These indelicate communications, though murmured in an under tone, and given as much as possible the air of individual confidences, were, from time to time, forced on as many hearers as Geoffery could obtain; for it was not all who would listen to him—many, and those some of the leading men of the country, were indignant at the attempt to bring such an accusation against our hero.
The funeral of Sir Willoughby was naturally delayed by the committal of Alfred, under whose authority the preparations had been proceeding. No one seemed aware what was to be done, or whose orders were to be given and received. Geoffery indeed was disposed to take upon himself the command, as well as the part of chief mourner, in Alfred's place, but this Lady Arden arrived in time to prevent.
When appealed to, she clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven for a few moments, as if she there sought counsel, then with admirable dignity and presence of mind, she ordered that the solemn preparations should stand still till the necessary forms of law having been gone through, her son should be at liberty to take his place at the head of his brother's grave; inferring thus, by her reply, that there existed not a doubt of Alfred's innocence being established.
Accordingly, in pursuance of these commands, the remains of her eldest son still lay in state at Arden, when the anxious day arrived on which her younger son was to stand at the bar of justice, arraigned for the murder of his brother.
While thus Lady Arden proudly strove to have it thought, nay, if possible to think herself, that she had no fears for Alfred; how, but by the absorbing nature of her fears for him was the blunted state of her feelings on all other subjects to be accounted for. The death of Willoughby, had it come alone, with what deep sorrow would it have afflicted her; and how greatly would that sorrow have been aggravated, by but a suspicion that he had committed the awful act of suicide; yet to have that suspicion proved beyond a doubt, was now the only hope of her existence; while the simple fact of Willoughby's death was driven by the exigences of the hour from its natural position in her mind, and viewed as it were in the distance of memory, like a sorrow long gone by, solemnly but calmly. Were Alfred safe, his honour and his precious life rescued from the frightful peril they were in, her heart told her that all grief would be forgotten, and joy unspeakable would be her portion.
CHAPTER VIII.
The night before the trial, Lady Arden, by especial favour and kind connivance, passed in the prison of her son. She knelt at the side of the bed, on which she had insisted on his laying himself, and, if possible, sleeping, in order that he might obtain strength and composure for the task which awaited him.
After many last words and repeated affectionate entreaties, that he would try the effect of silence and stillness, at length, with a hand fondly clasped in both his mother's, he did sleep, though but for a short time, as calmly as an infant. Lady Arden, in the position in which she knelt, shaded from his countenance the immediate glare of the lamp which stood on a small table behind her. Sufficient light, however, still rested on his sleeping features to give to her fond gaze all their loveliness. The perfect beauty they always possessed, the more than common share of a mother's love she had ever borne him, the enthusiasm of every feeling naturally exerted by his impending peril, altogether called up such emotions, that she seemed to look on the face of an angel; while fast falling tears unconsciously inundated her cheeks, as memory pourtrayed the infant years of this her darling son;—the smiling babe sleeping in her bosom; the laughing child playing at her feet. Then followed pictures of his boyish sports and gleeful hours, till her heart bled; then traits of docile obedience and dutiful affection; and, as he grew in years, of that gentle, noble, self-immolating nature, so peculiarly his own. All these were remembered with tender yearnings which no words can describe. A fearful idea next presented itself, that such beings were but lent to earth: they were not destined to sojourn with us; in a moment of agony and terror to those left behind, they were caught up again, and absorbed by that all-perfect spirit of which they were but emanations. Such thoughts gave, for a time, a character of wildness to the fervour of her prayers; confusion of every faculty followed; she became unconscious of the purport of the words she rapidly uttered; and then her lips ceased to move: a silent statue, with hands and eyes uplifted, one solitary thought possessed her being; it was, that in her helplessness she knelt at the foot-stool of Him who had restored to life the widow's son when he was already dead, and had given him back to his mother. Her son was still alive; the mercy that had restored surely could preserve. Alfred smiled in his sleep, and gently pressing the hand which still held his, suddenly opened his eyes with an expression which showed that for a second he knew not where he was. Short was the respite: in a moment more, the shade of pain which passed over his brow, and the look of anxious, kind inquiry which followed, as his eye met that of his mother, proved that consciousness had returned.
Morning was near; and though there were still many lingering hours of suspense to get through, sleep was thought of no more—conversation was renewed—every minute particular again enumerated—Alfred's defence reconsidered.