Something there was, what, none presumed to say, Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day,-- Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, And mixed reports no judge on earth could clear. CRABBE. Curious conjectures he may always make, And either side of dubious questions take. CRABBE. Mary went home. Oh! how her head did ache, and how dizzy her brain was growing! But there would be time enough she felt for giving way hereafter. So she sat quiet and still by an effort; sitting near the window, and looking out of it, but seeing nothing, when all at once she caught sight of something which roused her up, and made her draw back. But it was too late. She had been seen. Sally Leadbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, making it gaudy with the Sunday excess of colouring in her dress. She was really curious to see Mary; her connection with a murderer seemed to have made her into a sort of lusus naturae, and was almost, by some, expected to have made a change in her personal appearance, so earnestly did they stare at her. But Mary had been too much absorbed the last day or two to notice this. Now Sally had a grand view, and looked her over and over (a very different thing from looking her through and through), and almost learnt her off by heart:--" Her every-day gown (Hoyle's print you know, that lilac thing with the high body) she was so fond of; a little black silk handkerchief just knotted round her neck, like a boy; her hair all taken back from her face, as if she wanted to keep her head cool--she would always keep that hair of hers so long; and her hands twitching continually about----" Such particulars would make Sally into a Gazette Extraordinary the next morning at the work-room, and were worth coming for, even if little else could be extracted from Mary. "Why, Mary!" she began. "Where have you hidden yourself? You never showed your face all yesterday at Miss Simmonds's. You don't fancy we think any the worse of you for what's come and gone. Some on us, indeed, were a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and cold for your sake, Mary; but we shall ne'er cast it up against you. Miss Simmonds, too, will be mighty put out if you don't come, for there's a deal of mourning, agait." "I can't," Mary said, in a low voice. "I don't mean ever to come again." "Why, Mary!" said Sally, in unfeigned surprise. "To be sure, you'll have to be in Liverpool, Tuesday, and maybe Wednesday; but after that you'll surely come, and tell us all about it. Miss Simmonds knows you'll have to be off those two days. But between you and me, she's a bit of a gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the trial, well enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a day or two. Besides, Betsy Morgan was saying yesterday, she shouldn't wonder but you'd prove quite an attraction to customers. Many a one would come and have their gowns made by Miss Simmonds just to catch a glimpse at you, at after the trial's over. Really, Mary, you'll turn out quite a heroine." The little fingers twitched worse than ever; the large soft eyes looked up pleadingly into Sally's face; but she went on in the same strain, not from any unkind or cruel feeling towards Mary, but solely because she was incapable of comprehending her suffering. She had been shocked, of course, at Mr Carson's death, though at the same time the excitement was rather pleasant than otherwise; and dearly now would she have enjoyed the conspicuous notice which Mary was sure to receive. "How shall you like being cross-examined, Mary?" "Not at all," answered Mary, when she found she must answer. "La! what impudent fellows those lawyers are And their clerks, too, not a bit better. I shouldn't wonder" (in a comforting tone, and really believing she was giving comfort) "if you picked up a new sweetheart in Liverpool.
What gown are you going in, Mary?" "Oh, I don't know and don't care," exclaimed Mary, sick and weary of her visitor. "Well, then! take my advice, and go in that blue merino. It's old to be sure, and a bit worn at elbows, but folk won't notice that, and th' colour suits you. Now mind, Mary. And I'll lend you my black-watered scarf," added she, really good-naturedly, according to her sense of things, and withal, a little bit pleased at the idea of her pet article of dress figuring away on the person of a witness at a trial for murder. "I'll bring it to-morrow before you start." "No, don't!" said Mary; "thank you, but I don't want it." "Why, what can you wear? I know all your clothes as well as I do m own, and what is there you can wear? Not your old plaid shawl, I do hope? You would not fancy this I have on, more nor the. scarf, would you?" said she, brightening up at the thought, and willing to lend it, or anything else. "Oh, Sally! don't go on talking a-that-ns; how can I think on dress at such a time? When it's a matter of life and death to Jem?" "Bless the girl! It's Jem, is it? Well, now I thought there was some sweetheart in the back-ground, when you flew off so with Mr Carson. Then what, in the name of goodness, made him shoot Mr Harry? After you had given up going with him, I mean? Was he afraid you'd be on again?" "How dare you say he shot Mr Harry?" asked Mary, firing up from the state of languid indifference into which she had sunk while Sally had been settling about her dress. "But it's no matter what you think, as did not know him.
What grieves me is, that people should go on thinking him guilty as did know him," she said, sinking back into her former depressed tone and manner. "And don't you think he did it?" asked Sally. Mary paused; she was going on too fast with one so curious and so unscrupulous.