The Two Sides of the Shield

‘That was very hard. And why?’

She was heard to mutter something about aunts in books always being cross.

‘Ah! my dear! I suppose there are some unkind aunts, but I am sure there are a great many more who wish with all their hearts to make happy homes for their nieces. I hope now we may do so. I have more hope than ever I had, and so I shall write to your father.’

‘And please—please,’ cried Dolores, ‘don’t let Uncle Regie write him a very dreadful letter! I know he will.’

‘I think you can prevent that best yourself, by telling Uncle Regie how sorry you are. He was specially grieved because he thinks you told him two direct falsehoods.’

‘Oh! I didn’t think they were that,’ said Dolores, ‘for it was true that father did not leave anything with me for Uncle Alfred. And I did not know whether it was me whom he saw at Darminster. I did tell you one once, Aunt Lily, when you asked if I gave Constance a note. At least, she gave it to me, and not I to her. Indeed, I don’t tell falsehoods, Aunt Lily—I mean I never did at home, but Constance said everybody said those sort of things at school, and that one was driven to it when one was–’

‘Was what, my dear?’

‘Tyrannized over,’ Dolores got out.

‘Ah! Dolly, I am afraid Constance was no real friend. It was a great mistake to think her like Miss Hacket.’

‘And now she has sent back all my notes, and won’t look at me or speak to me,’ and Dolores’s tears began afresh.

‘It is very ungenerous of her, but very likely she will be very sorry to have done so when her first anger is over, and she understands that you were quite as much deceived as she was.’

‘But I shall never care for her again. It is not like Mysie, who never stopped being kind all the time—nor Gillian either. I shall cut her next time!’

‘You should remember that she has something to forgive. I don’t want you to be intimate with her but I think it would be better if, instead of quarrelling openly, you wrote a note to say that you were deceived and that you are very sorry for what you brought on her.’

‘I should not have gone on with it but for her and Her stupid poems!’

‘Can you bear to tell me how it all was, my dear? I do not half understand it.’

And on the way home, and in Lady Merrifield’s own room Dolores found it a relief to pour forth an explanation of the whole affair, beginning with that meeting with Mr. Flinders at Exeter, of which no one had heard, and going on to her indignation at the inspection of her letters; and how Constance had undertaken to conduct her correspondence, ‘and that made it seem as if she must write to some one,’—so she wrote to Uncle Alfred. And then Constance, becoming excited at the prospect of a literary connection, all the rest followed. It was a great relief to have told it all, and Lady Merrifield was glad to see that the sense of deceit was what weighed most heavily upon her niece, and seemed to have depressed her all along. Indeed, the aunt came to the conclusion that though Dolores alone might still have been sullen, morose and disagreeable, perhaps very reserved, she never would have kept up the systematic deceit but for Constance. The errors, regarded as sin, weighed on Lady Merrifield’s mind, but she judged it wiser not to press that thought on an unprepared spirit, trusting that just as Dolores had wakened to the sense of the human love that surrounded her, hitherto disbelieved and disregarded, so she might yet awake to the feeling of the Divine love and her offence against it.

The afternoon was tolerably free, for the gentlemen, including the elder boys, walked to evensong at a neighbouring church noted for its musical services, and Lady Merrifield, as she said, ‘lashed herself up’ to go with Gillian, carry back the remnant of the unhappy ‘Waif,’ and ‘have it out’ with Constance, who would, she feared, never otherwise understand the measure of her own delinquency, and from whom, perhaps, evidence might be extracted which would palliate the poor child’s offence in the eyes of Colonel Mohun. Both the Hacket sisters looked terribly frightened when she appeared, and the elder one made an excuse for getting her outside the door to beseech her to be careful, dear Constance was so nervous and so dreadfully upset by all she had undergone. Lady Merrifield was not the least nervous of the two, and she felt additionally displeased with Constance for not having said one word of commiseration when her sister had inquired for Dolores. On returning to the drawing-room, Lady Merrifield found the young lady standing by the window, playing with the blind, and looking as if she wanted to make her escape.

‘I do not know whether you will be sorry or glad to see this,’ said Lady Merrifield, producing a half-burnt roll of paper. ‘It was found in Mr. Flinders’s grate, and my brother thought you would be glad that it should not get into strange hands.’

‘Oh, it was cruel! it was base! What a wicked man he is!’ cried Constance, with hot tears, as she beheld the mutilated condition of her poor ‘Waif.’

‘Yes, it was a most unfortunate thing that you should have run into intercourse with such an utterly untrustworthy person.’

‘I was grossly deceived, Lady Merrifield!’ said Constance, clasping her hands somewhat theatrically.

‘I shall never believe in any one again!’

‘Not without better grounds, I hope,’ was the answer. ‘Your poor little friend is terribly broken down by all this.’

‘Don’t call her my friend. Lady Merrifield. She has used me shamefully! What business had she to tell me he was her uncle when he was no such thing?’

‘She had been always used to call him so.’

‘Don’t tell me, Lady Merrifield,’ said Constance, who, after her first fright, was working herself into a passion. ‘You don’t know what a little viper you have been warming, nor what things she has been continually saying of you. She told me—’

Lady Merrifield held up her hand with authority.

‘Stay, Constance. Do you think it is generous in you to tell me this?’

‘I am sure you ought to know.’

‘Then why did you encourage her?’

‘I pitied her—I believed her—I never thought she would have led me into this!’

‘How did she lead you?’

‘Always talking about her precious, persecuted uncle. I believe she was in league with him all the time!’

‘That is nonsense,’ said Lady Merrifield, ‘as you must see if you reflect a little. Dolores was too young to have been told this man’s real character; she only knew that her mother, who had spent her childhood with him, treated him as a brother, and did all she could for him. Dolores did very wrongly and foolishly in keeping up a connection with him unknown to me; but I cannot help feeling there was great excuse for her, and she was quite as much deceived as you were.’

‘Oh, of course, you stand by your own niece, Lady Merrifield. If you knew what horrid things she said about your pride and unkindness, as she called it, you would not think she deserved it.’

‘Nay, that is exactly what does most excuse her in my eyes. Her fancying such things of me was what did prevent her from confiding in me.’

Constance had believed herself romantic, but the Christian chivalry of Lady Merrifield’s nature was something quite beyond her. She muttered something about Dolores not deserving, which made her visitor really angry, and say, ‘We had better not talk of deserts. Dolores is a mere child—a mother-less child, who had been a good deal left to herself for many months. I let her come to you because she seemed shy and unhappy with us, and I did not like to deny her the one pleasure she seemed to care for. I knew what an excellent person and thorough lady your sister is, and I thought I could perfectly trust her with you. I little thought you would have encouraged her in concealment, and—I must say—deceit, and thus made me fail in the trust her father reposed in me.’

‘I would never have done it,’ Constance sobbed, ‘but for what she said about you. Lady Merrifield!’

‘Well, and even if I am such a hard, severe person, does that make it honourable or right to help the child I trusted to you to carry on this underhand correspondence?’

Constance hung her head. Her sister had said the same to her, but she still felt herself the most injured party, and thought it very hard that she should be so severely blamed for what the girls at her school treated so lightly. She said, ‘I am very sorry. Lady Merrifield,’ but it was not exactly the tone of repentance, and it ended with: ‘If it had not been for her, I should never have done it.’

‘I suppose not, for there would have been no temptation. I was in hopes that you would have shown some kindlier and more generous feeling towards the younger girl, who could not have gone so far wrong without your assistance, and who feels your treatment of her very bitterly. But to find you incapable of understanding what you have done, makes me all the more glad that the friendship—if friendship it can be called—is broken off between you. Good-bye. I think when you are older and wiser, you will be very sorry to recollect the doings of the last few months.’

Lady Merrifield walked away, and found on her return that Dolores had succeeded in writing to her father, and was so utterly tired out by the feelings it had cost her that she was only fit to lie on the sofa and sleep.

Gillian was, of course, not seen till she came home from evening service.

‘Oh, mamma,’ she said, ‘what did you do to Constance?’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I heard you shut the front door. And presently after there came such a noise through the wall that all the girls pricked up their ears, and Miss Hacket jumped up in a fright. If it had been Val, one would have called it a naughty child roaring.’

‘What! did I send her into hysterics?’

‘I suppose, as she is grown up, it must have the fine name, but it wasn’t a bit like poor Dolly’s choking. I am sure she did it to make her sister come! Well, of course, Miss Hacket went away, and I did the best I could, but what could one do with all these screeches and bellowings breaking out?’

‘For shame. Gill!’

‘I can’t help it, mamma. If you had only seen their faces when the uproar came in a fresh gust! How they whispered, and some looked awestruck. I thought I had better get rid of them, and come home myself; but Miss Hacket met me, and implored me to stay, and I was weak-minded enough to do so. I wish I hadn’t, for it was only to be provoked past bearing. That horrid girl has poisoned even Miss Hacket’s mind, and she thinks you have been hard on her darling. You did not know how nervous and timid dear Connie is!’

‘Well, Gill, I confess she made me very angry, and I told her what I thought of her.’

‘And that she didn’t choose to hear!’

‘Did you see her again?’

‘No, I am thankful to say, I did not. But Miss Hacket would go on all tea-time, explaining and explaining for me to tell you how dear Connie is so affectionate and so easily led, and how Dolores came over her with persuasions, and deceived her. I declare I never liked Dolly so well before. At any rate, she doesn’t make professions, and not a bit more fuss than she can help. And there was Miss Hacket getting brandy cherries and strong coffee, and I don’t know what all, because dear Connie was so overcome, and dear Lady Merrifield was quite under a mistake, and so deceived by Dolores. I told Miss Hacket you were never under a mistake nor deceived.’

‘You didn’t, Gillian!’

‘Yes, I did, and the stupid woman only wanted to kiss me (but I wouldn’t let her) and said I was very right to stand up for my dear mamma. As if that had anything to do with it! What are you laughing at, mamma? Why, Uncle Regie is laughing, and Cousin Rotherwood! What is it?’

‘At the two partisans who never stand up for their own families,’ said Uncle Regie.

‘But it’s true!’ cried Gillian.

‘What! that I am never mistaken nor deceived?’ said Lady Merrifield.

‘Except when you took Miss Constance for a sensible woman, eh?’ said her brother.

‘That I never did! But I did take her for a moderately honourable one.’

‘Well, that was a mistake,’ owned Gillian. ‘And Miss Hacket is as bad! There’s no gratitude–’

‘Hush!’ broke in her mother; and Gillian stopped abashed, while Lady Merrifield continued, ‘I won’t have Miss Hacket abused. She is only blinded by sisterly affection.’

‘I don’t think I can go there again,’ said Gillian, ‘after what she said about you.’

‘Nonsense!’ said her mother. ‘Don’t be as bad as Constance in trying to make me angry by telling me all poor Dolly’s grumblings.’

‘Follow your mother’s example, Gillian,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘and, if possible, never hear, certainly never attend to, what any one says of you behind your back.’

‘Is said to have said of you, you should add, Rotherwood,’ put in the colonel. ‘It is a decree worse than eavesdropping.’

‘Oh, Regie!’ exclaimed his sister.

‘Well, not perhaps for your own honour and conscience, but the keyhole is a more trustworthy medium than the reporter.’

‘That’s a strong way of stating it, but, at any rate, the keyhole has no temper nor imagination, or prejudice of its own,’ said Lady Merrifield.

‘No, and as far as it goes, it enables you to judge of the frame in which the words, even if correctly reported, were spoken,’ added Colonel Mohun.

‘The moral of which is,’ said Lord Rotherwood, drolly, ‘that Gillian is not to take notice of anyone’s observations upon her unless she has heard them through the keyhole.’

‘And so one would never hear them at all.’

‘Q. E. D.,’ said Lord Rotherwood. ‘And now, Lily, do you. ever sing the two evening-hymns. Ken and Keble, now, as the family used to do on Sundays at the Old Court, long ere the days of ‘Hymns Ancient and Modern’?

‘Don’t we?’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘Only all our best voices will be singing it at Rawul Pindee!’

And, as she struck a note on the piano, all the younger people still up, Mysie, Phyllis, Wilfred and Valetta, gathered round from the outer room to join in their evening Sunday delight. Fly put her hand into her father’s and whispered, ‘You told me about it, daddy.’ He began to sing, but his voice thickened as he missed the tones once associated with it. And Lady Merrifield, too, nearly broke down as with all her heart she sang, hopefully,

                   ‘Now Lord, the gracious work begin.’

CHAPTER XVII. – THE STONE MELTING

It was with a strange feeling that Dolores woke on the New Year’s morning, that something was very sad and strange, and yet that there was a sense of relief. For one thing, that terrible confession to her father was written, and was no longer a weight hanging over her. And though his answer was still to come, that was months away. There was Uncle Regie greatly displeased with her; there was Constance treating her as a traitor; there was the mischief done, and yet something hard and heavy was gone? Something sweet and precious had come in on her! Surely it was, that now she knew and felt that she could trust in Aunt Lilias—yes, and in Mysie. She got up, quite looking forward to meeting those gentle, brown eyes of her aunt’s, that she seemed never before to have looked into, and to feeling the sweet, motherly kiss which had so mud, more meaning in it now, as almost to make up for Uncle Reginald’s estrangement.

She even anticipated gladly those ten minutes alone with her aunt, which she used to dislike so much, hoping that the holiday-time would not hinder them. Really wishing to please her aunt, she had learnt her portion perfectly, and Lady Merrifield showed that she appreciated the effort, though still it was more a lesson than a reality.

‘My dear!’ she said, ‘I am afraid this is another blow for you—it came this morning.’

It was the account from Professor Muhlwasser’s German publisher, amounting to a few shillings more than six pounds. And an announcement that the books were on the way.

‘Oh,’ cried Dolores, ‘I thought he was dead! He told me so! Uncle Alfred, I mean! And it was only to get the money! How could he be so wicked?’

‘I am afraid that was all he cared for.’

‘And what shall I do. Aunt Lily? Will you pay it, please, and take all my allowance till it is made up?’

‘I think it will be more comfortable for you if I do something of that sort, though I don’t think you should go entirely without money. You have a pound a quarter. I was going to give you yours at once.’

‘Oh, take it—pray—’

‘Suppose I give you five shillings, instead of twenty. I do not think it well to leave you with nothing for a year and a half, and this is nearly what Mysie has.’

‘A shilling a month—very well. I wish I could pay it all at once!’

‘No doubt you do, my dear, but this will keep you in mind for a long time what a dangerous thing you did in giving away money you had no right to dispose of.’

‘Yes,’ said Dolores. ‘Mother earned money for him. I know she never took father’s without asking him; but I couldn’t earn, and couldn’t ask.’

Lady Merrifield kissed her, for very joy, to hear no sullenness in her tone; and then all went to church together on the New Year’s day that was to be the beginning of better things. Lord Rotherwood had just time to go before meeting the train which was to take him to High Court, leaving his Fly too much used to his absences to be distressed about them, and, in fact, somewhat crazy about a notion which Gillian had started that morning, of getting up a little play to surprise him when he came back for Twelfth Day, as he promised to do.

Mamma declared that if it was in French, and the words were learnt every morning before half-past eleven, it should supersede all other lessons; but such was the hatred of the whole boy faction to French, that they declared they had rather do rational sensible lessons twice over than learn such rot, and this carried the day. The drama proposed was that one in an old number of ‘Aunt Judy,’ where the village mayor is persuaded by the drummer to fine the girls for wearing lace caps. The French original existed in the house, and Fly started the idea that the male performers should speak English and the female French; but this was laughed down.

In the midst Uncle Reginald came to the door and called, ‘Lilias, can you speak to me a minute?’

Lady Merrifield went out into the hall to him.

‘Here’s a policeman come over, Lily. They have got the fellow!’ ‘Flinders?’

‘Yes; arrested him on board a steamer at Bristol.’

‘Oh, I wish they had let it alone!’

‘So do I. They are bringing him back. The Darminster City bench sits to-day, and they want that unlucky child over there to make her deposition for his committal.’

‘Can’t they commit him without her?’

‘Not for the forgery. The bank people are bent on prosecuting for that, and we can’t stop them. I suppose she can be depended on?’

‘Reginald, don’t! I told you the deceit was an unnatural growth from Constance’s pseudo sentiment.’

‘Well, get her ready to come with me,’ said the colonel, with a gesture of doubt; ‘we must catch the 12.50. The superintendent brought a fly.’

‘You will frighten her out of her senses. I can’t let her go alone with you in this mood.’

‘As you please, if you choose to knock yourself up. I’ll tell the superintendent, and walk on to the station. You’ve not a moment to lose, so don’t let her stand dawdling and crying.’

It was a hard task for Lady Merrifield. She called Dolores, whom Mysie was inviting to be one of the village maidens, and bade her put on her things quickly. She ordered cold meat and wine into the dining-room, called Gillian into her room, and explained while dressing, and bade her keep the others away. Then, meeting Dolores on the stairs took her into the dining-room and made her swallow some cold beef, and drink some sherry, before telling her that the magistrates at Darminster wanted to ask her some questions. Dolores looked pale and frightened, and exclaimed,

‘Oh, but he has got away!’

‘My dear, I am grieved to say that he has not.’

Dolores understood, and submitted more quietly and resignedly than her aunt had feared. She was a barrister’s daughter, and once or twice her father had taken her and her mother part of the way on circuit with him, and she had been in court, so that she had known from the first that if her uncle were arrested there was no choice but that she must speak out. So she only trembled very much and said—

‘Aunt Lily, are you going with me?’

‘Indeed I am, my poor child. Uncle Regie is gone on.’

No more was spoken then, but Dolores put her cold hand into her aunt’s muff.

Gillian kept all the flock prisoned in the schoolroom. Wilfred, Val, and Fergus rushed to the window, and were greatly disappointed not to see a policeman on the box, ‘taking Dolores to be tried’—as Fergus declared, and Wilfred insisted, just because Gillian and Mysie contradicted it with all their might. He continued to repeat it with variations and exaggerations, until Jasper heard him, and declared that he should have a thorough good licking if he said so again, administering a cuff by way of earnest. Wilfred howled, and was ordered not to be such an ape, and Fly looked on in wonder at the domestic discipline.

The superintendent had, in fact, walked on with Uncle Reginald, and Dolores saw nothing of him, but was put into an empty first-class carriage, into which her aunt followed her, but her uncle, observing, ‘You know how to manage her, Lily,’ betook himself to a smoking-carriage, and left them to themselves.

Dolores was never a very talking girl, and the habit of silence had grown upon her. She leant against her aunt and she put her arm round her, and did not attempt to say anything till she asked,

‘Will he be there?’

‘I don’t know, I am afraid he will. It is very sad for you, my poor Dolly; but we must recollect that, after all, it may be much better for him to be stopped now than to go on and get worse and worse in some strange country.’

Dolores did not ask what she was to do, she knew enough already about trials to understand that she was only to answer questions, and she presently said,

‘This can’t be his trial. There are no assizes now.’

‘No, this is only for the committal. It will very soon be over, if you will only answer quietly and steadily. If you do so, I think Uncle Regie will be pleased, and tell your father! I am sure I shall!’

Dolores pressed up closer and laid her cheek against the soft sealskin. In the midst of her trouble there was a strange wonder in her. Could this be really the aunt whom she had thought so cruel, unjust, and tyrannical, and from whom she had so carefully hidden her feelings? Nobody got into the carriage, and just before reaching Darminster, Lady Merrifield made a great effort over her own shyness and said,

‘Now, Dolly, we will pray a little prayer that you may be a faithful witness, and that God may turn it, all to good for your poor uncle.’

Dolores was very much surprised, and did not know whether she liked it or not, but she saw her aunt’s closed eyes and uplifted hands, and she tried to follow the example.

The train stopped, and her uncle came to the door, looking inquiringly at her.

‘She will be good and brave,’ said her aunt; and quickly passing across the platform, Dolores found herself beside her aunt, with her uncle opposite in another fly.

Things had been arranged for them considerately, and after they came to the Guildhall, where the city magistrates were sitting, Colonel Mohun went at once into court; the others were taken to a little room, and waited there a few minutes before Colonel Mohun came to call for his niece. It was a long room, with a rail at one end, and Dolores knew, with a strange thrill which made her shudder, that Mr. Flinders was there, but she could not bear to look at him, and only squeezed hard at the hand of her aunt, who asked, in a somewhat shaky voice, if she might come with her niece.

‘Certainly, certainly. Lady Merrifield,’ said one of the magistrates, and chairs were set both for her and Colonel Mohun.

‘You are Miss Mohun, I think—may I ask your Christian name in full?’ And then she had to spell it, and likewise tell her exact age, after which she was put on oath—as she knew enough of trials to expect.

‘Are you residing with Lady Merrifield?’

‘Yes.’

‘But your father is living?’

‘Yes, but he is in the Fiji Islands.’

‘Will you favour us with his exact name?’

‘Maurice Devereux Mohun.’

‘When did he leave England?’