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Page 6
It broke at eleven o'clock that night, when two men carried the dead
body of my brother into his own kitchen--foully murdered.
But when I knelt by the poor body, lying awfully still upon the table;
when I kissed the face, which in death had curiously regained the
appearance of reason as well as beauty; when I saw and knew that life
had certainly gone till the Resurrection:--that was not all. The storm
had not fully broken till I turned and saw, standing by the fire, George
Manners, with his hands and coat dabbled with blood. I did not speak or
scream; but a black horror seemed to settle down like mist upon me.
Through it came Mr. Manners' voice (I had not looked again at him)--
"Miss Dorothy Lascelles, why do you not ask who did it?"
I gave a sharp cry, and one of the labourers who had helped to bring
Edmund in said gravely--
"Eh, Master! the less you say the better. God forgive you this
night's work!"
George's hoarse voice spoke again.
"Do you hear him?" and then it faltered a little--"Dorolice, do you
think this?"
It was his pet name for me (he was an Italian scholar), and touched me
inexpressibly, and a conviction seized upon me that if he had done it,
he would not have dared to appeal to my affection. I tried to clear my
mind that I might see the truth, and then I looked up at him. Our eyes
met, and we looked at each other for a full minute, and I was content.
Oh! there are times when the instinctive trust of one's heart is, so far
more powerful than any proofs or reasons, that faith seems a higher
knowledge. I would have pledged ten thousand lives, if I had had them,
on the honesty of those eyes, that had led me like a will-o'-the-wisp in
the ball-room half a year ago! The new-year's dance came back on me as I
stood there--my ball-dress was in the drawer up-stairs--and now! oh
dear! was I going mad?
CHAPTER III.
THE TIME OF TRIAL.
Meanwhile he was waiting for my answer. I stepped forward, intending to
take his hand, but the stains drove me back again. Where so much depends
upon a right--or a mis-understanding, the only way is to speak the fair
truth. I did so; by a sort of forced calm holding back the seething of
my brain.
"George, I should like to touch you, but--I cannot! I beg you to forgive
the selfishness of my grief--my mind is confused--I shall be better
soon. God has sent us a great sorrow, in which I know you are
as innocent as I am. I am very sorry--I think that is all." And I put my
hand to my head, where a sharp pain was beginning to throb. Mr. Manners
spoke, emphatically--
"God bless you, Dorolice! You know I promised. Thank you, for
ever!"
"If you fancy you have any reason to thank me," I said, "do me this
favour. Whatever happens, believe that I believe!"
I could bear no more, so I went out of the kitchen. As I went I heard a
murmur of pity run through the room, and I knew that they were
pitying--not the dead man, but me; and me--not for my dead brother, but
for his murderer. When I got into the passage, the mist that had still
been dark before my eyes suddenly became darker, and I remember no more.
When my senses returned, Harriet had come home. From the first she would
never hear George's name except to accuse him with frantic bitterness of
poor Edmund's death; and as nothing would induce me to credit his guilt,
the subject was as much as possible avoided. I cannot dwell on those
terrible days. I was very ill for some time, and after I had come
down-stairs, one day I found a newspaper containing the following
paragraph, which I copy here, as it is the shortest and least painful
way of telling you the facts of poor Edmund's death.
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