The Two Sides of the Shield

‘And Ivinghoe said my running in that way on all the company was worse than breaking the glass or the palm-tree. Was it, mamma?’

‘Well, you know, Mysie, there is a time for all things, and very likely it vexed Lady Rotherwood more to be invaded by such a little wild colt.’

‘But not Cousin Rotherwood himself, mamma,’ said Mysie, ‘for he said I was quite right, and an honourable little fellow, just like old times. And so I told Ivy. And he said in such a way, ‘Every one knew what his father was.’ So I told him his father was ten thousand times nicer than ever he would be if he lived a hundred years, and I could not bear him if he talked in that wicked, disrespectful way, and Fly kissed me for it, mamma, and said her daddy was worth a hundred of such a prig as he was.’

‘My dear, I am afraid neither you nor Fly showed your good manners.’

‘It was only Ivinghoe, mamma, and I’m sure I don’t care what he thinks, if he could talk of his father in that way. Isn’t it what you call metallical—no—ironical?’

‘Indeed, Mysie, I don’t wonder it made you very angry, and I can’t be sorry you showed your indignation.’

‘But please, mamma, what ought I to have done about the glass?’

‘I don’t quite know; I think a very wise little girl might have gone to Cousin Florence’s room and consulted her. It would have been better than making an explosion before so many people. Florence was kind to you, I hope.’

‘Oh yes, mamma, it was almost like being at home in her room; and she has such a dear little house at the end of the park.’

A good deal more oozed out from Mysie to different auditors at different times. By her account everything was delightful, and yet mamma concluded that all had not absolutely fulfilled the paradisiacal expectation with which her country mouse had viewed Rotherwood from afar. Lady Rotherwood was very kind, and so was the governess, and Cousin Florence especially. Cousin Florence’s house felt just like a bit of home. It really was the dearest little house—and fluffy cat and kittens, and the sweetest love birds. It was perfectly delicious when they drank tea there, but unluckily she was not allowed to go thither without the governess or Louise, as it was all across the park, and a bit of village.

And Fly? Oh, Fly was always dear and good and funny; but there was Alberta to be attended to, and other little girls sometimes, and it was not like having her here at home; nor was there any making a row in the galleries, nor playing at anything really jolly, though the great pillars in the hall seemed made for tying cords to make a spider’s web. It was always company, except when Cousin Rotherwood called them into his den for a little fun. But he had gentlemen to entertain most of the time, and the only day that he could have taken them to see the farm and the pheasants, Lady Rotherwood said that Phyllis was a little hoarse and must not get a cold before the ball.

And as to the Butterfly’s Ball itself? Imagination had depicted a splendid realization of the verses, and it was flat to find it merely a children’s fancy ball, no acting at all, only dancing, and most of the children not attempting any characteristic dress, only with some insect attached to head or shoulder; nothing approaching to the fun of the rehearsal at Silverton, as indeed Fly had predicted. The only attempt at representation had cost Mysie more trouble than pleasure, for the training to dance together had been a difficult and wearisome business. Two of the grass-hoppers had been greatly displeased about it, and called it a beastly shame, words much shocking gentle Mysie from aristocratic lips. One of them had been as sulky, angry, and impracticable as possible, just like a log, and the other had consoled himself with all manner of tricks, especially upon the teacher and on Ivinghoe. He would skip like a real grasshopper, he made faces that set all laughing, he tripped Ivinghoe up, he uttered saucy speeches that Mysie considered too shocking to repeat, but which convulsed every one with laughter, Fly most especially, and her governess had punished her for it. ‘She would not punish me,’ said Mysie, ‘though I know I was just as bad, and I think that was a shame!’ At last the practising had to be carried on without the boys, and yet, when it came to the point, both the recusants behaved as well and danced as suitably as if they had submitted to the training like their sisters! And oh! the dressing, that was worse.

‘I did not think I was so stupid,’ said Mysie, ‘but I heard Louise tell mademoiselle that I was trop bourgeoise, and mademoiselle answered that I was plutot petite paysanne, and would never have l’air de distinction.

‘Abominable impertinence!’ cried Gillian.

“They thought I did not understand,’ said Mysie, ‘and I knew it was fair to tell them, so I said, ‘Mais non, car je suis la petite souris de compagne.’”

‘Well done, Mysie!’ cried her sister.

‘They did jump, and Louise began apologizing in a perfect gabble, and mademoiselle said I had de l’esprit, but I am sure I did not mean it.’

‘But how could they?’ exclaimed Gillian. ‘I’m sure Mysie looks like a lady, a gentleman’s child—I mean as much as Fly or any one else.’

‘I trust you all look like gentlewomen, and are such in refinement and manners, but there is an air, which comes partly of birth, partly of breeding, and that none of you, except, perhaps, Alethea, can boast of, and about which papa and I don’t care one rush.’

‘Has Fly got it, mamma?’ said Valetta. ‘She seemed like one of ourselves.’

‘Oh, yes,’ put in Dolores. ‘It was what made me think her stuck up. I should have known her for a swell anywhere.’

‘I’m sure Fly has no airs!’ exclaimed Val, hotly, and Gillian was ready to second her; but Lady Merrifield explained. ‘The absence of airs is one ingredient, Val, both in being ladylike, and in the distinction in which the maid justly perceived our Mouse to be deficient. Come, you foolish girls, don’t look concerned. Nobody but the maid would have ever let Mysie perceive the difference.’

Mysie coloured and answered, ‘I don’t know; I saw the Fitzhughs look at me at first as if they did not think I belonged, and Ivinghoe was always so awfully polite that I thought he was laughing at me.’

‘Ivinghoe must be horrid,’ broke out Valetta.

‘The Fitzhughs said they would knock it out of him at Eton,’ returned Mysie. ‘They got very nice after the first day, and said Fly and I were twice as jolly fellows as he was.’

It further appeared that Mysie had had plenty of partners at the ball, and on all occasions her full share of notice, the country neighbours welcoming her as her mother’s daughter, but most of them saying she was far more like her Aunt Phyllis than her own mother. The dancing and excitement so late at night had, however, tired her overmuch, she had cramp all the remainder of the night, could eat no breakfast the next day, and was quite miserable.

‘I should like to have cried for you, mamma’ she said, ‘but they were all quite used to it, and not a bit tired. However, Cousin Florence came in, and she was so kind. She took me to the little west room, and made me lie on the sofa, and read to me till I went to sleep, and I was all right after dinner and had a ride on Fly’s old pony, Dormouse. She has the loveliest new one, all bay, with a black mane and tail, called Fairy, but Alberta had that. Oh it was so nice.’

Altogether Lady Merrifield was satisfied that her little girl had not been spoilt for home by her taste of dissipation, though she did not hear the further confidence to Dolores in the twilight by the schoolroom fire.

‘Do you know, Dolly, though Fly is such a darling, and they all wanted to be kind as well as they knew how, I came to understand how horrid you must have felt when you came among the whole lot of us.’

‘But you knew Fly already?’

‘That made it better, but I don’t like it. To feel one does not belong, and to be afraid to open a door for fear it should be somebody’s room, and not quite to know who every one is. Oh, dear! it is enough to make anybody cross and stupid. Oh, I am so glad to be back again.’

‘I’m sure I am glad you are,’ and there was a little kissing match. ‘You’ll always come to my room, won’t you? Do you know, when Constance came to luncheon, I only shook hands, I wouldn’t try to kiss her. Was that unforgiving?’

‘I am sure I couldn’t,’ said Mysie; ‘did she try?’

‘I don’t think so; I don’t think I ever could kiss her; for I never should have said what was not true without her, and that is what makes Uncle Reginald so angry still. He would not kiss me even when he went away. Oh, Mysie! that’s worse than anything,’ and Dolores’s face contracted with tears very near at hand. ‘I did always so love Uncle Regie, and he won’t forgive me, and father will be just the same.’

‘Poor dear, dear Dolly,’ said Mysie, hugging her.

‘But you know fathers always forgive, and we will try and make a little prayer about it, like the Prodigal Son’s, you know.’

‘I don’t blow properly,’ said Dolores.

‘I think I can say him,’ said Mysie, and the little girls sat with enfolded arms, while Mysie reverently went through the parable.

‘But he had been very wicked indeed,’ objected Dolores, ‘what one calls dissipated. Isn’t that making too much of such things as girls like us can do.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mysie, knitting her young brows; ‘you see if we are as bad as ever we can be while we are at home, it is really and truly as bad in us ourselves as in shocking people that run away, because it shows we might have done anything if we had not been taken care of. And the poor son felt as if he could not be pardoned, which is just what you do feel.’

‘Aunt Lily forgives me,’ said Dolores, wistfully.

‘And your father will, I’m sure,’ said Mysie, ‘though he is yet a great way off. And as to Uncle Regie, I do wish something would happen that you could tell the truth about. If you had only broken the palm-tree instead of me, and I didn’t do right even about that! But if any mischief does happen, or accident, I promise you, Dolly, you shall have the telling of it, if you have had ever so little to do with it, and then mamma will write to Uncle Regie that you have proved yourself truthful.’

Dolores did not seem much consoled by this curious promise, and Mysie’s childishness suddenly gave way to something deeper. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘if one is true, people find it out and trust one.’

‘People can’t see into one,’ said Dolly.

‘Mamma says there is a bright side and a dark side from which to look at everybody and everything,’ said Mysie.

‘I know that,’ said Dolores; ‘I looked at the dark side of you all when I came here.’

‘Some day,’ said Mysie, ‘your bright side will come round to Uncle Regie, as it has to us, you dear, dear old Dolly.’

‘But do you know, Mysie,’ whispered Dolores, in her embrace, ‘there’s something more dreadful that I’m very much afraid of. Do you know there hasn’t been a letter from father since he was staying with Aunt Phyllis—not to me, nor Aunt Jane, nor anybody!’

‘Well, he couldn’t write when he was at sea, I mean there wasn’t any post.’

‘It would not take so long as this to get to Fiji; and besides. Uncle Regie telegraphed to ask about that dreadful cheque, and there hasn’t been any answer at all.’

‘Perhaps he is gone about sailing somewhere in the Pacific Ocean; I heard Uncle William saying so to Cousin Rotherwood.’ He said, ‘Maurice is not a fellow to resist a cruise.’

‘Then they are thinking about it. They are anxious.’

‘Not very,’ said Mysie, ‘for they think he is sure to be gone on a cruise. They said something about his going down like a carpenter into the deep sea.’

‘Making deep-sea soundings, like Dr. Carpenter! A carpenter, indeed!’ said Dolores, laughing for a moment. ‘Oh! if it is that, I don’t mind.’

The weight was lifted, but by-and-by, when the two girls said their prayers together, poor Dolores broke forth again, ‘Oh, Mysie, Mysie, your papa has all—all of you, besides mamma, to pray that he may be kept safe, and my father has only me, only horrid me, to pray for him, and even I have never cared to do it really till just lately! Oh, poor, poor father! And suppose he should be drowned, and never, never have forgiven me!’

It was a trouble and misery that recurred night after night, though apparently it weighed much less during the day—and nobody but Mysie knew how much Dolores was suffering from it. Lady Merrifield was increasingly anxious as time went on, and still no mail brought letters from Mr. Mohun, but confidence based on his erratic habits, and the uncertainty of communication began to fail. And as she grieved more for the possible loss, she became more and more tender to her niece, and strange to say, in spite of the terror that gnawed so achingly every night, and of the ordeal that the Lent Assizes would bring, Dolores was happier and more peaceful than ever before at Silverton, and developed more of her bright side.

‘I really think,’ wrote Lady Merrifield to Miss Mohun, ‘that she is growing more simple and child-like, poor little maid. She is apparently free from all our apprehensions about dear Maurice, and I would not inspire her with them for the world. Neither does she seem to dread the trial, as I do for her, nor to guess what cross-examination may be. Constance Hacket has been subpoenaed, and her sister expatiates on her nervousness. It is one comfort that Reginald must be there as a witness, so that it is not in the power of Irish disturbances to keep him from us! May we only be at ease about Maurice by that time!’

CHAPTER XXI. – IN COURT AND OUT

How Dolores’s heart beat when Colonel Mohun drove up to the door! She durst not run out to greet him among her cousins; but stood by her aunt, feeling hot and cold and trembling, in the doubt whether he would kiss her.

Yes, she did feel his kiss, and Mysie looked at her in congratulation. But what did it mean? Was it only that it came as a matter of course, and he forgot to withhold it, or was it that he had given up hopes of her father, and was sorry for her? She could not make up her mind, for he came so late in the evening that she scarcely saw him before bedtime, and he did not take any special notice of her the next morning. He had done his best to save her from being long detained at Darminster, by ascertaining as nearly as possible when Flinders’s case would come on, and securing a room at the nearest inn, where she might await a summons into court. Lady Merrifield was going with them, but would not take either of her daughters, thinking that every home eye would be an additional distress, and that it was better that no one should see or remember Dolores as a witness.

Miss Mohun met the party at the station, going off, however, with her brother into court, after having established Lady Merrifield and her niece in an inn parlour, where they kept as quiet as they could, by the help of knitting, and reading aloud. Lady Merrifield found that Dolores had been into court before, and knew enough about it to need no explanation or preparation, and being much afraid of causing agitation, she thought it best only to try to interest her in such tales as ‘Neale’s Triumphs of the Cross,’ instead of letting her dwell on what she most dreaded, the sight of the prisoner, and the punishment her words might bring upon him.

The morning ended, and Uncle Reginald brought word that his case would come on immediately after luncheon. This he shared with his sister and niece, saying that Jane had gone to a pastrycook’s with—with Rotherwood—thinking this best for Dolly. He seemed to be in strangely excited spirits, and was quite his old self to Dolores, tempting her to eat, and showing himself so entirely the kind uncle that she would have been quite cheered up if she had not been afraid that it was all out of pity, and that he knew something dreadful.

Lord Rotherwood met them at the hotel entrance, and took his cousin on his arm; Dolores following with her uncle, was sure that she gave a great start at something that he said; but she had to turn in a different direction to wait under the charge of her uncle, who treated her as if she were far more childish and inexperienced in the ways of courts than she really was, and instructed her in much that she knew perfectly well; but it was too comfortable to have him kind to her for her to take the least offence, and she only said ‘Yes’ and ‘Thank you’ at the proper places.

The sheriff, meantime, had given Lord Rotherwood and Lady Merrifield seats near the judge, where Miss Mohun was already installed. Alfred Flinders was already at the bar, and for the first time Lady Merrifield saw his somewhat handsome but shifty-looking face and red beard, as the counsel for the prosecution was giving a detailed account of his embarrassed finances, and of his having obtained from the inexperienced kindness of a young lady, a mere child in age, who called him uncle, though without blood relationship, a draft of her father’s for seven pounds, which, when presented at the bank, had become one for seventy.

As before, the presenting and cashing of the seventy pounds was sworn to by the banker’s clerk, and then Dolores Mary Mohun was called.

There she stood, looking smaller than usual in her black, close-fitting dress and hat, in a place meant for grown people, her dark face pale and set, keeping her eyes as much as she could from the prisoner. When the counsel spoke she gave a little start, for she knew him, as one who had often spent an evening with her parents, in the cheerful times while her mother lived. There was something in the familiar glance of his eyes that encouraged her, though he looked so much altered by his wig and gown, and it seemed strange that he should question her, as a stranger, on her exact name and age, her father’s absence, the connection with the prisoner, and present residence. Then came:

‘Did your father leave any money with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the amount?’

‘Five pounds for myself; seven besides.’

‘In what form was the seven pounds?’

‘A cheque from W.‘s bank.’

‘Did you part with it?’

‘Yes.’

‘To whom?’

‘I sent it to him.’

‘To whom if you please?’

‘To Mr. Alfred Flinders.’ And her voice trembled.

‘Can you tell me when you sent it away?’

‘It was on the 22nd of December.’

‘Is this the cheque?’

‘It has been altered.’

‘Explain in what manner?’

‘There has ‘ty’ been put at the end of the written ‘seven,’ and a cipher after the figure 7 making it 70.’

‘You are sure that it was not so when it went out of your possession?’

‘Perfectly sure.’

Mr. Calderwood seemed to have done with her, and said, ‘Thank you;’ but then there stood up a barrister, whom she suspected of being a man her mother had disliked, and she knew that the worst was coming when he said, in a specially polite voice too, ‘Allow me to ask whether the cheque in question had been intended by Mr. Mohun for the prisoner?’

‘No.’

‘Or was it given to you as pocket-money?’

‘No, it was to pay a bill.’

‘Then did you divert it from that purpose?’

‘I thought the man was dead.’

‘What man?’

‘Professor Muhlwasser.’

‘The creditor?’

‘Yes.’

Mr. Calderwood objected to these questions as irrelevant; but the prisoner’s counsel declared them to be essential, and the judge let him go on to extract from Dolores that the payment was intended for an expensive illustrated work on natural history, which was to be published in Germany. Her father had promised to take two copies of it if it were completed; but being doubtful whether this would ever be the case, he had preferred leaving a draft with her to letting the account be discharged by his brother, and he had reckoned that seven pounds would cover the expense.

‘You say you supposed the author was dead. What reason had you for thinking so?’

‘He told me; Mr. Flinders did.’

‘Had Mr. Mohun sanctioned your applying this sum to any other purpose than that specified?’

‘No, he had not. I did wrong,’ said Dolores, firmly.

He wrinkled up his forehead, so that the point of his wig went upwards, and proceeded to inquire whether she had herself given the cheque to the prisoner.

‘I sent it.’

‘Did you post it?’

‘Not myself. I gave it to Miss Constance Hacket to send it for me.’

‘Can you swear to the sum for which it was drawn when you parted with it?’

‘Yes. I looked at it to see whether it was pounds or guineas.’

‘Did you give it loose or in an envelope?’

‘In an envelope.’

‘Was any other person aware of your doing so?’

‘Nobody.’

‘What led you to make this advance to the prisoner?’

‘Because he told me that he was in great distress.’

‘He told you. By letter or in person?’

‘In person.’

‘When did he tell you so?’

‘On the 22nd of December.’

‘And where?’

‘At Darminster.’

‘Let me ask whether this interview at Darminster took place with the knowledge of the lady with whom you reside?’

‘No, it did not,’ said Dolores, colouring deeply.

‘Was it a chance meeting?’

‘No—by appointment.’

‘How was the appointment made?’

‘We wrote to say we would come that day.’

‘We—who was the other party?’

‘Miss Constance Hacket.’

‘You were then in correspondence with the prisoner. Was it with the sanction of Lady Merrifield?’

‘No.’

‘A secret correspondence, then, romantically carried on—by what means?’

‘Constance Hacket sent the letters and received them for me.’

‘What was the motive for this arrangement?’

‘I knew my aunt would prevent my having anything to do with him.’

‘And you—excuse me—what interest had you in doing so?’

‘My mother had been like his sister, and always helped him.’

All these answers were made with a grave, resolute straightforwardness, generally with something of Dolores’s peculiar stony look, and only twice was there any involuntary token of feeling, when she blushed at confessing the concealment from her aunt, and at the last question, when her voice trembled as she spoke of her mother. She kept her eyes on her interrogators all the time, never once glancing towards the prisoner, though all the time she had a sensation as if his reproachful looks were piercing her through.

She was dismissed, and Constance Hacket was brought in, looking about in every direction, carrying a handkerchief and scent bottle, and not attempting to conceal her flutter of agitation.

Mr. Calderwood had nothing to ask her but about her having received the cheque from Miss Mohun and forwarded it to Flinders, though she could not answer for the date without a public computation back from Christmas Day, and forward from St. Thomas’s. As to the amount—

‘Oh, yes, certainly, seven pounds.’

Moreover she had posted it herself.

Then came the cross-examination,

‘Had she seen the draft before posting it?’

‘Well—she really did not remember exactly.’

‘How did she know the amount then?’

‘Well, I think—yes—I think Dolores told me so.’

‘You think,’ he said, in a sort of sneer. ‘On your oath. Do you know?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. She assured me! I know something was said about seven.’

‘Then you cannot swear to the contents of the envelope you forwarded?’

‘I don’t know. It was all such a confusion and hurry.’

‘Why so?’

‘Oh! because it was a secret.’

The counsel of course availed himself of this handle to elicit that the witness had conducted a secret correspondence between the prisoner and her young friend without the knowledge of the child’s natural protectors. ‘A perfect romance,’ he said, ‘I believe the prisoner is unmarried.’

Perhaps this insinuation would have been checked, but before any one had time to interfere, Constance, blushing crimson, exclaimed, ‘Oh! Oh! I assure you it was not that. It was because she said he was her uncle and that they ill-used him.’

This brought upon her the searching question whether the last witness had stated the prisoner to be really her uncle, and Constance replied, rather hotly, that she had always understood that he was.

‘In fact, she gave you to understand that the prisoner was actually related to her by blood. Did you say that she also told you that he was persecuted or ill-used by her other relations?’

‘I thought so. Yes, I am sure she said so.’

‘And it was wholly and solely on these grounds that you assisted in this clandestine correspondence?’