come home even for Christmas. Mr. Cheviot's opinion transpired through Mary that it was throwing away Aubrey's only chance. In due time came the tidings that Aubrey had the second largest number of marks and had been highly commended for the thoroughness of his knowledge, so different from what had been only crammed for the occasion. He had been asked who had been his tutor and had answered his brother, fully meaning to spare Aflora publicity, and she was genuinely thankful for having been shielded under Tom's six months of teaching. She hardly wished the same shield would have availed at home when Charles Cheviot gave that horrible laugh and asked her if she meant to stand for Professor's Chair. She faltered something about Tom and mathematics. I, I, said Charles, and these military examinations are in nothing but foreign languages and trash, and again he laughed his laugh and Mary followed his example. Ethel would feign have seen the fun. Cheviot, what to have a trade never agree, asked Dr. May in high glory and glee. Not my trade papa, I said Ethel, restored by his face and voice, only the peculiarity of examiners, so long ago remarked by Norman, of only setting questions that one can answer. Not your trade, but your amateur work, said Mr. Cheviot, again exploding and leaving Ethel to feel demolished. Why, she wondered presently, had she not held up her knitting and merely own it for her trade? Why, but because those laughs took away all merriment, all presence of mind, all but the endeavor not to be as cross as she felt. Was this systematic or was it only bad taste? The wedding was fixed for wits and tide. The repairs and drainage necessitating early and long holidays and the arrangements gave full occupation. Mary was the first daughter who had needed a portion since Mr. Cheviot was one of a large family and had little of his own. Dr. May had inherited a fair private competence, chiefly in land in and about the town and his professional gains under his wife's prudent management had been for the most part invested in the like property. The chief of his accumulation of ready money had been made over to establish Richard at Coxmore and though living in an inexpensive style, such as that none of the family knew what it was to find means lacking fraud that was right or reasonable, there was no large amount of capital available. The May custom had always been that the physician should inherit the land at estate and though this was disproportionately increased by the doctor's own acquisitions, yet the hold it gave over the town was so important that he was unwilling it should be broken up in his death and wished to provide for his other children by charges on the rents instead of by sale and division. All this he caused Richard to write to Tom for though there was no absolute need of the young man's concurrence in arranging Mary's settlements, it was a good opportunity for distinctly stating his prospects and a compliment to consult him. Feeling that Tom had thus been handsomely dealt with, his letter to his father was a greater shock when after saying that he doubted whether he could come home for the wedding, he expressed gratitude for the opening held out to him but begged that precedence applicable to very different circumstances might not be regarded as binding. He was distressed at supplanting Richard and would greatly prefer the property taking its natural course. It would be so many years he trusted before there would be room for his services even as an assistant at Stonemoral that he thought it would be far more advisable to seek some other field and his own desire would be at once to receive a younger son's share if it were but a few hundreds and be free to cut out his own line. What is he driving at, Ethel? Asked the doctor, much vexed. I offer him what any lad should jump at and he only says, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. What does that mean? Not prodigality, said Ethel. Remember what Sir Matthew Fleet said to Dr. Spencer. The exibility and common sense besides. Exactly what makes me suspicious of his coming to disinterested over me. There's something behind. He is running into debt and destruction among that precious crew about the hospitals. Harry saw nothing wrong and thought his friends in good style. Everyone is in good style with Harry, happy fellow.  Harry's too much sunshine to see shades. A lieutenant in the Navy can hardly be the capital officer that our Harry is without some knowledge of men and discipline. I grant you on his own element but on shore he goes about in his holiday spectacles and sees a bird of paradise in every cock's barrel. Isn't there a glass house that can sometimes make a swan? Said Ethel, slightly touching her father's spectacles. But with you both, there's always a something to attract the embellishing process. And between Harry and Aubrey, Dr. Spencer and Sir Matthew, we could hardly fail to have heard of anything amiss. I don't like it. Then it is hard, said Ethel, with spirit. So steady as he has always been, he ought to have the benefit of a little trust. He was never like the others. I don't know what to be at with him. I should not have minded both for that palaver about elder brothers. Defend as Ethel might. It was still with a misgiving less disappointment should have taken a wrong course. It was hard to trust where correspondence was the nearest business scrap and neither Christmas nor the sister's marriage availed to call Tom home. And though she had few fears as to dissipation, she did dread hardening and ambition, all the more since she had learned that Sir Matthew Fleet was affording to him a patronage unprecedented from that quarter. No year of Ethel Dredmé's life had been so trying as this last. It seemed like her first step away from the aspirations of youth into the greater fears of womanhood with all the self-restraint that she had striven to exercise that cool. It had been a time of glorious dreams over the two young spirits who seemed to be growing up by her side to be faithful workers, destined to carry out her highest visions. And the boyish devotion of the one, the fraternal reverence of the other had made her very happy. And now the first disappointment in Leonard had led not indeed to less esteem for him, but to that pitting veneration that can only be yielded by a sharing spirit of like martyrdom, a continued thankfulness and admiration, but a continual ringing of the heart. And her own child and pupil, Aubrey, had turned aside from the highest path. And in the unavowed consciousness that he was failing in the course he had so often traced out with her and that all her aid and ready participation in his present interests were but from her outward, not her inward heart, he had never argued the point with her, never consulted her on his destination. He had talked only to his father of his alteration of purpose and had at least paid her the compliment of not trying to make her profess that she was gratified by the change. In minor matters he depended on her as much as ever. But Harry was naturally his chief companion and the prime of his full and perfect confidence had departed, partly in a step from boy to man, but more from the sense that he was not fulfilling the soldiership he had dreamt of with her and that he had once led her to think his talents otherwise dedicated. She had few fears for his steadiness, but she had some for his health and he was something taken away from her. A brightness had faded from his image. And this marriage, with every effort at rejoicing in certainty of Mary's present bliss and probability of future happiness, it was the loss of a sister and not the gain of a brother. And Mr. Chivio did his utmost to render the absence of her planning a great effort of unselfishness. And even with her father, her possession of Tom's half revealed secret seemed an impairing of absolute confidence. She could not but hope that her father did her brother injustice and in her tenderness towards them both, this was a new and painful sensation. Her manner was bright and quaint as ever. Her sayings perhaps less edged than usual because the pain at her heart made her guard her tongue. But she had begun to feel middle-aged and strangely lonely. Richard, though always a comfort, would not have entered into her troubles. Harry, in his atmosphere of sailor on shore, had nothing of the confidant and engrossed his father.  She had never so longed after Margaret or Norman. But at least her corner in the minster, her table at home with her Bible and prayer book were still the same and witnessed many an outpouring of her anxiety, many a confession of the words or gestures that she had felt to have been petulant whether others had so viewed them or not. End of chapter 18, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona.