But think of Mary and what she was enduring. Picture to yourself (for I cannot tell you) the armies of thoughts that met and clashed in her brain; and then imagine the effort it cost her to be calm, and quiet, and even in a faint way, cheerful and smiling at times.
After a while she began to stir about in her own mind for some means of sparing the poor mother the trial of appearing as a witness in the matter of the gun. She had made no allusion to her summons this morning, and Mary almost thought she must have forgotten it; and surely some means might be found to prevent that additional sorrow. She must see Job about it; nay, if necessary, she must see Mr. Bridgnorth, with all his truth-compelling powers; for, indeed, she had so struggled and triumphed (though a sadly-bleeding victor at heart) over herself these two last days, had so concealed agony, and hidden her inward woe and bewilderment, that she began to take confidence, and to have faith in her own powers of meeting any one with a passably fair show, whatever might be rending her life beneath the cloak of her deception.
Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Davenport came in after morning church, to ask after the two lone women, and she had heard the report Mary had to give (so much better as regarded Mrs. Wilson than what they had feared the night before it would have been)—as soon as this kind-hearted, grateful woman came in, Mary, telling her purpose, went off to fetch the doctor who attended Alice.
He was shaking himself after his morning’s round, and happy in the anticipation of his Sunday’s dinner; but he was a good-tempered man, who found it difficult to keep down his jovial easiness even by the bed of sickness or death. He had mischosen his profession; for it was his delight to see every one around him in full enjoyment of life.
However, he subdued his face to the proper expression of sympathy, befitting a doctor listening to a patient, or a patient’s friend (and Mary’s sad, pale, anxious face might be taken for either the one or the other).
“Well my girl! and what brings you here?” said he, as he entered his surgery. “Not on your own account, I hope.”
“I wanted you to come and see Alice Wilson,—and then I thought you would maybe take a look at Mrs. Wilson.”
He bustled on his hat and coat, and followed Mary instantly.
After shaking his head over Alice (as if it was a mournful thing for one so pure and good, so true, although so humble a Christian, to be nearing her desired haven), and muttering the accustomed words intended to destroy hope, and prepare anticipation, he went, in compliance with Mary’s look, to ask the usual questions of Mrs. Wilson, who sat passively in her arm-chair.
She answered his questions, and submitted to his examination.
“How do you think her?” asked Mary eagerly.
“Why—a,” began he, perceiving that he was desired to take one side in his answer, and unable to find out whether his listener was anxious for a favourable verdict or otherwise; but thinking it most probable that she would desire the former, he continued—
“She is weak, certainly; the natural result of such a shock as the arrest of her son would be,—for I understand this James Wilson, who murdered Mr. Carson, was her son. Sad thing to have such a reprobate in the family.”
“You say ‘WHO MURDERED,’ sir!” said Mary indignantly. “He is only taken up on suspicion, and many have no doubt of his innocence— those who know him, sir.”
“Ah! well, well! doctors have seldom time to read newspapers, and I dare say I’m not very correct in my story. I dare say he’s innocent; I’m sure I had no right to say otherwise,—only words slip out.—No! indeed, young woman, I see no cause for apprehension about this poor creature in the next room;—weak—certainly; but a day or two’s good nursing will set her up, and I’m sure you’re a good nurse, my dear, from your pretty kind-hearted face,—I’ll send a couple of pills and a draught, but don’t alarm yourself—there’s no occasion, I assure you.”
“But you don’t think her fit to go to Liverpool?” asked Mary, still in the anxious tone of one who wishes earnestly for some particular decision.
“To Liverpool—yes,” replied he. “A short journey like that couldn’t fatigue, and might distract her thoughts. Let her go by all means,—it would be the very thing for her.”
“O sir!” burst out Mary, almost sobbing; “I did so hope you would say she was too ill to go.”
“Whew!”—said he, with a prolonged whistle, trying to understand the case; but being, as he said, no reader of newspapers, utterly unaware of the peculiar reasons there might be for so apparently unfeeling a wish—”Why did you not tell me so sooner? It might certainly do her harm in her weak state! there is always some risk attending journeys—draughts, and what not. To her, they might prove very injurious,—very. I disapprove of journeys, or excitement, in all cases where the patient is in the low, fluttered state in which Mrs. Wilson is. If you take MY advice, you will certainly put a stop to all thoughts of going to Liverpool.” He really had completely changed his opinion, though quite unconsciously; so desirous was he to comply with the wishes of others.
“O sir, thank you! And will you give me a certificate of her being unable to go, if the lawyer says he must have one? The lawyer, you know,” continued she, seeing him look puzzled, “who is to defend Jem,—it was as a witness against him”—
“My dear girl!” said he almost angrily, “why did you not state the case fully at first? one minute would have done it,—and my dinner waiting all this time. To be sure she can’t go,—it would be madness to think of it; if her evidence could have done good, it would have been a different thing. Come to me for the certificate any time; that is to say, if the lawyer advises you. I second the lawyer; take counsel with both the learned professions—ha, ha, ha.”
And laughing at his own joke, he departed, leaving Mary accusing herself of stupidity in having imagined that every one was as well acquainted with the facts concerning the trial as she was herself; for indeed she had never doubted that the doctor would have been aware of the purpose of poor Mrs. Wilson’s journey to Liverpool.
Presently she went to Job (the ever ready Mrs. Davenport keeping watch over the two old women), and told him her fears, her plans, and her proceedings.
To her surprise he shook his head doubtfully.
“It may have an awkward look, if we keep her back. Lawyers is up to tricks.”
“But it is no trick,” said Mary. “She is so poorly, she was last night so, at least; and to-day she’s so faded and weak.”
“Poor soul! I dare say. I only mean for Jem’s sake; and so much is known, it won’t do now to hang back. But I’ll ask Mr. Bridgnorth. I’ll e’en take your doctor’s advice. Yo tarry at home, and I’ll come to yo in an hour’s time. Go thy ways, wench.”
XXV. MRS. WILSON’S DETERMINATION.
“Something there was, what, none presumed to say, Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day,— Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, And mixed reports no judge on earth could clear.” —CRABBE.
“Curious conjectures he may always make, And either side of dubious questions take.” —IBID.
Mary went home. Oh! how her head did ache, and how dizzy her brain was growing! But there would be time enough she felt for giving way hereafter.
So she sat quiet and still by an effort; sitting near the window, and looking out of it, but seeing nothing, when all at once she caught sight of something which roused her up, and made her draw back.
But it was too late. She had been seen.
Sally Leadbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, making it gaudy with the Sunday excess of colouring in her dress.
She was really curious to see Mary; her connection with a murderer seemed to have made her into a sort of lusus naturae, and was almost, by some, expected to have made a change in her personal appearance, so earnestly did they stare at her. But Mary had been too much absorbed the last day or two to notice this.