Agatha Webb

  XXXIV

  "NOT WHEN THEY ARE YOUNG GIRLS"

  But, alas! all tides have their ebb as well as flow, and before Mr.Sutherland and Frederick were well out of the main street the latterbecame aware that notwithstanding the respect with which hisexplanations had been received by the jury, there were many of hisfellow-townsmen who were ready to show dissatisfaction at his beingallowed to return in freedom to that home where he had still everyprospect of being called the young master. Doubt, that seed of ramifyinggrowth, had been planted in more than one breast, and while it failed asyet to break out into any open manifestation, there were evidencesenough in the very restraint visible in such groups of people as theypassed that suspicion had not been suppressed or his innocenceestablished by the over-favourable verdict of the coroner's jury.

  To Mr. Sutherland, suffering now from the reaction following all greatefforts, much, if not all, of this quiet but significant display ofpublic feeling passed unnoticed. But to Frederick, alive to the leastlook, the least sign that his story had not been accepted unquestioned,this passage through the town was the occasion of the most poignantsuffering.

  For not only did these marks of public suspicion bespeak possiblearraignment in the future, but through them it became evident that evenif he escaped open condemnation in the courts, he could never hope forcomplete reinstatement before the world, nor, what was to him a stilldeeper source of despair, anticipate a day when Agnes's love should makeamends to him for the grief and errors of his more than wayward youth.He could never marry so pure a being while the shadow of crime separatedhim from the mass of human beings. Her belief in his innocence and theexact truth of his story (and he was confident she did believe him)could make no difference in this conclusion. While he was regardedopenly or in dark corners or beside the humblest fireside as a possiblecriminal, neither Mr. Sutherland nor her father, nor his own heart even,would allow him to offer her anything but a friend's gratitude, or winfrom her anything but a neighbour's sympathy; yet in bidding good-bye tolarger hopes and more importunate desires, he parted with the betterpart of his heart and the only solace remaining in this world for theboundless griefs and tragic experiences of his still young life. He hadlearned to love through suffering, only to realise that the very natureof his suffering forbade him to indulge in love.

  And this seemed a final judgment, even in this hour of publicjustification. He had told his story and been for the moment believed,but what was there in his life, what was there in the facts as witnessedby others, what was there in his mother's letters and the revelation oftheir secret relationship, to corroborate his assertions, or to provethat her hand and not his had held the weapon when the life-blood gushedfrom her devoted breast? Nothing, nothing; only his word to standagainst all human probabilities and natural inference; only his word andthe generous nature of the great-hearted woman who had thus perished!Though a dozen of his fellow-citizens had by their verdict professedtheir belief in his word and given him the benefit of a doubt involvinghis life as well as his honour, he, as well as they, knew that neitherthe police nor the general public were given to sentimentality, and thatthe question of his guilt still lay open and must remain so till hisdying day. For from the nature of things no proof of the truth wasprobable. Batsy being dead, only God and his own heart could know thatthe facts of that awful half-hour were as he had told them.

  Had God in His justice removed in this striking way his only witness, asa punishment for his sins and his mad indulgence in acts so little shortof crime as to partake of its guilt and merit its obloquy?

  He was asking himself this question as he bent to fasten the gate. Hisfather had passed in, the carriage had driven off, and the road wasalmost solitary--but not quite. As he leaned his arm over the gate andturned to take a final glance down the hillside, he saw, with whatfeelings no one will ever know, the light figure of Agnes advancing onthe arm of her father.

  He would have drawn back, but a better impulse intervened and he stoodhis ground. Mr. Halliday, who walked very close to Agnes, cast her anadmonitory glance which Frederick was not slow in interpreting, thenstopped reluctantly, perhaps because he saw her falter, perhaps becausehe knew that an interview between these two was unavoidable and had bestbe quickly over.

  Frederick found his voice first.

  "Agnes," said he, "I am glad of this opportunity for expressing mygratitude. You have acted like a friend and have earned my eternalconsideration, even if we never speak again."

  There was a momentary silence. Her head, which had drooped under hisgreeting, rose again. Her eyes, humid with feeling, sought his face.

  "Why do you speak like that?" said she. "Why shouldn't we meet? Does noteveryone recognise your innocence, and will not the whole world soonsee, as I have, that you have left the old life behind and have only tobe your new self to win everyone's regard?"

  "Agnes," returned Frederick, smiling sadly as he observed the suddenalarm visible in her father's face at these enthusiastic words, "youknow me perhaps better than others do and are prepared to believe mywords and my more than unhappy story. But there are few like you in theworld. People in general will not acquit me, and if there was only oneperson who doubted "--Mr. Halliday began to look relieved--"I would failto give any promise of the new life you hope to see me lead, if Iallowed the shadow under which I undoubtedly rest to fall in theremotest way across yours. You and I have been friends and will continuesuch, but we will hold little intercourse in future, hard as I find itto say so. Does not Mr. Halliday consider this right? As your father hemust."

  Agnes's eyes, leaving Frederick's for a moment, sought her father's.Alas! there was no mistaking their language. Sighing deeply, she againhung her head.

  "Too much care for people's opinion," she murmured, "and too little forwhat is best and noblest in us. I do not recognise the necessity of afarewell between us any more than I recognise that anyone who saw andheard you to-day can believe in your guilt."

  "But there are so many who did not hear and see me. Besides" (here heturned a little and pointed to the garden in his rear), "for the pastweek a man--I need not state who, nor under what authority he acts--hasbeen in hiding under that arbour, watching my every movement, and almostcounting my sighs. Yesterday he left for a short space, but to-day he isback. What does that argue, dear friend? Innocence, completelyrecognised, does not call for such guardianship."

  The slight frame of the young girl bending so innocently toward himshuddered involuntarily at this, and her eyes, frightened and flashing,swept over the arbour before returning to his face.

  "If there is a watcher there, and if such a fact proves you to be indanger of arrest for a crime you never committed, then it behooves yourfriends to show where they stand in this matter, and by lending theirsympathy give you courage and power to meet the trials before you."

  "Not when they are young girls," murmured Frederick, and casting aglance at Mr. Halliday, he stepped softly back.

  Agnes flushed and yielded to her father's gentle pressure. "Good-bye, myfriend," she said, the quiver in her tones sinking deep into Frederick'sheart. "Some day it will be good-morrow," and her head, turned back overher shoulder, took on a beautiful radiance that fixed itself forever inthe hungry heart of him who watched it disappear. When she was quitegone, a man not the one whom Frederick had described, as lying in hidingin the arbour, but a different one, in fact, no other than our oldfriend the constable--advanced around the corner of the house andpresented a paper to him.

  It was the warrant for his arrest on a charge of murder.