Mary Barton

  XXII. MARY'S EFFORTS TO PROVE AN ALIBI.

  "There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was, with its stored thunder, labouring up." --KEATS' Hyperion.

  No sooner was Mary alone than she fastened the door, and put theshutters up against the window, which had all this time remainedshaded only by the curtains hastily drawn together on Esther'sentrance, and the lighting of the candle.

  She did all this with the same compressed lips, and the same stonylook that her face had assumed on the first examination of thepaper. Then she sat down for an instant to think; and risingdirectly, went, with a step rendered firm by inward resolution ofpurpose, up the stairs; passed her own door, two steps, into herfather's room. What did she want there?

  I must tell you; I must put into words the dreadful secret which shebelieved that bit of paper had revealed to her.

  Her father was the murderer.

  That corner of stiff, shining, thick, writing paper, she recognisedas a part of the sheet on which she had copied Samuel Bamford'sbeautiful lines so many months ago--copied (as you perhaps remember)on the blank part of a valentine sent to her by Jem Wilson, in thosedays when she did not treasure and hoard up everything he hadtouched, as she would do now.

  That copy had been given to her father, for whom it was made, andshe had occasionally seen him reading it over, not a fortnight agoshe was sure. But she resolved to ascertain if the other part stillremained in his possession. He might--it was just possible heMIGHT, have given it away to some friend; and if so, that person wasthe guilty one, for she could swear to the paper anywhere.

  First of all she pulled out every article from the little old chestof drawers. Amongst them were some things which had belonged to hermother, but she had no time now to examine and try and rememberthem. All the reverence she could pay them was to carry them andlay them on the bed carefully, while the other things were tossedimpatiently out upon the floor.

  The copy of Bamford's lines was not there. Oh! perhaps he mighthave given it away; but then must it not have been to Jem? It washis gun.

  And she set to with redoubled vigour to examine the deal box whichserved as chair, and which had once contained her father's Sundayclothes, in the days when he could afford to have Sunday clothes.

  He had redeemed his better coat from the pawn-shop before he left,that she had noticed. Here was his old one. What rustled under herhand in the pocket?

  The paper! "O father!"

  Yes, it fitted; jagged end to jagged end, letter to letter, and eventhe part which Esther had considered blank had its tallying markwith the larger piece, its tails of ys and gs. And then, as if thatwere not damning evidence enough, she felt again, and found somelittle bullets or shot (I don't know which you would call them) inthat same pocket, along with a small paper parcel of gunpowder. Asshe was going to replace the jacket, having abstracted the paper,and bullets, etc., she saw a woollen gun-case made of that sort ofstriped horse-cloth you must have seen a thousand times appropriatedto such a purpose. The sight of it made her examine still further,but there was nothing else that could afford any evidence, so shelocked the box, and sat down on the floor to contemplate thearticles; now with a sickening despair, now with a kind of wonderingcuriosity, how her father had managed to evade observation. Afterall it was easy enough. He had evidently got possession of some gun(was it really Jem's? was he an accomplice? No! she did not believeit; he never, never would deliberately plan a murder with another,however he might be wrought up to it by passionate feeling at thetime. Least of all would he accuse her to her father, withoutpreviously warning her; it was out of his nature).

  Then having obtained possession of the gun, her father had loaded itat home, and might have carried it away with him some time when theneighbours were not noticing, and she was out, or asleep; and thenhe might have hidden it somewhere to be in readiness when he shouldwant it. She was sure he had no such thing with him when he wentaway the last time.

  She felt it was of no use to conjecture his motives. His actionshad become so wild and irregular of late, that she could not reasonupon them. Besides, was it not enough to know that he was guilty ofthis terrible offence? Her love for her father seemed to returnwith painful force, mixed up as it was with horror at his crime.That dear father who was once so kind, so warm-hearted, so ready tohelp either man or beast in distress, to murder! But in the desertof misery with which these thoughts surrounded her, the arid depthsof whose gloom she dared not venture to contemplate, a little springof comfort was gushing up at her feet, unnoticed at first, but soonto give her strength and hope.

  And THAT was the necessity for exertion on her part which thisdiscovery enforced.

  Oh! I do think that the necessity for exertion, for some kind ofaction (bodily or mental) in time of distress, is a most infiniteblessing, although the first efforts at such seasons are painful.Something to be done implies that there is yet hope of some goodthing to be accomplished, or some additional evil that may beavoided; and by degrees the hope absorbs much of the sorrow.

  It is the woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped that admitleast earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow mockeriesof comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take thetrouble of sympathising with others, the one I dislike the most isthe exhortation not to grieve over an event, "for it cannot behelped." Do you think if I could help it, I would sit still withfolded hands, content to mourn? Do you not believe that as long ashope remained I would be up and doing? I mourn because what hasoccurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me for not grieving,is the very sole reason of my grief. Give me nobler and higherreasons for enduring meekly what my Father sees fit to send, and Iwill try earnestly and faithfully to be patient; but mock me not, orany other mourner, with the speech, "Do not grieve, for it cannot behelped. It is past remedy."

  But some remedy to Mary's sorrow came with thinking. If her fatherwas guilty, Jem was innocent. If innocent, there was a possibilityof saving him. He must be saved. And she must do it; for, was notshe the sole depository of the terrible secret? Her father was notsuspected; and never should be, if by any foresight or any exertionsof her own she could prevent it.

  She did not know how Jem was to be saved, while her father was alsoto be considered innocent. It would require much thought and muchprudence. But with the call upon her exertions, and her variousqualities of judgment and discretion, came the answeringconsciousness of innate power to meet the emergency. Every stepnow, nay, the employment of every minute was of consequence; for youmust remember she had learnt at Miss Simmonds' the probability thatthe murderer would be brought to trial the next week. And you mustremember, too, that never was so young a girl so friendless, or sopenniless, as Mary was at this time. But the lion accompanied Unathrough the wilderness and the danger; and so will a high, resolvedpurpose of right-doing ever guard and accompany the helpless.

  It struck two; deep, mirk night.

  It was of no use bewildering herself with plans this weary, endlessnight. Nothing could be done before morning; and, at first in herimpatience, she began to long for day; but then she felt in howunfit a state her body was for any plan of exertion, and sheresolutely made up her mind to husband her physical strength.

  First of all she must burn the tell-tale paper. The powder,bullets, and gun-case, she tied into a bundle, and hid in thesacking of the bed for the present, although there was no likelihoodof their affording evidence against any one. Then she carried thepaper downstairs, and burned it on the hearth, powdering the veryashes with her fingers, and dispersing the fragments of flutteringblack films among the cinders of the grate. Then she breathedagain.

  Her head ached with dizzying violence; she must get quit of the painor it would incapacitate her for thinking and planning. She lookedfor food, but there was nothing but a little raw oatmeal in
thehouse: still, although it almost choked her, she ate some of this,knowing from experience, how often headaches were caused by longfasting. Then she sought for some water to bathe her throbbingtemples, and quench her feverish thirst. There was none in thehouse, so she took the jug and went out to the pump at the other endof the court, whose echoes resounded her light footsteps in thequiet stillness of the night. The hard, square outlines of thehouses cut sharply against the cold bright sky, from which myriadsof stars were shining down in eternal repose. There was littlesympathy in the outward scene, with the internal trouble. All wasso still, so motionless, so hard! Very different to this lovelynight in the country in which I am now writing, where the distanthorizon is soft and undulating in the moonlight, and the nearertrees sway gently to and fro in the night-wind with something ofalmost human motion and the rustling air makes music among theirbranches, as if speaking soothingly to the weary ones who lie awakein heaviness of heart. The sights and sounds of such a night lullpain and grief to rest.

  But Mary re-entered her home after she had filled her pitcher, witha still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still clearer conviction ofhow much rested upon her unassisted and friendless self, alone withher terrible knowledge, in the hard, cold, populous world.

  She bathed her forehead, and quenched her thirst, and then, withwise deliberation of purpose, went upstairs, and undressed herself,as if for a long night's slumber, although so few hours intervenedbefore day-dawn. She believed she never could sleep, but she laydown, and shut her eyes; and before many minutes she was in as deepand sound a slumber as if there was no sin or sorrow in the world.

  She woke up, as it was natural, much refreshed in body; but with aconsciousness of some great impending calamity. She sat up in bedto recollect, and when she did remember, she sank down again withall the helplessness of despair. But it was only the weakness of aninstant; for were not the very minutes precious, for deliberation ifnot for action?

  Before she had finished the necessary morning business of dressing,and setting her house in some kind of order, she had disentangledher ravelled ideas, and arranged some kind of a plan for action. IfJem was innocent (and now of his guilt, even his slightestparticipation in, or knowledge of, the murder, she acquitted himwith all her heart and soul), he must have been somewhere else whenthe crime was committed; probably with some others, who might bearwitness to the fact, if she only knew where to find them.Everything rested on her. She had heard of an alibi, and believedit might mean the deliverance she wished to accomplish; but she wasnot quite sure, and determined to apply to Job, as one of the fewamong her acquaintance gifted with the knowledge of hard words, forto her, all terms of law, or natural history, were alikemany-syllabled mysteries.

  No time was to be lost. She went straight to Job Legh's house, andfound the old man and his grand-daughter sitting at breakfast; asshe opened the door she heard their voices speaking in a grave,hushed, subdued tone, as if something grieved their hearts. Theystopped talking on her entrance, and then she knew they had beenconversing about the murder; about Jem's probable guilt; and (itflashed upon her for the first time) on the new light they wouldhave obtained regarding herself: for until now they had neverheard of her giddy flirting with Mr. Carson not in all herconfidential talk with Margaret had she ever spoken of him. Andnow, Margaret would hear her conduct talked of by all, as that of abold, bad girl; and even if she did not believe everything that wassaid, she could hardly help feeling wounded, and disappointed inMary.

  So it was in a timid voice that Mary wished her usual good-morrow,and her heart sunk within her a little, when Job, with a form ofcivility, bade her welcome in that dwelling, where, until now, shehad been too well assured to require to be asked to sit down.

  She took a chair. Margaret continued silent.

  "I'm come to speak to you about this--about Jem Wilson."

  "It's a bad business, I'm afeard," replied Job sadly.

  "Ay, it's bad enough anyhow. But Jem's innocent. Indeed he is; I'mas sure as sure can be."

  "How can you know, wench? Facts bear strong again him, poor fellow,though he'd a deal to put him up, and aggravate him, they say. Ay,poor lad, he's done for himself, I'm afeard."

  "Job," said Mary, rising from her chair in her eagerness, "you mustnot say he did it. He didn't; I'm sure and certain he didn't. Oh!why do you shake your head? Who is to believe me,--who is to thinkhim innocent, if you, who know'd him so well, stick to it he'sguilty?"

  "I'm loth enough to do it, lass," replied Job; "but I think he'sbeen ill-used, and--jilted (that's plain truth, Mary, bare as it mayseem), and his blood has been up--many a man has done the likeafore, from like causes."

  "O God! Then you won't help me, Job, to prove him innocent? O Job,Job! believe me, Jem never did harm to no one."

  "Not afore;--and mind, wench! I don't over-blame him for this." Jobrelapsed into silence.

  Mary thought a moment.

  "Well, Job, you'll not refuse me this, I know. I won't mind whatyou think, if you'll help me as if he was innocent. Now suppose Iknow--I knew, he was innocent,--it's only supposing, Job,--what mustI do to prove it? Tell me, Job! Isn't it called an alibi, thegetting folk to swear to where he really was at the time?"

  "Best way, if you know'd him innocent, would be to find out the realmurderer. Some one did it, that's clear enough. If it wasn't Jemwho was it?"

  "How can I tell?" answered Mary, in agony of terror, lest Job'squestion was prompted by any suspicion of the truth.

  But he was far enough from any such thought. Indeed, he had nodoubt in his own mind that Jem had, in some passionate moment, urgedon by slighted love and jealousy, been the murderer. And he wasstrongly inclined to believe, that Mary was aware of this, onlythat, too late repentant of her light conduct which had led to suchfatal consequences, she was now most anxious to save her oldplayfellow, her early friend, from the doom awaiting the shedder ofblood.

  "If Jem's not done it, I don't see as any on us can tell who did it.We might find out something if we'd time; but they say he's to betried on Tuesday. It's no use hiding it, Mary; things looks strongagainst him."

  "I know they do! I know they do! But, O Job! isn't an alibi aproving where he really was at th' time of the murder; and how mustI set about an alibi?"

  "An alibi is that, sure enough." He thought a little. "You mun askhis mother his doings, and his whereabouts that night; the knowledgeof that will guide you a bit."

  For he was anxious that on another should fall the task ofenlightening Mary on the hopelessness of the case, and he felt thather own sense would be more convinced by inquiry and examinationthan any mere assertion of his.

  Margaret had sat silent and grave all this time. To tell the truth,she was surprised and disappointed by the disclosure of Mary'sconduct, with regard to Mr. Henry Carson. Gentle, reserved, andprudent herself, never exposed to the trial of being admired for herpersonal appearance, and unsusceptible enough to be in doubt evenyet, whether the fluttering, tender, infinitely joyous feeling shewas for the first time experiencing, at sight or sound, or thoughtof Will Wilson, was love or not,--Margaret had no sympathy with thetemptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire ofbeing admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, inshort. Then, she had no idea of the strength of the conflictbetween will and principle in some who were differently constitutedfrom herself. With her, to be convinced that an action was wrong,was tantamount to a determination not to do so again; and she hadlittle or no difficulty in carrying out her determination. So shecould not understand how it was that Mary had acted wrongly, and hadfelt too much ashamed, in spite of internal sophistry, to speak ofher actions. Margaret considered herself deceived; felt aggrieved;and, at the time of which I am now telling you, was stronglyinclined to give Mary up altogether, as a girl devoid of the modestproprieties of her sex, and capable of gross duplicity, in speakingof one lover as she had done of Jem, while she was encouraginganother in attentions, at best of a very doub
tful character.

  But now Margaret was drawn into the conversation. Suddenly itflashed across Mary's mind, that the night of the murder was thevery night, or rather the same early morning, that Margaret had beenwith Alice. She turned sharp round, with--

  "O Margaret, you can tell me; you were there when he came back thatnight; were you not? No! you were not; but you were there not manyhours after. Did not you hear where he'd been? He was away thenight before, too, when Alice was first taken; when you were therefor your tea. Oh! where was he, Margaret?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "Stay! I do remember something abouthis keeping Will company, in his walk to Liverpool. I can't justlysay what it was, so much happened that night."

  "I'll go to his mother's," said Mary resolutely.

  They neither of them spoke, either to advise or dissuade. Mary feltshe had no sympathy from them, and braced up her soul to act withoutsuch loving aid of friendship. She knew that their advice would bewillingly given at her demand, and that was all she really requiredfor Jem's sake. Still her courage failed a little as she walked toJane Wilson's, alone in the world with her secret.

  Jane Wilson's eyes were swelled with crying; and it was sad to seethe ravages which intense anxiety and sorrow had made on herappearance in four-and-twenty hours. All night long she and Mrs.Davenport had crooned over their sorrows, always recurring, like theburden of an old song, to the dreadest sorrow of all, which was nowimpending over Mrs. Wilson. She had grown--I hardly know what wordto use--but, something like proud of her martyrdom; she had grown tohug her grief; to feel an excitement in her agony of anxiety abouther boy.

  "So, Mary, you're here! O Mary, lass! He's to be tried onTuesday."

  She fell to sobbing, in the convulsive breath-catching manner whichtells of so much previous weeping.

  "O Mrs. Wilson, don't take on so! We'll get him off, you'll see.Don't fret; they can't prove him guilty!"

  "But I tell thee they will," interrupted Mrs. Wilson, half-irritatedat the light way, as she considered it, in which Mary spoke; and alittle displeased that another could hope when she had almostbrought herself to find pleasure in despair.

  "It may suit thee well," continued she, "to make light o' the miserythou hast caused; but I shall lay his death at thy door, as long asI live, and die I know he will; and all for what he never did--no,he never did; my own blessed boy!"

  She was too weak to be angry long; her wrath sank away to feeblesobbing and worn-out moans.

  Mary was most anxious to soothe her from any violence of eithergrief or anger; she did so want her to be clear in her recollectionand, besides, her tenderness was great towards Jem's mother. So shespoke in a low gentle tone the loving sentences, which sound sobroken and powerless in repetition, and which yet have so much powerwhen accompanied with caressing looks and actions, fresh from theheart; and the old woman insensibly gave herself up to the influenceof those sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of sympathy, thosewords of love and hope, and was lulled into a less morbid state ofmind.

  "And now, dear Mrs. Wilson, can you remember where he said he wasgoing on Thursday night? He was out when Alice was taken ill; andhe did not come home till early in the morning, or, to speak true,in the night: did he?"

  "Ay! he went out near upon five; he went out with Will; he said hewere going to set* him a part of the way, for Will were hot uponwalking to Liverpool, and wouldn't hearken to Jem's offer of lendinghim five shillings for his fare. So the two lads set off together.I mind it all now: but, thou seest, Alice's illness, and thisbusiness of poor Jem's, drove it out of my head; they went offtogether, to walk to Liverpool; that's to say, Jem were to go a parto' th' way. But, who knows" (falling back into the old despondingtone) "if he really went? He might be led off on the road. O Mary,wench! they'll hang him for what he's never done."

  *"To set," to accompany.

  "No they won't, they shan't! I see my way a bit now. We mun getWill to help; there'll be time. He can swear that Jem were withhim. Where is Jem?"

  "Folk said he were taken to Kirkdale, i' th' prison van thismorning, without my seeing him, poor chap! O wench! but they'vehurried on the business at a cruel rate."

  "Ay! they've not let grass grow under their feet, in hunting out theman that did it," said Mary sorrowfully and bitterly. "But keep upyour heart. They got on the wrong scent when they took tosuspecting Jem. Don't be afeard. You'll see it will end right forJem."

  "I should mind it less if I could do aught," said Jane Wilson "butI'm such a poor weak old body, and my head's so gone, and I'm sodazed like, what with Alice and all, that I think and think, and cando nought to help my child. I might ha' gone and seen him lastnight, they tell me now, and then I missed it. O Mary, I missed it;and I may never see the lad again."

  She looked so piteously in Mary's face with her miserable eyes, thatMary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading the weakness of herpowers, which the burst of crying she longed for would occasion,hastily changed the subject to Alice; and Jane, in her heart,feeling that there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow, replied--

  "She keeps on much the same, thank you. She's happy, for she knowsnothing of what's going on but th' doctor says she grows weaker andweaker. Thou'lt maybe like to see her?"

  Mary went upstairs; partly because it is the etiquette in humblelife to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing the dying orthe dead, while the same etiquette forbids a refusal of theinvitation and partly because she longed to breathe, for aninstant, the atmosphere of holy calm, which seemed ever to surroundthe pious, good old woman. Alice lay, as before, without pain, orat least any outward expression of it; but totally unconscious ofall present circumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the daysof her girlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place ofreality to her. Still she talked of green fields, and still shespoke to the long-dead mother and sister, low-lying in their gravesthis many a year, as if they were with her and about her, in thepleasant places where her youth had passed.

  But the voice was fainter, the motions were more languid; she wasevidently passing away; but HOW happily!

  Mary stood for a time in silence, watching and listening. Then shebent down and reverently kissed Alice's cheek; and drawing JaneWilson away from the bed, as if the spirit of her who lay there wereyet cognisant of present realities, she whispered a few words ofhope to the poor mother, and kissing her over and over again in awarm, loving manner, she bade her good-bye, went a few steps, andthen once more came back to bid her keep up her heart.

  And when she had fairly left the house, Jane Wilson felt as if asunbeam had ceased shining into the room.

  Yet oh! how sorely Mary's heart ached; for more and more the fellcertainty came on her that her father was the murderer! Shestruggled hard not to dwell on this conviction to think alone onthe means of proving Jem's innocence; that was her first duty, andthat should be done.