“Great Heaven!” she thought, “so there is to be a trial.”
The full meaning of the words burst suddenly upon her. It should all come out—the whole story. She saw herself in court, heckled, badgered, cross-examined, made perhaps to contradict herself at every turn, surveyed critically by the boarders at Beaconsfield Gardens, who, of course, would flock to hear the case. She would be flouted, disbelieved if she told the truth, tripped up and convicted of falsehood if she lied, accused no doubt of perjury, perhaps of murder, ordered to the cells to undergo terrible and unknown penalties, while Augusta—the only person who could prove her innocence and good faith—Augusta was a helpless, speechless infant, unable to testify in her favour. Of law, of legal procedure, of what a judge could or could not do, Prudence was profoundly ignorant. All that was plain to her was, that she could not produce her sister in the flesh as known to and recognisable by her acquaintances, and that no one would credit her if she produced the baby and said that was Augusta. Even at the best, if no question as to her sister arose, no suspicion of murder, how bad it looked to have smuggled a child away, and given it to such a person as Mrs. Brown to cruelly use. Cold beads of perspiration stood out on the poor woman’s forehead. No! she would not be mixed up in it; she would not go into court at all; she would get back her sister and flee far away from London, and Mrs. Brown, and the medical lady. In agonised haste she pulled the check string, and bade the cabman drive back at once to the station. She would tell the Inspector that she declined to give evidence under any circumstances—surely they could not force her to if she refused—and bitterly she reproached herself for her unpardonable stupidity in not having done this at the time.
She tumbled out of the cab, and made her way like one distraught to the little office where she had seen the Inspector. Alas! he had just gone out. No one knew where he had gone to or when he would return. Prudence had therefore to content herself with leaving a verbal message with a subordinate, to the effect that nothing would induce her to appear against Mrs. Brown or anyone else, or to enter a court of law under any circumstances. This done, she returned to her cab with a mind rather more at ease, and resumed her journey to the workhouse.
Workhouse porters are not usually chosen for their urbanity, and he of St. Mark’s was no exception to the rule. “It is not visiting day,” he said to her, “and you ought to know better than come bothering here.” He was deaf to her appeals to see Augusta. “It can’t be done,” he said. “You should come on Thursday between three and six. It’s no use your making a disturbance.” As she still persisted, he lost his temper, and told her she had better go, or he would have her turned out.
The frightened Prudence hurried back to her cab, and, sobbing miserably, directed the driver to South Kensington. Worn out by the fatigues and excitements of the day, she arrived at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, in time for dinner.
She would have given anything not to be obliged to put in an appearance at that meal, but she did not dare to remain in her room. Her fear of attracting notice was morbid.
The boarders, for a wonder, were discussing Dickens as Prudence took her place at table.
“Dickens is an author I have never read,” Mrs. Dumaresq was saying.
“Really!” responded Major Jones. “Why not?”
“My dear mother did not approve of his works when I was a girl,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, “and, since then, what I have seen of his writings has not induced me to form a different opinion.”