"A criminal!" And we hope the reader will pardon the next two words uttered by this dear, good soul in the heat of her generous trust and pity. She said, "Shut up!"
"I know what nonsense you talked to F. Chevreuse," she went on; "but I won't listen to it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for driving that man away. You can't serve me so. I shall come here, and I shall take up for you; and—now, Mr. Schöninger, don't be silly, but let me fix up that other room for you. The sun shines into it all the afternoon; and I've got a nice carpet on the floor, and two arm-chairs, and some wax candles, and a red curtain to draw over the grating, and I'll make it as comfortable as if my own son was going to be in it. Do give your consent, now!"
Still he was inflexible, though he softened his refusal with every expression of gratitude. "There are reasons why it would be very painful and embarrassing for me to consent," he said; "and since your wish is to give me pleasure, I am sure you will not urge this when I tell you that I should be more uncomfortable there than here. Your kindness does me good; but I cannot receive your bounty."
Mrs. Ferrier was not to be so thwarted, however. She had to relinquish her project of furnishing a room for him, but she made amends to herself by supplying his table extravagantly. It was in vain for him to protest. The waiter gravely assured him that the dishes were sent in from the prison kitchen; the jailer as gravely added that his wife overlooked that part of the establishment, and he knew nothing about it; and Mrs. Ferrier, when the prisoner questioned her, declared, with an air of the utmost innocence, that she did not send in his food, and did not know what he had. The truth was that she had ordered the keeper of a restaurant near by to send Mr. Schöninger the best that he could supply; and she flattered herself that the waiter could with truth obey her order to say that the dishes came from the jail kitchen. "You're not obliged to tell him that they come in at one door of the kitchen and out at another," she said.
Flowers lined the cell, fruit arrived there in profusion, and illustrated papers and books, the text of which betrayed the simple taste that had selected them, piled the one table and filled the window-ledges—all sent anonymously. Mr. Schöninger found himself obliged to capitulate to this persistent and most transparent incognita.
In a few weeks another friend, quite as decided, though less demonstrative, was added. Lawrence Gerald, returning with his wife to Crichton, went immediately to see Mr. Schöninger and offer any service in his power to render him.
"It is folly to waste breath in abusing the detectives or whoever has made this miserable blunder," he said calmly. "Of course, nobody is safe from suspicion. I'm rather surprised they hadn't hit upon me, for I was hard up at that time. The point is, however, can I do anything for you? You will be out of this soon, of course; but, in the meantime, I should be very glad if I can serve you in any way."
Mr. Schöninger assured his visitor that he needed no services; but his manner of declining the assistance offered him was far more natural and cheerful than it had been when F. Chevreuse or Mrs. Ferrier came. Lawrence Gerald's friendship was, indeed, of more value to him in this matter than theirs could have been; for as Lawrence was a man of the world, and not too likely to have much faith in any one, men of the world would respect his opinion, white they might laugh at the championship of a woman and look upon the ideal charity of a priest as a feeling which they could not be expected to sympathize with nor be influenced by.
This friendly act of Lawrence's greatly pleased his mother-in-law; and, since Annette looked quite contented and happy, she was still more disposed to be complacent toward the young man.
"I wouldn't have believed he thought so much of Annette," she said confidentially to F. Chevreuse. "But he follows her about like her shadow. It's all the time, 'Ask Annette,' or, 'What does Annette say?' or, 'How will Annette like it?' and he will hardly go down-town unless she goes with him. I only hope it may last," sighed the mother, fearful of being too sanguine.