The Two Sides of the Shield

‘Did not you send it direct by the post?’ demanded the magistrate.

‘No; I gave it to—’ Again she paused, and the words ‘Gave it to—?’ were authoritatively repeated, so that she had no choice.

‘I gave it to Miss Constance Hacket to send.’

‘You will observe, sir,’ said Flinders, in a somewhat insolent tone, ‘that the evidence which the witness has been so ready to adduce is incomplete. There is another link between her hands and mine.’

‘You may reserve that point for your defence on your trial,’ rejoined the magistrate. ‘There is quite sufficient evidence for your committal.’

There was already a movement to let Dolores be taken away by her uncle and aunt, so as to spare her from any reproach or impertinence that Flinders might launch at her. She was like some one moving in a dream, glad that her aunt should hold her hand as if she were a little child, saying, as they came out into the street, ‘Very clearly and steadily done, Dolly! Wasn’t it, Uncle Regie?’

‘Yes,’ he said, absently. ‘We must look out, or we shan’t catch the 4.50 train.’

He almost threw them into a cab, and made the driver go his quickest, so that, after all, they had full ten minutes to spare. It made Dolores sick at heart to go near the waiting and refreshment-rooms where she and Constance had spent all that time with Flinders; but she could not bear to say so before her uncle, and he was bent on getting some food for Lady Merrifield.

‘Not soup, Regie; there might not be time to swallow it. A glass of milk for us each, please; we can drink that at once, and anything solid that we can take with us. I am sure your mouth must be dry, my dear.’

Very dry it was, and Dolores gladly swallowed the milk, and found, when seated in the train, that she was really hungry enough to eat her full share of the sandwiches and buns which the colonel had brought in with him; and then she sat resting against her aunt, closed her eyes, and half dozed in the rattle of the train, not moving in the pause at the stations, but quite conscious that Colonel Mohun said, ‘Not a spark of feeling for anybody, not even for that man! As hard as a stone!’

‘For shame, Regie!’ said her aunt. ‘How angry you would have been if she had made a scene.’

‘I should have liked her better.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, when you come to understand. There’s stuff in her, and depth too.’

‘Aye, she’s deep enough.’

‘Poor child!’ said Lady Merrifield, tenderly. And then the train went on, and the noise drowned the voices, so that Dolores only partly heard, ‘You will see how she will rise,’ and the answer, ‘You may be right; I hope so. But I can’t get over deliberate deceit.’

He settled himself in his corner, and Lady Merrifield durst not move nor raise her voice lest she should break what seemed such deep slumber, but which really was half torpor, half a dull dismay, holding fast eyes, lips, and limbs, and which really became sleep, so that Dolores did not hear the next bit of conversation during the ensuing halt.

‘I say, Lily, I did not like the fellow’s last question. He means to give trouble about it.’

‘I was sorry the other name was brought in, but it must have come sooner or later.’

‘That’s true; but if she can’t swear to the figures on the draft, ten to one that the fellow will get off.’

‘You don’t doubt—’

‘No, no; but there’s the chance for the defence, and he was sharp enough to see it.’

‘There is nothing to be said or done about it, of course.’

‘Of course not. There’s nothing for it but to let it alone.’

They went on again, and when the train reached Silverton, Dolly was dreaming that her father had come, and that he said Uncle Alfred should be hanged unless she found the money for Professor Muhlwasser. She even looked about for him, and said, ‘Where’s father?’ when she was wakened to get out.

Gillian came up to her mother’s room to hear what had happened, and to give an account of the day, which had gone off prosperously by Harry’s help. He had kept excellent order at dinner, and ‘there’s something about Fly which makes even Wilfred be mannerly before her.’ And then they had gone out and had made Fly free of the Thorn Fortress.

‘My dear, that must have been terribly damp and cold at this time of year.’

‘I thought of that, mamma, and so we didn’t sit down, and made it a guerrilla war; only Fergus couldn’t understand the difference between guerrillas and gorillas, and would thump upon himself and roar when they were in ambush.’

‘Rather awkward for the ambush!’

‘Yes, Wilfred said he was a traitor, and tied him to a tree, and then Fly found him crying, and would have let him out; but she couldn’t get the knots undone; and what do you think? She made Wilfred cut the string himself with his own knife! I never knew such a girl for making every one do as she pleases. Then, when it got dark, we came in, and had a sort of a kind of a rehearsal, only that nobody knew any of the parts, or what each was to be.’

‘A sort of a kind, indeed, it must have been!’

‘But we think the play will be lovely! You can’t think how nice Fly was. You know we settled for her to be Annette, the dear, funny, naughty girl, but as soon as she saw that Val wanted the part, she said she didn’t care, and gave it up directly, and I don’t think we ought to let her, and Hal thinks so too; and all the boys are very angry, and say Val will make a horrid mess of it. Then Mysie wanted to give up the good girl to Fly, and only be one of the chorus, but Fly says she had rather be one of the chorus ones herself than that. So we settled that you should fix the parts, and we would abide by your choice.’

‘I hope there was no quarrelling.’

‘N—no; only a little falling upon Val by the boys, and Fly put a stop to that. Oh, mamma, if it were only possible to turn Dolly into Fly! I can’t help saying it, we seemed to get on so much better just because we hadn’t poor Dolly to make a deadweight, and tempt the boys to be tiresome: while Fly made everything go off well. I can’t describe it, she didn’t in the least mean to keep order or interfere, but somehow squabbles seem to die away before her, and nobody wants to be troublesome.’

‘Dear little thing! It is a very sweet disposition. But, Gill, I do believe that we shall see poor Dolly take a turn now!’

‘Well! having quarrelled with that Constance is in her favour!’

‘Try and think kindly of her trouble. Gill, and then it will be easier to be kind to her.’

Gillian sighed. Falsehood and determined opposition to her mother were the greatest possible crimes in her eyes; and at her age it was not easy to separate the sin from the sinner.

New Year’s night was always held to be one of especial merriment, but Lady Merrifield was so much tired out by her expedition that she hardly felt equal to presiding over any sports, and proposed that instead the young folk should dance. Gillian and Hal took turns to play for them, and Uncle Reginald and Fly were in equal request as partners. It was Mysie who came to draw Dolores out of her corner, and begged her to be her partner—‘If you wouldn’t very much rather not,’ she said, in a pleading, wistful, voice.

Dolores would ‘very much rather not;’ but she saw that Mysie would be left out altogether if she did not consent, as Hal was playing and Uncle Regie was dancing with Primrose. She thought of resolutions to turn over a new leaf, and not to refuse everything so she said, ‘Yes, this once,’ and it was wonderful how much freshened she felt by the gay motion, and perhaps by Mysie’s merry, good-natured eyes and caressing hand. After that she had another turn with Gillian and one with Hal, and even one with Fergus because, as he politely informed her, no one else would have him for a quadrille. But, just as this was in progress, and she could not help laughing at his ridiculous mistakes and contempt of rules she met Uncle Reginald’s eye fixed on her in wonder ‘He thinks I don’t care,’ thought she to herself. All her pleasure was gone, and she moved so dejectedly that her aunt, watching from the sofa, called her and told her she was over-tired, and sent her to bed.

Dolores was tired, but not in the way which made it harder instead of easier to sleep, or, rather, she slept just enough to relax her full consciousness and hold over herself, and bring on her a misery of terror and loneliness, and feeling of being forsaken by the whole world. And when she woke fully enough to understand the reality, it was no better; she felt, then, the position she had put herself into, and almost saw in the dark, Flinders’s malicious vindictive glance Constance’s anger, Uncle Regie’s cold, severe look and, worse than all, her father reading her letter’

She fell again into an agony of sobbing, not without a little hope that Aunt Lily would be again brought to her side. At last the door was softly pushed open in the dark, but it was not Aunt Lily, it was Mysie’s little bare feet that patted up to the bed, her arms that embraced, her cheek that was squeezed against the tearful one—‘Oh, Dolly, Dolly! please don’t cry so sadly!’

‘Oh! it is so dreadful, Mysie!’

‘Are you ill—like the other night?’

‘No—but—Mysie—I can’t bear it!’

‘I don’t want to call mamma,’ said Mysie, thoughtfully, ‘for she is so much tired, and Uncle Regie and Gill said she would be quite knocked up, and got her to come up to bed when we went. Dolly, would it be better if I got into your bed and cuddled you up?’

‘Oh yes! oh yes! please do, there’s a dear good Mysie.’

There was not much room, but that mattered the less, and the hugging of the warm arms seemed to heal the terrible sense of being unloved and forsaken, the presence to drive away the visions of angry faces that had haunted her; but there was the longing for fellow-feeling on her, and she said, ‘That’s nice! Oh, Mysie! you can’t think what it is like! Uncle Regie said I didn’t care, and he could never forgive deliberate deceit—and I was so fond of Uncle Regie!’

‘Oh! but he will, if you never tell a story again,’ said Mysie—and, as she felt a gesture implying despair—‘Yes, they do; I told a story once.’

‘You, Mysie! I thought you never did?’

‘Yes, once, when we were crossing to Ireland and nurse wouldn’t let Wilfred tie our handkerchiefs together and fish over the side, and he was very angry, and threw her parasol into the sea when she wasn’t looking; and I knew she would be so cross, that when she asked me if I knew what was become of it, I said ‘No,’ and thought I didn’t, really. But then it came over me, again and again, that I had told a story, and, oh! I was so miserable whenever I thought of it—at church, and saying my prayers, you know; and mamma was poorly, and couldn’t come to us at night for ever so long, but at last I could bear it no longer, I heard her say, ‘Mysie is always truthful,’ and then I did get it out, and told her. And, oh! she and papa were so kind, and they did quite and entirely forgive me!’