Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/449

 9, 1864.] time. This morning, when, I was in there, Mr. Whittaker showed me the place of the prussic acid, and I can be upon my oath that no bottle, so high as that, was taken down by Mr. Stephen. So far I can say.”

“Well, of all strange, incomprehensible events, this seems the strangest. If the draught”

“Take care! we shall be run over.”

The talkers had to scutter right and left. Sam Heath, in all the pride and glory of his box seat, was driving quickly out of the yard to make up for time wasted, his four handsome horses before him, his coach, filled with passengers inside and out, behind him. It was the break up of the assemblage, and they dispersed to fall into smaller knots, or to join other groups.

The probabilities appeared too overwhelming against Stephen Grey. A sort of tide set in against him. Not against the man personally, but against any possibilities that the draught could have been fatally impregnated by other bands than his. In vain a very few attempted to take his part; to express their belief that, however the poison might have got into the draught it was not put there by Stephen Grey; in vain his son Frederick reiterated his declaration, that he had watched the draught mixed, and that it was mixed carefully and correctly; their speaking was as a hopeless task, for the public mind was made up.

“Let it rest, Frederick,” said Mr. Stephen to his son. “The facts will come to light sometime, I know, and then they’ll be convinced.”

“Yes—but meanwhile?” thought Frederick, with a swelling heart. Ay! what in the meanwhile might happen to his father? Would he be committed for manslaughter?—tried, convicted, punished?

Upon none did Mrs. Crane’s death produce a more startling shock than upon Judith Ford. The hours kept at old Mrs. Jenkinson’s were early, and the house had gone to rest when it happened, so that even the servant Margaret did not know of it until the following morning. She did not disturb Judith to tell her. Mrs. Jenkinson the previous night had kindly told Judith to lie in bed as long as she liked in the morning, and try to get her face-ache well. Judith, who had really need of rest, slept long, and it was past nine o’clock when she came down to the kitchen. Margaret was just finishing her own breakfast.

“How’s your face, Judith?” she asked, busying herself to get some fresh tea for her sister. “It looks better. The swelling has gone down.”

“It is a great deal better,” replied Judith.

“Margaret, I did not think to lie so late as this; you should have called me. Thunk you, don’t trouble. I don’t feel as if I could eat now; perhaps I’ll take a bit of bread-and-butter later. "

Margaret got the tea ready in silence. She was wondering how she could best break the news to her sister; she was sure, break it as gently as she would, that it would be a terrible shock. As she was pouring out the cup of tea her mistress’s bell rang, and she had to answer it; and felt almost glad of the respite.

“I wonder how Mrs. Crane is this morning?” Judith said when she returned. “Have you heard?”

“I—l’m afraid she’s not quite well this morning,” replied Margaret. “Do eat something, Judith—you’ll want it.”

“Not well,” returned Judith, unmindful of the exhortation to eat. “Has fever come on?”

“No, it’s not fever. They say—they say—that the wrong medicine has been given to her,” brought out Margaret, thinking she was accomplishing her task cleverly.

“Wrong medicine!” repeated Judith, looking bewildered.

“It’s more than I can understand. But it—they say that the effects will kill her.”

Judith gulped down her hot tea, rose, and mode for the door. Margaret caught her as she was escaping through it.

“Don’t go, Judith. You can’t do any good. Stop where you are.”

“I must go, Msrgaret. Those two women in there are not worth a rush, both put together; at least, the widow’s not worth it, and the other can’t always be trusted. If she is in danger, poor young lady, you will not see me again until she’s out of it. Margaret, then! you have no right to detain me.”

Margaret contrived to get the door shut, and placed her back against it. “Sit down in that chair, Judith, while I tell you something. It is of no use for you to go in. Do you understand?—or must I speak plainer?”

Judith, overpowered by the strong will so painfully and evidently in earnest, sat down in the chair indicated, and waited for an explanation. She could not in the least understood, and stared hard at her sister.

“It is all over, Judith; it was over at ten o’clock last night. She is dead.”

The same hard stare on Judith’s countenance. She did not speak. Perhaps she could not yet realise the sense of the words.

“Mr. Stephen Grey sent in a sleeping draught, to be given her the last thing,” continued Margaret. “He made some extraordi-