CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE TRIAL.
Justice, when equal scales she holds, is blind; Nor cruelty nor mercy change her mind; When some escape for that which others die, Mercy to those to these is cruelty. DENHAM.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. SHAKESPEARE.
Adrian and Net caught the 5 P. M. express at Miston, and traveling day and night without the loss of an hour, reached Deloraine station at ten o’clock the next morning.
They found the same cab waiting beside the platform which had taken Net to the hall on the morning of her first arrival.
Adrian engaged it at once and handed Net into her seat.
“Ask the man if he knows how Miss Deloraine is to-day,” whispered Net, as she settled herself on the hard cushions.
“Have you heard any news of the young lady at the hall, this morning?” inquired Mr. Fleming.
“The young lady was ill last night, sir. Hart, he come at ten o’clock for Dr. Bede; I had been out with a party and met him taking the doctor back,” replied the man, touching his hat, not only once but at every other word he spoke.
“That was last night; but how is the young lady this morning? Better, it is to be presumed,” hastily inquired, or rather suggested, Mr. Fleming, on seeing the increased anxiety of his companion.
“Haven’t heard to-day, please, sir,” answered the man, trying to make up by the abundance of his courtesy for the scarcity of his information.
“Well, then, take us thither—to the hall—as fast as possible! An extra half-crown, mind, for extra haste,” exclaimed Fleming, as he sprang into his seat and closed the door.
“All right, sir,” answered the cabman, as he touched his hat, mounted to his seat and started his horses.
They bowled on at a rapid rate and made the distance in an hour and a half.
As the cab rolled through the park gate, which was held open by an elderly women, the driver inquired:
“Say, Mother Swing! How is the young Missus up at the house?”
“Bad as bad, when the doctor passed through here, arter leavin’ of her last night. Him be gone up again this morning. Spects to hear when he comes back,” answered the woman.
“_Gat ’long!_” exclaimed the cabman, addressing his horses, as he lashed them up to a brisk trot along the avenue.
As they drew in sight of the house, Net, with her head at the side window, anxiously watched for some sign to hint or some person to tell of the condition of Antoinette Deloraine.
They met a boy in a smoke-frock with his hands in his pockets.
“How is your young mistress, this morning?” inquired Net.
“Anan?” cried the lad, with mouth and eyes equally wide open.
“Miss Deloraine! How is she this morning?” repeated Net, with only a slight alteration in the form of her question.
“Oi dunnoo,” answered the boy, sauntering along on his way.
They came in sight of the house.
Net looked out eagerly.
There was no hatchment up over the portals, nor any other sign of death in the house.
The doctor’s gig was standing before the door.
As they drove up, Net saw Dr. Bede come out of the house—a tall, gaunt, stooping old man of seventy five years, with a thin, sharp red face and a bald head, with a slight fringe of silver hair behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. He wore a long, straight black coat buttoned up to his chin and down to his toes.
Without waiting for him to get into his gig, Net beckoned him to the window of the cab.
“How is Antoinette this morning?” she inquired.
“Much better, I am happy to say, my dear young lady,” answered Dr. Bede.
“I hear that she was very ill last night,” continued Net.
“_Very_, ma’am. She lay so long in a fainting fit that I began to think I should never bring her out of it.”
“What caused it—any excitement?”
“No, nothing of the sort; the housekeeper and the nurse were with her at the time, and she was in the midst of giving some commonplace directions to the former, when all of a sudden, she dropped. This was about eight o’clock, and the stupid women lost some time in trying to bring her round themselves before they sent Hart after me. With all the haste I could make, it was half-past ten before I got here, and she had lain unconscious all the time. However, she seems all right again now, or, rather, as near being all right as she ever can be in this world! Good morning, madame! good morning, sir!”
And with a bow the worthy doctor got into his gig and drove away.
Adrian alighted and paid the cabman and discharged him; but _he_, mindful of warmth and refreshment for “man and beast” on the occasion of his last visit to the house, instead of wheeling off and going back, kept on around by the stable, where he committed his horse to the care of one of the grooms for rest and food, while he himself walked to the house and entered the kitchen to be coddled and comforted by the cook.
Meanwhile, Adrian and Net had been admitted by the hall porter and conducted up stairs by Hart.
In the upper hall they found Mrs. Trimmer waiting.
“My mistress desired that you should come to her immediately on your arrival, sir, and madame,” said this Abigail.
“How is she now?” inquired Net.
“As bright as usual this morning, ma’am; but we thought she was gone last night,” answered the woman, as she opened the door of the boudoir and announced:
“Mr. and Mrs. Fleming.”
Net and Adrian entered.
Antoinette, in an elegant robe of pale blue silk, trimmed with swan’s-down, and with her beautiful raven black hair carelessly but gracefully dressed, reclined in her rose-colored easy-chair, with her feet upon a rose-colored foot-cushion.
But how alabaster white and semi-transparent her wan face looked in contrast to the shining, jetty blackness of her hair!
“Ah, you have come back—I am glad to see you!” she said, cheerfully, holding out a hand to each.
Net could scarcely keep back her tears, so marked an alteration for the worse did she perceive in Antoinette’s look and voice.
Little more than the merest civility passed between this strangely-wedded, parted and reunited pair. Loving each other ardently, they were still somewhat estranged—on Adrian’s side by his consciousness of his former wrongs to Net, and his pride in belief that he had already made all the amends that he was able to make, and as much, indeed, as any “man” could bring himself to make; and on Net’s side, by the bitter and humiliating memory that she had been once too easily won to marry him when he believed that he was marrying her rival. Much as she loved him she could not fully trust him, and she was resolved not to deceive herself, or allow him to deceive her again.
So she waived all his advances with a perfectly gentle courtesy, which infuriated him, because it gave him _nothing_—not even just cause of offense.
It would have been some comfort to have quarreled with Net. Yes, since he could not make love to her, the next best thing would have been to find fault with her, he thought.
But she gave him no opportunity to do the one any more than the other.
Altogether the young man was in a very bad humor when he left the breakfast table with Net.
Antoinette was looking so well, and so quiet, that Net thought she might now broach a subject which she had been dreading to approach all the morning.
“And now, dear, I must tell you something that I _hate_ to trouble you with,” said Net, uneasily.
“And what is that?” inquired her cousin.
“I am called for the defense, and I must be in Yockley on Tuesday morning. Consequently I must leave here to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, Net!” exclaimed the sick girl, in dismay.
Adrian stared at her in astonishment.
“How is that? You never told me that?” he said, in displeasure.
“You never hinted it, Net!” said her cousin.
“You need not escort me on this occasion, Mr. Fleming. I know the route quite well by this time, and I shall be leaving in the early morning instead of at midnight,” said Net, with gentle courtesy.
“But you will be arriving at Yockley at midnight, which will be much worse than starting from here at the same hour. I shall attend you. I do not choose that you shall take such a journey alone. You are my wife,” answered the young man, coldly.
“And it will not hurt _him_ to fatigue himself. He has got nothing else to do,” said Antoinette, with an amused look.
Adrian shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.
He soon excused himself and walked out, leaving the friends together.
Net spent the day in Antoinette’s room.
The half estranged young married pair did not meet again until they met at the dinner-table, where the butler and the footman were both in attendance.
“Do you know that you acted very wrong in that matter of returning here only to have to take the journey back again to-morrow?” began Adrian Fleming, at length, disregarding the presence of the servants.
“I have already explained my motives of action. They seemed more than justifiable—they seemed obligatory to me, and, I hoped, satisfactory to others,” answered Net, with mild affability that disarmed her accuser.
“Bah! She will neither love me nor quarrel with me!” said Adrian to himself.
After dinner they took tea with Antoinette in her boudoir, and remained with her until eight o’clock, her hour for retiring to bed.
Then Mr. Fleming bade her good-night and good-bye, as they would be off in the morning before Miss Deloraine’s hour for rising.
But Net remained with her friend, helped to undress and get her to bed, and then sat by her until Antoinette fell asleep, after which Net retired to her own room to make her few preparations for starting on her journey.
Meanwhile, Adrian Fleming, acting under protest, had ordered the close carriage and best road horses to be at the door at six o’clock in the morning, to go to Deloraine railway station.
Net’s hurried journeying “to and fro on the face of the earth” had one good effect. They insured to her, whenever she found herself on a bed, the sound sleep of fatigue, notwithstanding the cares that were on her mind—cares connected with Antoinette Deloraine’s illness, with Valdimir Desparde’s trial, and with Adrian Fleming’s false position towards herself.
She slept soundly until five o’clock, when, according to her previous orders, she was called.
While she was dressing by candle-light, for it was still dark at five o’clock on that December morning, some one knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said Net.
Mrs. Trimmer entered the room and said:
“If you please, ma’am, my mistress is awake, and sends her love to you, and asks that you will please to come in after you have had your breakfast and bid her good-bye before you go.”
“Certainly I will. Tell your mistress so. How is she this morning?”
“Bright as a bird, ma’am; but nurse says she means to make her go to sleep again after you have gone,” replied the woman, and she left the room.
Net soon finished her simple traveling toilet, and hurried to the breakfast-room, which was lighted by wax candles in the hanging chandelier.
The table was set for two, but there was no one in the room.
Net rang for coffee, and as soon as it was brought, with its attendant muffins, toast, eggs and rashers, she sat down and commenced her repast.
Adrian Fleming came in just as she was rising from the table.
“Excuse me,” she said, gently. “Antoinette has sent for me and I must attend.”
Adrian bit his lips.
“It is always Antoinette, or the children, or any one else than myself, who command your attention, Net,” he said, sulkily.
“The dying have omnipotent claims on us, Adrian,” she answered, quietly, as she left the room.
She found Antoinette lying on her beautiful and luxurious bed, looking as lovely, as happy and as comfortable as it was possible for an invalid to be.
“I sent for you not only to kiss you good-by and to wish you a pleasant journey, dear Net, but also that you may see for yourself and take away with you an impression that will make your mind easy on my account until you shall see me again. Net, I have not felt so well, for the last three months, as I feel this morning. If you stay with me all the winter, I should not wonder at all if I should live to take that summer trip with you and the children which we have talked about. Net, I feel as if I were going to get well,” she concluded, as she threw her arms around her cousin’s neck.
“May the Lord in heaven grant it!” fervently and sincerely responded Net, as she returned the embrace, and then seated herself on the side of the bed.
Antoinette raised up and drew out a little drawer from the table by her bed, and took from it her portemonnaie, which she opened and from which she took a five-pound note, saying:
“Now you know, Net, if I were up and about I should buy some books or toys to send the children. You must be my agent and buy them for me, Net—”
Little Mammam opened her mouth to object to the amount, but was quickly hushed by her cousin, who continued:
“I know that boy wants a velocipede as well as if I had heard him express the wish, and I know that girl wants ‘another doll.’ I know that all girls want another doll! I would get these things for the children, if I were up and well; but as I am in bed and weak, you must get them for me and give them to the children, and anything else they would like— There, Net, not a word of opposition! Don’t dispute with a sick woman, please! The doctor says I must be kept quiet! Now to be kept quiet, I must not be contradicted,” added Antoinette, with a humorous smile.
“You are very, very good, and the children will be delighted,” said Net, bending down and kissing her cousin.
“Come back as soon as you can _conveniently_, Net, and bring the children, and settle down here for the winter; it is much warmer here than in far Cumberland.”
“Yes, I will come back and bring the little ones.”
“And do not be uneasy about me, Net—_I am going to get well_,” said Antoinette, brightly.
“Heaven grant that you may, my dear.”
“Look at the clock, Net, I do not want to make you lose the train. What is the hour?”
“It is ten minutes past six,” answered Net, after glancing at the time-piece on the mantel-shelf.
“And the carriage was ordered for six. You must go, dear. Kiss me good-bye.”
And so they parted.
She hurried down stairs and out to the carriage, where now Adrian Fleming was anxiously awaiting her.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]