“Oh! he went off immediately after the fall, which we never thought could have done the poor fellow any harm, it seemed so slight an injury.”
“Then he did not die directly?”
“No! not for two or three days. And then—oh, Mr. Bell! now comes the bad part,” said she, nervously twining her fingers together. “A police inspector came and taxed me with having been a companion of the young man, whose push or blow had occasioned Leonards’ death; that was a false accusation, you know, but we had not heard that Fred had sailed, he might still be in London and liable to be arrested on this false charge, and his identity with the Lieutenant Hale, accused of causing the mutiny, discovered, he might be shot; all this flashed through my mind, and I said it was not me. I was not at the railway station that night. I knew nothing about it. I had no conscience or thought but to save Frederick.”
“I say it was right. I should have done the same. You forgot yourself in thought for another. I hope I should have done the same.”
“No, you would not. It was wrong, disobedient, faithless. At that very time Fred was safely out of England, and in my blindness I forgot that there was another witness who could testify to my being there.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Thornton. You know he had seen me close to the station; we had bowed to each other.”
“Well! he would know nothing of this riot, about the drunken fellow’s death. I suppose the injury never came to anything.”
“No! the proceedings they had begun to talk about on the inquest were stopped. Mr. Thornton did know all about it. He was a magistrate, and he found out that it was not the fall that had caused the death. But not before he knew what I had said. Oh, Mr. Bell!” She suddenly covered her face with her hands, as if wishing to hide herself from the presence of the recollection.
“Did you have any explanation with him? Did you ever tell him the strong, instinctive motive?”