feathers is always good for a faint. But they don't bring her round, poor wench! Now what's he after next? Well! he is a bright one, my old man! That I never thought of that, to be sure!" exclaimed she, as he produced a square bottle of smuggled spirits, labelled "Golden Wasser," from a corner cupboard in their little room. “That'll do!” said she, as the dose he poured into Mary's open mouth, made her start and cough. "Bless the man! It's just like him to be so tender and thoughtful!" "Not a bit!" snarled he, as he was relieved by Mary's returning colour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible gaze, "Not a bit! I never was such a fool afore." His wife helped Mary to rise, and placed her in a chair. "All's right, now, young woman?" asked the boatman, anxiously. "Yes, Sir, and thank you. I'm sure, Sir, I don't know rightly how to thank you," faltered Mary, softly forth. "Be hanged to you and your thanks." And he shook himself, took his pipe, and went out without deigning another word; leaving his wife, sorely puzzled as to the character and history of the stranger within her doors. Mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to rise, with the intention of going away, knew not. where she "Nay! nay! whoe'er thou be'st, thou'rt not fit to go out into the street. Perhaps" (sinking her voice a little) "thou 'rt a bad one; I almost misdoubt thee, thou 'rt so pretty. Well-a-well! it's the bad ones as have the broken hearts, sure enough; good folk never get utterly cast down, they 've always getten hope in the Lord; it's the sinful as bear the bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor souls; it's them we ought, most of all, to pity and to help. She shanna leave the house to-night, choose who she is, worst woman in Liverpool, she shanna. I wished I knew where th' old man picked her up, that I do." Mary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfy her hostess, in weak, broken sentences. "I'm not a bad one, missis, indeed. Your master took me out to sea after a ship as had sailed. There was a man in it as might save a life at the trial to-morrow. The captain would not let him come, but he says he 'll come back in the pilot-boat." She fell to sobbing at the thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort her, beginning with her accustomed, "Well-a-well! and he 'll come back, I'm sure. I know he will; so keep up your heart. Don't fret about it. He's sure to be back." "Oh! I'm afraid! I'm sore afraid he won't," cried Mary, consoled, nevertheless, by the woman's assertions, all groundless as she knew them to be. Still talking half to herself, and half to Mary, the old wowan prepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. But Mary shook her head at the proffered food, and only drank a cup of tea with thirsty eagerness. For the spirits had thrown her into a burning heat, and rendered each impression received through her senses of the most painful distinctness and intensity while her head ached in a terrible manner. She disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterly gone. She used quite different expressions to those she intended. So she kept silent, while Mrs. Sturgis (for that was the name of her hostess) talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved about incessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in Mary's head. She felt as if she ought to take leave for the night, and go. But where? Presently the old man came back; crosser and gruffer than when he went away. He kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared for him, and snarled at all she said. Mary attributed this to his finding her still there, and gathered up her strength for an effort to leave the house. But she was mistaken. By-and-bye, he said (looking right into the fire, as if addressing it) "Wind 's right against them!" "Ay, ay, and is it so?" said his wife, who knowing him well, knew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy. "Well-a-well, wind changes often at night. Time enough before morning. I'd bet a penny it has changed sin' thou looked." She looked out of her little window at a weather-cock near, glittering in the moonlight; and as she was a sailor's wife, she instantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the indicator seemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh, turned into the room, and began to beat about in her own mind for some other mode of comfort. "There's no one else who can prove what you want at the trial to-morrow, is there?" asked she. "No one!" answered Mary. "And you've no clue to the one as is really guilty, if t'other is not?" Mary did not answer, but trembled all over. Sturgis saw it. "Don't bother her with thy questions," said he, to his wife. "She mun go to bed, for she 's all in a shiver with the sea air. I'll see after the wind, hang it, and the weather-cock, too. Tide will help 'em when it turns." Mary went up-stairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who took the stranger in. Mrs. Sturgis led her into a little room redolent of the sea, and foreign lands. There was a small bed for one son, bound for China; and a hammock slung above for another, who was now tossing in the Baltic. The sheets looked made out of sail-cloth, but were fresh and clean in spite of their brownness. Against the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels with their names written underneath, on which the mother's eyes caught, and gazed until they filled with tears. But she brushed the drops away with the back of her hand; and in a cheerful tone, went on to assure Mary the bed was well aired. "I cannot sleep, thank you. I will sit here, if you please," said Mary, sinking down on the window-seat. "Come, now," said Mrs. Sturgis, "my master told me to see you to bed, and I mun. What's the use of watching? A watched pot never boils, and I see you are after watching that weathercock. Why now, I try never to look at it, else I could do nought else. My heart many a time goes sick when the wind rises, but I turn away and work away, and try never to think on the wind, but on what I ha' getten to do." "Let me stay up a little," pleaded Mary, as her hostess seemed so resolute about seeing her to bed. Her looks won her suit. "Well, I suppose I mun. I shall catch it down stairs, I know. He'll be in a fidget till you 're getten to bed, I know; so you mun be quiet if you are so bent upon staying up." And quietly, noiselessly, Mary watched the unchanging weather-cock through the night. She sat on the little windowseat, her hand holding back the curtain which shaded the room from the bright moonlight without; her head resting its weariness against the corner of the window-frame; her eyes burning, and stiff with the intensity of her gaze. The ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow into the watcher's room. It was the morning of the day of trial! CHAPTER XXXII. "Thou stand'st here arraign'd, That with presumption impious and accurs'd, Hath set abroach the blood, that should have ebbed In one wild name a name the pale air freezes at, MILMAN'S FAZIO.' Or all the restless people who found that night's hours agonising from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was perhaps the most restless. He had slept but little since the blow had fallen; his waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which seemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers. And this night of all others was the most sleepless. He turned over and over again in his mind the wonder if every thing had been done that could be done, to insure the conviction of Jem Wilson. He almost regretted the haste with which he had urged forward the proceedings, and yet until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there were no peace on earth for him (I don't know that he exactly used the term vengeance in his thoughts; he spoke of justice, and probably thought of his desired end as such); no peace, either bodily or mental, for he moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp of a wild beast in a cage, and if he compelled his aching limbs to cease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to convulsions, and he re-commenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the more bearable fatigue. With daylight, increased power of action came; and he drove off to arouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and inquiries; and when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the courts should be opened, and the trial begin. What were all the living, — wife or daughters, — what were they in comparison with the dead, the murdered son who lay unburied still, in compliance with his father's earnest wish, and almost vowed purpose of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death, before he committed the body to the rest of the grave? At nine o'clock they all met at their awful place of rendezvous. The judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the witnesses - all were gathered together within one building. And besides these were many others, personally interested in some part of the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part; Job Legh, Ben Sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was Charley Jones. Job Legh had carefully avoided any questioning from Mrs. Wilson that morning. Indeed he had not been much in her company, for he had risen up early to go out once more to make inquiry for Mary; and when he could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to undeceive Mrs. Wilson, as sorrow never came too late; and if the blow were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of the impending evil as long as possible. She took her place in the witness-room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious. As Job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, Mr. Bridgenorth's clerk beckoned to him. "Here's a letter for you from our client!" Job sickened as he took it. He did not know why, but he dreaded a confession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope. The letter ran as follows: |