“If Jem’s not done it, I don’t see as any on us can tell who did it. We might find out something if we’d time; but they say he’s to be tried on Tuesday. It’s no use hiding it, Mary; things looks strong against him.”
“I know they do! I know they do! But, O Job! isn’t an alibi a proving where he really was at th’ time of the murder; and how must I set about an alibi?”
“An alibi is that, sure enough.” He thought a little. “You mun ask his mother his doings, and his whereabouts that night; the knowledge of that will guide you a bit.”
For he was anxious that on another should fall the task of enlightening Mary on the hopelessness of the case, and he felt that her own sense would be more convinced by inquiry and examination than any mere assertion of his.
Margaret had sat silent and grave all this time. To tell the truth, she was surprised and disappointed by the disclosure of Mary’s conduct, with regard to Mr. Henry Carson. Gentle, reserved, and prudent herself, never exposed to the trial of being admired for her personal appearance, and unsusceptible enough to be in doubt even yet, whether the fluttering, tender, infinitely joyous feeling she was for the first time experiencing, at sight or sound, or thought of Will Wilson, was love or not,—Margaret had no sympathy with the temptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire of being admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, in short. Then, she had no idea of the strength of the conflict between will and principle in some who were differently constituted from herself. With her, to be convinced that an action was wrong, was tantamount to a determination not to do so again; and she had little or no difficulty in carrying out her determination. So she could not understand how it was that Mary had acted wrongly, and had felt too much ashamed, in spite of internal sophistry, to speak of her actions. Margaret considered herself deceived; felt aggrieved; and, at the time of which I am now telling you, was strongly inclined to give Mary up altogether, as a girl devoid of the modest proprieties of her sex, and capable of gross duplicity, in speaking of one lover as she had done of Jem, while she was encouraging another in attentions, at best of a very doubtful character.
But now Margaret was drawn into the conversation. Suddenly it flashed across Mary’s mind, that the night of the murder was the very night, or rather the same early morning, that Margaret had been with Alice. She turned sharp round, with—
“O Margaret, you can tell me; you were there when he came back that night; were you not? No! you were not; but you were there not many hours after. Did not you hear where he’d been? He was away the night before, too, when Alice was first taken; when you were there for your tea. Oh! where was he, Margaret?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Stay! I do remember something about his keeping Will company, in his walk to Liverpool. I can’t justly say what it was, so much happened that night.”
“I’ll go to his mother’s,” said Mary resolutely.
They neither of them spoke, either to advise or dissuade. Mary felt she had no sympathy from them, and braced up her soul to act without such loving aid of friendship. She knew that their advice would be willingly given at her demand, and that was all she really required for Jem’s sake. Still her courage failed a little as she walked to Jane Wilson’s, alone in the world with her secret.
Jane Wilson’s eyes were swelled with crying; and it was sad to see the ravages which intense anxiety and sorrow had made on her appearance in four-and-twenty hours. All night long she and Mrs. Davenport had crooned over their sorrows, always recurring, like the burden of an old song, to the dreadest sorrow of all, which was now impending over Mrs. Wilson. She had grown—I hardly know what word to use—but, something like proud of her martyrdom; she had grown to hug her grief; to feel an excitement in her agony of anxiety about her boy.
“So, Mary, you’re here! O Mary, lass! He’s to be tried on Tuesday.”
She fell to sobbing, in the convulsive breath-catching manner which tells of so much previous weeping.
“O Mrs. Wilson, don’t take on so! We’ll get him off, you’ll see. Don’t fret; they can’t prove him guilty!”
“But I tell thee they will,” interrupted Mrs. Wilson, half-irritated at the light way, as she considered it, in which Mary spoke; and a little displeased that another could hope when she had almost brought herself to find pleasure in despair.
“It may suit thee well,” continued she, “to make light o’ the misery thou hast caused; but I shall lay his death at thy door, as long as I live, and die I know he will; and all for what he never did—no, he never did; my own blessed boy!”
She was too weak to be angry long; her wrath sank away to feeble sobbing and worn-out moans.
Mary was most anxious to soothe her from any violence of either grief or anger; she did so want her to be clear in her recollection; and, besides, her tenderness was great towards Jem’s mother. So she spoke in a low gentle tone the loving sentences, which sound so broken and powerless in repetition, and which yet have so much power when accompanied with caressing looks and actions, fresh from the heart; and the old woman insensibly gave herself up to the influence of those sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of sympathy, those words of love and hope, and was lulled into a less morbid state of mind.
“And now, dear Mrs. Wilson, can you remember where he said he was going on Thursday night? He was out when Alice was taken ill; and he did not come home till early in the morning, or, to speak true, in the night: did he?”
“Ay! he went out near upon five; he went out with Will; he said he were going to set* him a part of the way, for Will were hot upon walking to Liverpool, and wouldn’t hearken to Jem’s offer of lending him five shillings for his fare. So the two lads set off together. I mind it all now: but, thou seest, Alice’s illness, and this business of poor Jem’s, drove it out of my head; they went off together, to walk to Liverpool; that’s to say, Jem were to go a part o’ th’ way. But, who knows” (falling back into the old desponding tone) “if he really went? He might be led off on the road. O Mary, wench! they’ll hang him for what he’s never done.”
“To set,” to accompany.
“No they won’t, they shan’t! I see my way a bit now. We mun get Will to help; there’ll be time. He can swear that Jem were with him. Where is Jem?”
“Folk said he were taken to Kirkdale, i’ th’ prison van this morning, without my seeing him, poor chap! O wench! but they’ve hurried on the business at a cruel rate.”
“Ay! they’ve not let grass grow under their feet, in hunting out the man that did it,” said Mary sorrowfully and bitterly. “But keep up your heart. They got on the wrong scent when they took to suspecting Jem. Don’t be afeard. You’ll see it will end right for Jem.”
“I should mind it less if I could do aught,” said Jane Wilson; “but I’m such a poor weak old body, and my head’s so gone, and I’m so dazed like, what with Alice and all, that I think and think, and can do nought to help my child. I might ha’ gone and seen him last night, they tell me now, and then I missed it. O Mary, I missed it; and I may never see the lad again.”
She looked so piteously in Mary’s face with her miserable eyes, that Mary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading the weakness of her powers, which the burst of crying she longed for would occasion, hastily changed the subject to Alice; and Jane, in her heart, feeling that there was no sorrow like a mother’s sorrow, replied—
“She keeps on much the same, thank you. She’s happy, for she knows nothing of what’s going on; but th’ doctor says she grows weaker and weaker. Thou’lt maybe like to see her?”
Mary went upstairs; partly because it is the etiquette in humble life to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing the dying or the dead, while the same etiquette forbids a refusal of the invitation; and partly because she longed to breathe, for an instant, the atmosphere of holy calm, which seemed ever to surround the pious, good old woman. Alice lay, as before, without pain, or at least any outward expression of it; but totally unconscious of all present circumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the days of her girlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place of reality to her. Still she talked of green fields, and still she spoke to the long-dead mother and sister, lowlying in their graves this many a year, as if they were with her and about her, in the pleasant places where her youth had passed.