Now Sally had a grand view, and looked her over and over (a very different thing from looking her through and through), and almost learnt her off by heart:—”Her everyday gown (Hoyle’s print you know, that lilac thing with the high body) she was so fond of; a little black silk handkerchief just knotted round her neck, like a boy; her hair all taken back from her face, as if she wanted to keep her head cool—she would always keep that hair of hers so long; and her hands twitching continually about”—
Such particulars would make Sally into a Gazette Extraordinary the next morning at the workroom and were worth coming for, even if little else could be extracted from Mary.
“Why, Mary!” she began. “Where have you hidden yourself? You never showed your face all yesterday at Miss Simmonds’s. You don’t fancy we think any the worse of you for what’s come and gone. Some on us, indeed, were a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and cold for your sake, Mary; but we shall ne’er cast it up against you. Miss Simmonds, too, will be mighty put out if you don’t come, for there’s a deal of mourning, agait.”
“I can’t,” Mary said, in a low voice. “I don’t mean ever to come again.”
“Why, Mary!” said Sally, in unfeigned surprise. “To be sure, you’ll have to be in Liverpool, Tuesday, and maybe Wednesday; but after that you’ll surely come, and tell us all about it. Miss Simmonds knows you’ll have to be off those two days. But between you and me, she’s a bit of a gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the trial, well enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a day or two. Besides, Betsy Morgan was saying yesterday, she shouldn’t wonder but you’d prove quite an attraction to customers. Many a one would come and have their gowns made by Miss Simmonds just to catch a glimpse at you, at after the trial’s over. Really, Mary, you’ll turn out quite a heroine.”
The little fingers twitched worse than ever; the large soft eyes looked up pleadingly into Sally’s face; but she went on in the same strain, not from any unkind or cruel feeling towards Mary, but solely because she was incapable of comprehending her suffering.
She had been shocked, of course, at Mr. Carson’s death, though at the same time the excitement was rather pleasant than otherwise; and dearly now would she have enjoyed the conspicuous notice which Mary was sure to receive.
“How shall you like being cross-examined, Mary?”
“Not at all,” answered Mary, when she found she must answer.
“La! what impudent fellows those lawyers are! And their clerks, too, not a bit better. I shouldn’t wonder” (in a comforting tone, and really believing she was giving comfort) “if you picked up a new sweetheart in Liverpool. What gown are you going in, Mary?”
“Oh, I don’t know and don’t care,” exclaimed Mary, sick and weary of her visitor.
“Well, then! take my advice, and go in that blue merino. It’s old to be sure, and a bit worn at elbows, but folk won’t notice that, and th’ colour suits you. Now mind, Mary. And I’ll lend you my black-watered scarf,” added she really good-naturedly, according to her sense of things, and withal, a little bit pleased at the idea of her pet article of dress figuring away on the person of a witness at a trial for murder. “I’ll bring it tomorrow before you start.”
“No, don’t!” said Mary; “thank you, but I don’t want it.”
“Why, what can you wear? I know all your clothes as well as I do my own, and what is there you can wear? Not your old plaid shawl, I do hope? You would not fancy this I have on, more nor the scarf, would you?” said she, brightening up at the thought, and willing to lend it, or anything else.
“O Sally! don’t go on talking a-that-ns; how can I think on dress at such a time? When it’s a matter of life and death to Jem?”
“Bless the girl! It’s Jem, is it? Well now, I thought there was some sweetheart in the background, when you flew off so with Mr. Carson. Then what, in the name of goodness, made him shoot Mr. Harry? After you had given up going with him, I mean? Was he afraid you’d be on again?”
“How dare you say he shot Mr. Harry?” asked Mary, firing up from the state of languid indifference into which she had sunk while Sally had been settling about her dress. “But it’s no matter what you think as did not know him. What grieves me is, that people should go on thinking him guilty as did know him,” she said, sinking back into her former depressed tone and manner.
“And don’t you think he did it?” asked Sally.
Mary paused; she was going on too fast with one so curious and so unscrupulous. Besides, she remembered how even she herself had, at first, believed him guilty; and she felt it was not for her to cast stones at those who, on similar evidence, inclined to the same belief. None had given him much benefit of a doubt. None had faith in his innocence. None but his mother; and the heart loved more than the head reasoned, and her yearning affection had never for an instant entertained the idea that her Jem was a murderer. But Mary disliked the whole conversation; the subject, the manner in which it was treated, were all painful, and she had a repugnance to the person with whom she spoke.
She was thankful, therefore, when Job Legh’s voice was heard at the door, as he stood with the latch in his hand, talking to a neighbour, and when Sally jumped up in vexation and said, “There’s that old fogey coming in here, as I’m alive! Did your father set him to look after you while he was away? or what brings the old chap here? However, I’m off; I never could abide either him or his prim grand-daughter. Goodbye, Mary.”
So far in a whisper, then louder, “If you think better of my offer about the scarf, Mary, just step in tomorrow before nine, and you’re quite welcome to it.”
She and Job passed each other at the door, with mutual looks of dislike, which neither took any pains to conceal.
“Yon’s a bold, bad girl,” said Job to Mary.
“She’s very good-natured,” replied Mary, too honourable to abuse a visitor, who had only that instant crossed her threshold, and gladly dwelling on the good quality most apparent in Sally’s character.
“Ay, ay! good-natured, generous, jolly, full of fun; there are a number of other names for the good qualities the devil leaves his children, as baits to catch gudgeons with. D’ye think folk could be led astray by one who was every way bad? Howe’er, that’s not what I came to talk about. I’ve seen Mr. Bridgnorth, and he is in a manner the same mind as we; he thinks it would have an awkward look, and might tell against the poor lad on his trial; still if she’s ill she’s ill, and it can’t be helped.”
“I don’t know if she’s so bad as all that,” said Mary, who began to dread her part in doing anything which might tell against her poor lover. “Will you come and see her, Job? The doctor seemed to say as I liked, not as he thought.”
“That’s because he had no great thought on the subject, either one way or t’other,” replied Job, whose contempt for medical men pretty nearly equalled his respect for lawyers. “But I’ll go and welcome. I han not seen th’ ould ladies since their sorrows, and it’s but manners to go and ax after them. Come along.”
The room at Mrs. Wilson’s had that still, changeless look you must have often observed in the house of sickness or mourning. No particular employment going on; people watching and waiting rather than acting, unless in the more sudden and violent attacks: what little movement is going on, so noiseless and hushed; the furniture all arranged and stationary, with a view to the comfort of the afflicted; the window-blinds drawn down to keep out the disturbing variety of a sunbeam; the same saddened serious look on the faces of the indwellers: you fall back into the same train of thought with all these associations, and forget the street, the outer world, in the contemplation of the one stationary, absorbing interest within.