“I shall go to Ireland to-night,” Grace answered.
“For what purpose?”
“Chiefly to be with Nettie, partly to see if anything can be done for Amos.”
“You think he is guilty.”
“I do not see that there can be any doubt of that. He must have been mad; but I suppose whether mad or not he will have to suffer for it all the same.”
Mrs. Hartley paused. She took in the position at once; she knew Grace’s temperament, and she felt certain she would never rest content to remain inactive at such a juncture.
“Money can do a great deal,” she remarked at last, “and influence more; and in any case I know it will be a comfort hereafter for you to think both were brought to bear on this case. Yes, my love, I will not say a word to dissuade you from your intention; I would offer to go with you myself if I thought I could be of any real assistance. Marrables shall accompany you as far as Dublin—there Mr. Nicholson can see to you. And, Grace, do not fret about the matter more than you can possibly avoid. A loophole may be found for Scott to creep through, and as for Nettie, I fancy she will be far happier as a widow than ever she was as a wife.”
“Oh! do not say that,” Grace entreated. “It was almost the first idea which occurred to me, and I hated myself for it.”
“Well, we will not say anything about it then,” agreed Mrs. Hartley, “although if he has left her comfortably off—” but here Miss Moffat stopped her ears and refused to listen. She was recovering from the first effect of the blow, but she could not bear to hear the tragedy discussed in this matter-of-fact, cool, business-like style.
Young people are occasionally somewhat unreasonable. It jarred against Grace’s sensibilities to hear some two hours later the dinner-bell ring just as though Mr. Brady were not lying at Maryville stiff and cold, and Amos Scott not in Kilcurragh Gaol charged with his murder. Perhaps Mrs. Hartley guessed something of this, for she said,—