“Isn’t Mrs. Clarke coming to-day?” Dion asked.
“Yes. I expect her in a moment. Esme Darlington is bringing her.”
“Mr. Darlington?”
“You’re surprised?”
“Well, I should hardly have expected somehow that—I don’t know.”
“I do. But Esme Darlington’s more of a man than he seems. And he’s thoroughly convinced of Cynthia’s innocence. Here they are.”
There was a stir in the crowd. Many women present rustled as they turned in their seats; some stood up and craned forward; people in the gallery leaned over, looking eagerly down; a loud murmur and a wide hiss of whispering emphasized the life in the court. The tall, loose-limbed figure of Esme Darlington, looking to-day singularly dignified and almost impressive, pushed slowly forward, followed by the woman whose social fate was so soon to be decided.
Mrs. Clarke glanced round over the many faces without any defiance as she made her way with difficulty to a seat beside her solicitor. The lack of defiance in her expression struck Dion forcibly. This woman did not seem to be mentally on the defensive, did not seem to be wishing to repel the glances, fierce with curiosity, which were leveled at her from all sides. Apparently she had no fear at all of bristling bayonets. Her haggard face was unsmiling, not cold, but intense with a sort of living calm which was surely not a mask. She looked at Mrs. Chetwinde and at Dion as she passed near to them, giving them no greeting except with her large eyes which obviously recognized them. In a moment she was sitting down between her solicitor and Esme Darlington.
“It will quite break Guy Daventry up if she doesn’t get the verdict,” said Dion in an uneven voice to Mrs. Chetwinde.
“Mr. Daventry?” she said, with an odd little stress of emphasis on the name.