‘There’s nought so finely spun

But it cometh to the sun.’

Mr. Thornton sate on and on. He felt that his company gave pleasure to Mr. Hale; and was touched by the half-spoken wishful entreaty that he would remain a little longer — the plaintive ‘Don’t go yet,’ which his poor friend put forth from time to time. He wondered Margaret did not return; but it was with no view of seeing her that he lingered. For the hour — and in the presence of one who was so thoroughly feeling the nothingness of earth — he was reasonable and self-controlled. He was deeply interested in all her father said,

‘Of death, and of the heavy lull, And of the brain that has grown dull.’

It was curious how the presence of Mr. Thornton had power over Mr. Hale to make him unlock the secret thoughts which he kept shut up even from Margaret. Whether it was that her sympathy would be so keen, and show itself in so lively a manner, that he was afraid of the reaction upon himself, or whether it was that to his speculative mind all kinds of doubts presented themselves at such a time, pleading and crying aloud to be resolved into certainties, and that he knew she would have shrunk from the expression of any such doubts — nay, from him himself as capable of conceiving them — whatever was the reason, he could unburden himself better to Mr. Thornton than to her of all the thoughts and fancies and fears that had been frost-bound in his brain till now. Mr. Thornton said very little; but every sentence he uttered added to Mr. Hale’s reliance and regard for him. Was it that he paused in the expression of some remembered agony, Mr. Thornton’s two or three words would complete the sentence, and show how deeply its meaning was entered into. Was it a doubt — a fear — a wandering uncertainty seeking rest, but finding none — so tear-blinded were its eyes — Mr. Thornton, instead of being shocked, seemed to have passed through that very stage of thought himself, and could suggest where the exact ray of light was to be found, which should make the dark places plain. Man of action as he was, busy in the world’s great battle, there was a deeper religion binding him to God in his heart, in spite of his strong wilfulness, through all his mistakes, than Mr. Hale had ever dreamed. They never spoke of such things again, as it happened; but this one conversation made them peculiar people to each other; knit them together, in a way which no loose indiscriminate talking about sacred things can ever accomplish. When all are admitted, how can there be a Holy of Holies?

And all this while, Margaret lay as still and white as death on the study floor! She had sunk under her burden. It had been heavy in weight and long carried; and she had been very meek and patient, till all at once her faith had given way, and she had groped in vain for help! There was a pitiful contraction of suffering upon her beautiful brows, although there was no other sign of consciousness remaining. The mouth — a little while ago, so sullenly projected in defiance — was relaxed and livid.

‘E par che de la sua labbia si mova Uno spirto soave e pien d’amore, Chi va dicendo a l’anima: sospira!’

The first symptom of returning life was a quivering about the lips — a little mute soundless attempt at speech; but the eyes were still closed; and the quivering sank into stillness. Then, feebly leaning on her arms for an instant to steady herself, Margaret gathered herself up, and rose. Her comb had fallen out of her hair; and with an intuitive desire to efface the traces of weakness, and bring herself into order again, she sought for it, although from time to time, in the course of the search, she had to sit down and recover strength. Her head drooped forwards — her hands meekly laid one upon the other — she tried to recall the force of her temptation, by endeavouring to remember the details which had thrown her into such deadly fright; but she could not. She only understood two facts — that Frederick had been in danger of being pursued and detected in London, as not only guilty of manslaughter, but as the more unpardonable leader of the mutiny, and that she had lied to save him. There was one comfort; her lie had saved him, if only by gaining some additional time. If the inspector came again tomorrow, after she had received the letter she longed for to assure her of her brother’s safety, she would brave shame, and stand in her bitter penance — she, the lofty Margaret — acknowledging before a crowded justice-room, if need were, that she had been as ‘a dog, and done this thing.’ But if he came before she heard from Frederick; if he returned, as he had half threatened, in a few hours, why! she would tell that lie again; though how the words would come out, after all this terrible pause for reflection and self-reproach, without betraying her falsehood, she did not know, she could not tell. But her repetition of it would gain time — time for Frederick.

She was roused by Dixon’s entrance into the room; she had just been letting out Mr. Thornton.

He had hardly gone ten steps in the street, before a passing omnibus stopped close by him, and a man got down, and came up to him, touching his hat as he did so. It was the police-inspector.

Mr. Thornton had obtained for him his first situation in the police, and had heard from time to time of the progress of his protege, but they had not often met, and at first Mr. Thornton did not remember him.

‘My name is Watson — George Watson, sir, that you got ——’

‘Ah, yes! I recollect. Why you are getting on famously, I hear.’

‘Yes, sir. I ought to thank you, sir. But it is on a little matter of business I made so bold as to speak to you now. I believe you were the magistrate who attended to take down the deposition of a poor man who died in the Infirmary last night.’

‘Yes,’ replied Mr. Thornton. ‘I went and heard some kind of a rambling statement, which the clerk said was of no great use. I’m afraid he was but a drunken fellow, though there is no doubt he came to his death by violence at last. One of my mother’s servants was engaged to him, I believe, and she is in great distress today. What about him?’

‘Why, sir, his death is oddly mixed up with somebody in the house I saw you coming out of just now; it was a Mr. Hale’s, I believe.’

‘Yes!’ said Mr. Thornton, turning sharp round and looking into the inspector’s face with sudden interest. ‘What about it?’

‘Why, sir, it seems to me that I have got a pretty distinct chain of evidence, inculpating a gentleman who was walking with Miss Hale that night at the Outwood station, as the man who struck or pushed Leonards off the platform and so caused his death. But the young lady denies that she was there at the time.’

‘Miss Hale denies she was there!’ repeated Mr. Thornton, in an altered voice. ‘Tell me, what evening was it? What time?’

‘About six o’clock, on the evening of Thursday, the twenty-sixth.’

They walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or two. The inspector was the first to speak.

‘You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner’s inquest; and I’ve got a young man who is pretty positive — at least he was at first; — since he has heard of the young lady’s denial, he says he should not like to swear; but still he’s pretty positive that he saw Miss Hale at the station, walking about with a gentleman, not five minutes before the time, when one of the porters saw a scuffle, which he set down to some of Leonards’ impudence — but which led to the fall which caused his death. And seeing you come out of the very house, sir, I thought I might make bold to ask if — you see, it’s always awkward having to do with cases of disputed identity, and one doesn’t like to doubt the word of a respectable young woman unless one has strong proof to the contrary.’

‘And she denied having been at the station that evening!’ repeated Mr. Thornton, in a low, brooding tone.

‘Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be. I told her I should call again, but seeing you just as I was on my way back from questioning the young man who said it was her, I thought I would ask your advice, both as the magistrate who saw Leonards on his death-bed, and as the gentleman who got me my berth in the force.’

‘You were quite right,’ said Mr. Thornton. ‘Don’t take any steps till you have seen me again.’

‘The young lady will expect me to call, from what I said.’

‘I only want to delay you an hour. It’s now three. Come to my warehouse at four.’

‘Very well, sir!’

And they parted company. Mr. Thornton hurried to his warehouse, and, sternly forbidding his clerks to allow any one to interrupt him, he went his way to his own private room, and locked the door. Then he indulged himself in the torture of thinking it all over, and realising every detail. How could he have lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in which her tearful image had mirrored itself not two hours before, till he had weakly pitied her and yearned towards her, and forgotten the savage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight of her — and that unknown to him — at such an hour — in such a place — had inspired him! How could one so pure have stooped from her decorous and noble manner of bearing! But was it decorous — was it? He hated himself for the idea that forced itself upon him, just for an instant — no more — and yet, while it was present, thrilled him with its old potency of attraction towards her image. And then this falsehood — how terrible must be some dread of shame to be revealed — for, after all, the provocation given by such a man as Leonards was, when excited by drinking, might, in all probability, be more than enough to justify any one who came forward to state the circumstances openly and without reserve! How creeping and deadly that fear which could bow down the truthful Margaret to falsehood! He could almost pity her. What would be the end of it? She could not have considered all she was entering upon; if there was an inquest and the young man came forward. Suddenly he started up. There should be no inquest. He would save Margaret. He would take the responsibility of preventing the inquest, the issue of which, from the uncertainty of the medical testimony (which he had vaguely heard the night before, from the surgeon in attendance), could be but doubtful; the doctors had discovered an internal disease far advanced, and sure to prove fatal; they had stated that death might have been accelerated by the fall, or by the subsequent drinking and exposure to cold. If he had but known how Margaret would have become involved in the affair — if he had but foreseen that she would have stained her whiteness by a falsehood, he could have saved her by a word; for the question, of inquest or no inquest, had hung trembling in the balance only the night before. Miss Hale might love another — was indifferent and contemptuous to him — but he would yet do her faithful acts of service of which she should never know. He might despise her, but the woman whom he had once loved should be kept from shame; and shame it would be to pledge herself to a lie in a public court, or otherwise to stand and acknowledge her reason for desiring darkness rather than light.

Very gray and stern did Mr. Thornton look, as he passed out through his wondering clerks. He was away about half an hour; and scarcely less stern did he look when he returned, although his errand had been successful.

He wrote two lines on a slip of paper, put it in an envelope, and sealed it up. This he gave to one of the clerks, saying:—

‘I appointed Watson — he who was a packer in the warehouse, and who went into the police — to call on me at four o’clock. I have just met with a gentleman from Liverpool who wishes to see me before he leaves town. Take care to give this note to Watson he calls.’

The note contained these words:

‘There will be no inquest. Medical evidence not sufficient to justify it. Take no further steps. I have not seen the corner; but I will take the responsibility.’

‘Well,’ thought Watson, ‘it relieves me from an awkward job. None of my witnesses seemed certain of anything except the young woman. She was clear and distinct enough; the porter at the rail-road had seen a scuffle; or when he found it was likely to bring him in as a witness, then it might not have been a scuffle, only a little larking, and Leonards might have jumped off the platform himself; — he would not stick firm to anything. And Jennings, the grocer’s shopman — well, he was not quite so bad, but I doubt if I could have got him up to an oath after he heard that Miss Hale flatly denied it. It would have been a troublesome job and no satisfaction. And now I must go and tell them they won’t be wanted.’

He accordingly presented himself again at Mr. Hale’s that evening. Her father and Dixon would fain have persuaded Margaret to go to bed; but they, neither of them, knew the reason for her low continued refusals to do so. Dixon had learnt part of the truth-but only part. Margaret would not tell any human being of what she had said, and she did not reveal the fatal termination to Leonards’ fall from the platform. So Dixon curiosity combined with her allegiance to urge Margaret to go to rest, which her appearance, as she lay on the sofa, showed but too clearly that she required. She did not speak except when spoken to; she tried to smile back in reply to her father’s anxious looks and words of tender enquiry; but, instead of a smile, the wan lips resolved themselves into a sigh. He was so miserably uneasy that, at last, she consented to go into her own room, and prepare for going to bed. She was indeed inclined to give up the idea that the inspector would call again that night, as it was already past nine o’clock.

She stood by her father, holding on to the back of his chair.

‘You will go to bed soon, papa, won’t you? Don’t sit up alone!’

What his answer was she did not hear; the words were lost in the far smaller point of sound that magnified itself to her fears, and filled her brain. There was a low ring at the door-bell.

She kissed her father and glided down stairs, with a rapidity of motion of which no one would have thought her capable, who had seen her the minute before. She put aside Dixon.

‘Don’t come; I will open the door. I know it is him — I can — I must manage it all myself.’

‘As you please, miss!’ said Dixon testily; but in a moment afterwards, she added, ‘But you’re not fit for it. You are more dead than alive.’

‘Am I?’ said Margaret, turning round and showing her eyes all aglow with strange fire, her cheeks flushed, though her lips were baked and livid still.

She opened the door to the Inspector, and preceded him into the study. She placed the candle on the table, and snuffed it carefully, before she turned round and faced him.

‘You are late!’ said she. ‘Well?’ She held her breath for the answer.

‘I’m sorry to have given any unnecessary trouble, ma’am; for, after all, they’ve given up all thoughts of holding an inquest. I have had other work to do and other people to see, or I should have been here before now.’

‘Then it is ended,’ said Margaret. ‘There is to be no further enquiry.’

‘I believe I’ve got Mr. Thornton’s note about me,’ said the Inspector, fumbling in his pocket-book.

‘Mr. Thornton’s!’ said Margaret.

‘Yes! he’s a magistrate — ah! here it is.’ She could not see to read it — no, not although she was close to the candle. The words swam before her. But she held it in her hand, and looked at it as if she were intently studying it.

‘I’m sure, ma’am, it’s a great weight off my mind; for the evidence was so uncertain, you see, that the man had received any blow at all — and if any question of identity came in, it so complicated the case, as I told Mr. Thornton —’

‘Mr. Thornton!’ said Margaret, again.

‘I met him this morning, just as he was coming out of this house, and, as he’s an old friend of mine, besides being the magistrate who saw Leonards last night, I made bold to tell him of my difficulty.’

Margaret sighed deeply. She did not want to hear any more; she was afraid alike of wh............