'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 bed-time, 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 w
as 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?'
'Why-yes-partly,' faltered Constance, thinking of her literary efforts, 'so it began.'
There was a manifest inclination to laugh in the audience, who naturally thought her hesitation implied something very different; and the judge, thinking that there was no need to push her further, w
hen Mr. Calderwood represented that all this did not bear on the matter, and was no evidence, silenced Mr. Yokes, and the witness was dismissed.
The next point was that Colonel Reginald Mohun was called upon to attest that the handwriting was his brother's. He answered for the main body of the draft, and the signature, but the additions, in which the forgery lay, were so slight that it was impossible to swear that they did not come from the hand of Maurice Mohun.
'Had application been made to Mr. Mohun on the subject?'
'Yes, Colonel Mohun had immediately telegraphed to him at the address in the Fiji Islands.'
'Has any answer been received?'
'No!' but Colonel Mohun had a curious expression in his eyes, and Mr. Calderwood electrified the court by begging to call upon Mr. Maurice Mohun.
There he was in the witness-box, looking sunburnt but vigorous. He replied immediately to the question that the cheque was his own, and that it had been left under his daughter's charge, also that it had been for seven pounds, and the 'ty' and the cypher had never been written by him. The prisoner winced for a moment, and then looked at him defiantly.
The connection with Alfred Flinders was inquired into and explained, and being asked as to the term 'Uncle,' he replied, 'My daughter was allowed to get into the habit of so terming him.'
The sisters saw his look of pain, and Jane remembered his strong objection to the title, and his wife's indignant defence of it.
Dolores stood trembling outside in the waiting-room, by her Uncle Reginald, from whom she heard that her father had come that morning from London with Lord Rotherwood, but that it had been thought better not to agitate her by letting her know of it before she gave her evidence.
'Has he had my letter?' she asked.
'No; he knew nothing till he saw Rotherwood last night.'
All the misery of writing the confession came back upon poor Dolores, and she turned quite white and sick, but her uncle said kindly, 'Never mind, my dear, he was very much pleased with your manner of giving evidence. Such a contrast to your friend's. Faugh!'
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