She stopped, oppressed with the fulness of her heart. Margaret began to love her again; to see in her the same sweet, faulty, impulsive, lovable creature she had known in the former Mary Barton, but with more of dignity, self-reliance, and purpose.
Mary spoke again.
“Now I know the name of Will’s vessel—the John Cropper; and I know that she is bound to America. That is something to know. But I forgot, if I ever heard, where he lodges in Liverpool. He spoke of his landlady, as a good, trustworthy woman; but if he named her name, it has slipped my memory. Can you help me, Margaret?”
She appealed to her friend calmly and openly, as if perfectly aware of, and recognising the unspoken tie which bound her and Will together; she asked her in the same manner in which she would have asked a wife where her husband dwelt. And Margaret replied in the like calm tone, two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone bearing witness to any internal agitation.
“He lodges at a Mrs. Jones’, Milk-House Yard, out of Nicholas Street. He has lodged there ever since he began to go to sea; she is a very decent kind of woman, I believe.”
“Well, Mary! I’ll give you my prayers” said Job. “It’s not often I pray regular, though I often speak a word to God, when I’m either very happy or very sorry; I’ve catched myself thanking Him at odd hours when I’ve found a rare insect, or had a fine day for an out; but I cannot help it, no more than I can talking to a friend. But this time I’ll pray regular for Jem, and for you. And so will Margaret, I’ll be bound. Still, wench! what think yo of a lawyer? I know one, Mr. Cheshire, who’s rather given to th’ insect line—and a good kind o’ chap. He and I have swopped specimens many’s the time, when either of us had a duplicate. He’ll do me a kind turn I’m sure. I’ll just take my hat, and pay him a visit.”
No sooner said, than done.
Margaret and Mary were left alone. And this seemed to bring back the feeling of awkwardness, not to say estrangement.
But Mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was the first to break silence.
“O Margaret!” said she, “I see—I feel how wrong you think I have acted; you cannot think me worse than I think myself, now my eyes are opened.” Here her sobs came choking up her voice.
“Nay,” Margaret began, “I have no right to”—
“Yes, Margaret, you have a right to judge; you cannot help it; only in your judgment remember mercy, as the Bible says. You, who have been always good, cannot tell how easy it is at first to go a little wrong, and then how hard it is to go back. Oh! I little thought when I was first pleased with Mr. Carson’s speeches, how it would all end; perhaps in the death of him I love better than life.”
She burst into a passion of tears. The feelings pent up through the day would have vent. But checking herself with a strong effort, and looking up at Margaret as piteously as if those calm, stony eyes could see her imploring face, she added—
“I must not cry; I must not give way; there will be time enough for that hereafter, if—I only wanted you to speak kindly to me, Margaret, for I am very, very wretched; more wretched than any one can ever know; more wretched, I sometimes fancy, than I have deserved—but that’s wrong, isn’t it, Margaret? Oh! I have done wrong, and I am punished: you cannot tell how much.”
Who could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of humility? Who would refuse the kindness for which she begged so penitently? Not Margaret. The old friendly manner came back. With it, maybe, more of tenderness.
“Oh! Margaret, do you think he can be saved; do you think they can find him guilty, if Will comes forward as a witness? Won’t that be a good alibi?”
Margaret did not answer for a moment.
“Oh, speak! Margaret,” said Mary, with anxious impatience.
“I know nought about law, or alibis,” replied Margaret meekly; “but, Mary, as grandfather says, aren’t you building too much on what Jane Wilson has told you about his going with Will? Poor soul, she’s gone dateless, I think, with care, and watching, and overmuch trouble; and who can wonder? Or Jem may have told her he was going, by way of a blind.”
“You don’t know Jem,” said Mary, starting from her seat in a hurried manner, “or you would not say so.”
“I hope I may be wrong! but think, Mary, how much there is against him. The shot was fired with his gun; he it was as threatened Mr. Carson not many days before; he was absent from home at that very time, as we know, and, as I’m much afeard, some one will be called on to prove; and there’s no one else to share suspicion with him.”
Mary heaved a deep sigh.
“But, Margaret, he did not do it,” Mary again asserted.
Margaret looked unconvinced.
“I can do no good, I see, by saying so, for none on you believe me, and I won’t say so again till I can prove it. Monday morning I’ll go to Liverpool. I shall be at hand for the trial. O dear! dear! And I will find Will; and then, Margaret, I think you’ll be sorry for being so stubborn about Jem.”
“Don’t fly off, dear Mary; I’d give a deal to be wrong. And now I’m going to be plain spoken. You’ll want money. Them lawyers is no better than a sponge for sucking up money; let alone your hunting out Will, and your keep in Liverpool, and what not. You must take some of the mint I’ve got laid by in the old tea-pot. You have no right to refuse, for I offer it to Jem, not to you; it’s for his purposes you’re to use it.”
“I know—I see. Thank you, Margaret; you’re a kind one at any rate. I take it for Jem; and I’ll do my very best with it for him. Not all, though; don’t think I’ll take all. They’ll pay me for my keep. I’ll take this,” accepting a sovereign from the hoard which Margaret produced out of its accustomed place in the cupboard. “Your grandfather will pay the lawyer, I’ll have nought to do with him,” shuddering as she remembered Job’s words, about lawyers’ skill in always discovering the truth, sooner or later; and knowing what was the secret she had to hide.
“Bless you! don’t make such ado about it,” said Margaret, cutting short Mary’s thanks. “I sometimes think there’s two sides to the commandment; and that we may say, ‘Let others do unto you, as you would do unto them,’ for pride often prevents our giving others a great deal of pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their hearts are longing to help; and when we ourselves should wish to do just the same, if we were in their place. Oh! how often I’ve been hurt, by being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about their care, or sorrow, when I saw them in great grief, and wanted to be of comfort. Our Lord Jesus was not above letting folk minister to Him, for He knew how happy it makes one to do aught for another. It’s the happiest work on earth.”
Mary had been too much engrossed by watching what was passing in the street to attend very closely to that which Margaret was saying. From her seat she could see out of the window pretty plainly, and she caught sight of a gentleman walking alongside of Job, evidently in earnest conversation with him, and looking keen and penetrating enough to be a lawyer. Job was laying down something to be attended to she could see, by his uplifted forefinger, and his whole gesture; then he pointed and nodded across the street to his own house, as if inducing his companion to come in. Mary dreaded lest he should, and she be subjected to a closer cross-examination than she had hitherto undergone, as to why she was so certain that Jem was innocent. She feared he was coming; he stepped a little towards the spot. No! it was only to make way for a child, tottering along, whom Mary had overlooked. Now Job took him by the button, so earnestly familiar had he grown. The gentleman looked “fidging fain” to be gone, but submitted in a manner that made Mary like him in spite of his profession. Then came a volley of last words, answered by briefest nods, and monosyllables; and then the stranger went off with redoubled quickness of pace, and Job crossed the street with a little satisfied air of importance on his kindly face.