Mrs. Fletcher walked out with the young people. They were tempted to prolong their ramble till past the hour of dinner; yet when they came in, the cloth was not laid, no servant was visible, and no one answered the bell. Mrs. Fletcher caught a glimpse of her husband in the garden behind the house. He was pacing backwards and forwards with hurried steps. She went to him, trying in vain to prevent Mary from following her. The truth was soon out. Mr. Byerley had been arrested during their absence, and conveyed first to a magistrate and then to prison, without being able to learn the nature of the accusation against him.
Mary strengthened herself for a few moments with the belief that this proceeding originated in a mistake, which would be presently rectified; but when Mr. Fletcher made no reply to her expression of hope, she remembered the packet of letters, the mystery of the journey to Paris, the strange behaviour of the fellow-traveller, and his egress from the magistrate’s office, and, finally, the deportment of M. Béranger himself; and no doubt remained that some political offence was imputed to her father.
Her first desire was to go to him; and she ran into the house that she might communicate to Anna what had happened, and lose no time in proceeding to the prison with her sister, who, she could not doubt, would be eager to accompany her. Anna was, however, in no condition for such an exertion. Though Rose had communicated the fact as gently as possible, the feebleminded girl was frightfully agitated. She had sunk shivering on the ground, and clung so convulsively to the sofa, that it was impossible to raise her.
“Anna,” said her sister calmly, “have you not always said that on great occasions you could command yourself? This is a great occasion.”
“O, my father! my father!” cried the trembling girl; and the voice of her wailing thrilled every nerve in Mary’s frame.
“Listen, Anna! My father is, no doubt, looking for us, expecting us every moment. Will you not go to him?”
“Go to him!” cried Anna, springing up. “Let us go instantly, and never leave him. Yet—Oh! to see him in a dungeon, among the wretches there, shut up, perhaps, for life—I cannot, no, I cannot——” and she sank down on the sofa, utterly exhausted.
Mary looked at her sister, and then at the door: her feelings were harrowed by what she saw and heard. She longed to restore her sister, and yet was impatient to be gone.
“Leave your sister to us,” said Mrs. Fletcher: “you see she cannot go.”
“But what shall I say to my father, Anna?” said her sister in a broken voice, as she bent over her. “Look up, and speak to me, or how shall I comfort my father?” But still Anna did not unclose her eyes.