“Oh I was not meaning to be disagreeable,” said Marion lightly; “but as I have nobody to take care of me, I am just obliged to take care of myself. In an ordinary way I will just do whatever you bid me, mamma: but when it’s to commit myself with papa, that is different. He might get the idea that both his children were turning upon him. And I will not do that, not for Archie or any person. Every herring,” said Marion sententiously, with a recollection of her Aunt Jane’s wise sentiments, “must just hang by its own head.”
“It is time to go in, I think,” said Mrs. Rowland shivering; her cold, however, was moral rather than physical. This cautious, much regarding young person of nineteen bewildered all her elder ideas. Was it pure selfishness, or was it some recondite covering of affection to scare the unfamiliar gazer? Evelyn made a movement aside to let the uncomprehended being pass before her into the house.
And it may be supposed that the evening circle formed by these three was not very sympathetic. Mrs. Rowland was full of the most painful uncertainty as to what she should do: or rather what could she do, she asked herself? Nothing but proof would content or in any way move her husband: and how was proof to be had, and what would move Archie, who would probably resent the very evidence which exculpated him, feeling it almost an additional grievance? What was she to do among all these conflicting objects? The natural thing, as it would have appeared to most women in her circumstances, would have been to sit still and wait, and do nothing. No one desired her interposition, not even her husband, who had laughed over the impotence of that little finger which she thought Archie would have obeyed. A reasonable woman does not like to be told, however tenderly, that she thinks she can move the world by the signal of her little finger. Would it not, she asked herself, be more dignified, more seemly to keep silence, and be patient and wait? But then, on the other hand, there was the possibility that the crime would sink into the pit of the undiscovered and never be found out. It had not even that chance of being found out which thorough examination and search after the criminal would give. Rowland had adopted it, homologated it, as the Scotch lawyers say, accepted the false cheque as his own to save his son: so that no questions could be asked at the bank to throw light upon the manner in which it was drawn, or the person from whom it came. If she only dared to go there herself to find out! if she only might venture to make certain inquiries!—but it was impossible. Archie was not to be appealed to, for he would not stir a step to clear himself. What then could she do? she who alone possessed a clue. And then what a clue was that, the suppositions of a servant, the inferences of a half-instructed person, half-acquainted with the story! She sat through the long evening, pretending to read, in the great drawing-room, which was full of ruddy fire-light and lamplight, the most sheltered and warm and cheerful place, while the wind blew fierce outside. In the inner room, Rosamond was playing chords upon the piano in a kind of grand but simple symphony, while Marion, by the table, in the light of the lamp, in a white dress, with a face not unlike a flower, insignificant but pretty, a little thing, innocent and simple, to all external appearances, the ideal of guileless youth—sat working at a piece of bright coloured “fancy work,” as she called it. Who could have dreamt that so dark a problem lay between them, and that the question, what to do in so complex a matter, involving so much, should be rending in sunder the heart of the dignified and graceful mistress of the house?
“Mamma!” said Marion softly. It may be supposed that Mrs. Rowland was not particularly disposed at this moment to hear any such appeal, and silence fell again on the party, broken only by the low but splendid rumble of the long-drawn notes.
“Mamma!” said Marion again. She edged her chair a little closer, and gave a look over her shoulder towards the piano, where Rosamond sat unseen. “Did you ever think of asking Mr.——, her brother, about that cheque?”
“What cheque?” said Mrs. Rowland coldly.
“Oh,” said Marion, “it is all over the parish that it was a cheque, and the servants all know. If I were you, as you take so great an interest, I would just ask Eddy. He knows a lot of things.”
“I do not see how he could know what is your father’s business.”
“Hush, you needn’t speak so loud! he knows a lot of things,” said Marion, with a little sigh. “He is far far cleverer than Archie. He might find out. If it were me, I would ask him,” the girl said.
“Your brother’s interests,” said Evelyn quietly, “are surely your business as much as mine.”